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Day Forty Three; 11/3/04
Topic Started: Jul 30 2009, 09:12 PM (1,253 Views)
PseuMdoYnym
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Anne, Lostie

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Lostie Character Threads

Islander Character Threads

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Tailie Character Threads

Map of the Island

Todays Forecast:
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The Smiley-Faced Balloon
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Lexus Reed
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Lexus Reed
Day 43, Entry 1
"The Midler Man"


“Jack!” Lexus called out.

Jack Midler was walking away, down the beach. Interrupted, he gently stopped, and turned on spot. Jack raised his eyebrows, with an inquisitive smile. No words – simply the slightest of gestures.

There were several paces between Lexus and Jack, and it seemed to represent the gulf between them. They had never spoken to each other in great depth; Lexus hadn’t even seen him for a fortnight. Jack was bound to be curious as to why Lexus wanted his attention.

“The Hatch…” Lexus said, unsure quite what to say.

“What about it?” Jack asked, politely.

“I would like to visit it,”
he stated.

“You don’t need to ask permission to go there, as long as you're careful with the computer.”

“Well, I don’t know the way," Lexus replied.

“Ah, well that explains that. Well, I am heading there myself now, you are more than welcome to join me,”
Jack offered.

Lexus smiled, and the two made their way down the beach and into the jungle.

“So, tell me Lexus, why do you want to visit the Hatch? Curiosity?” Jack asked, to make conversation.

“Well, yes, but really I was hoping to use the shower...”

“Hmm,” Jack said, considering this, “You may, but normally, there's some people who don’t want forty, or now upwards of sixty, people to be trekking through the jungle to the Hatch to use the single shower. Most should just use the sea.”

“I don’t really want to go into the sea,” Lexus mumbled. Jack seemed slightly surprised.

“I suppose you wouldn't,” Jack commented, “So you plan on avoiding the water forever?”

Lexus hadn’t really thought about it that way, although such a situation seemed ideal to him. Lexus said nothing, but Jack got the message and grinned. Lexus quickly changed the topic.

“What do you think about this Hatch then?”

"I don't know what to think. I just know I'm supposed to be pushing that button every 108 minutes," Jack replied fairly bluntly.

“Supposed to?” Lexus enquired.

“Yes Lexus, that’s right,”
was all Jack said

Lexus became even more intrigued.
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Lexus Reed
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Lexus Reed
Day 43, Entry 2
"Bunkers and Bunkbeds"


Jack pulled open the large steel door which was embedded in the rock and was unlike anything Lexus had ever seen on the Island, and revealed a corridor. Entirely made out of concrete, it wasn’t as beautiful as the jungle around it, but there was electricity. Actual electricity on this anonymous Island. Lexus stood there for a moment, stunned. Jack however, was used to this, and gave him a moment before he led the way down. The corridor led them right, twice, until they walked through an open door. Everything seemed very industrial and as if it was the part of something far larger – which was true, given the snippets Lexus had learned about the DHARMA Initiative. It reminded him, very strongly, of an important location in his past.

[Flashback – November 2003 – Entry B]

Lexus arrived at the Docklands Industrial Estate. The landscape was made up of great, rectangular slabs of concrete. Everything, including the sky, was dreary and grey. Wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, he felt like the brightest thing in the area. Lexus soon tracked down Warehouse Fifteen. It had a large, shuttered garage door at one end, and a standard door on a longer side side; both were made of uninviting steel. Unable to find a doorbell, Lexus banged on the door four times. It clanged and rang out around him. A few seconds passed.

The door creaked open. The man who had told him to visit stood in the doorway, smiling. Lexus got a better look at him this time, with their last meeting being somewhat frantic. Lexus guessed he was in his mid-twenties, and he appeared to exercise frequently, giving a healthy appearance. He wasn’t intimidating, as you’d immediately expect from a thief – but there again, neither was Lexus.

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“I wondered how long it would take you to decide to visit,” the man said knowingly, as he allowed Lexus in.

The warehouse was largely empty, and Lexus guessed it was 50 metres across, 30m metres deep, with a high ceiling above them, suspending harsh fluorescent lights. It was treated just like an extremely spacious house – it was clear the man lived here, and Lexus struggled to get his head around that. The first thing he noticed, directly opposite him by a wall, was a luxurious King-size bed – an utter contrast to the bare concrete floor which the warehouse provided. His vision scanned clockwise. Along part of one wall ran a counter, sink, fridge-freezer, oven and other kitchen appliances, just like you would find in a conventional home. Along the narrower wall to his right, there were three black, leather sofas and the latest forty-six inch plasma screen television. In the corner, there was the only separate room, which Lexus guessed was a bathroom. Next to it stood a bunkbed – which amused Lexus, implying he actually hosted guests. In the centre of the warehouse, there was a very large, U-shaped desk, covered in papers, books and two computer monitors, and not far from there, a small collection of exercise equipment such as an exercise bike and treadmill. And then to the far left, there were three, rather flash and undoubtedly very cars parked, within the compound. Lexus was rather overwhelmed. It was the most bizarre living arrangement he had ever seen.

[END FLASHBACK]

Lexus entered what some had called the ‘geodome’ of the Hatch, and found himself fascinated by the underground construction.

Correction, he thought to himself, maybe this is the most bizarre living arrangement I’ve ever seen.

In the centre of the room, stood a computer – the computer which Jack deemed to be very important indeed. Jack approached the machine, and it was almost as if he was tending to a beloved pet. Lexus moved to examine the screen, where a single prompt commanded so much attention and respect. He looked up, and the Countdown Clock loomed down, reading forty-eight minutes.

“So, you just, type the numbers in, and the clock goes back?” Lexus clarified.

“Yes, and we save the world in the process,” Jack replied bluntly.

“Hmm, I guess it’s not a bad deal…” Lexus decided.

“I’m sorry?” Jack asked.

“Well, it’s not a half-bad trade, is it? It’s not as if anyone has anything better to do while we’re stranded here, so it’s no great ordeal to use a keyboard. In return, we get all of this food and shelter in return. I don’t know why everyone is so quick to complain about ‘The Button’,” Lexus said, adding mock drama at the end of his sensible assertion.

“That’s interesting,”
Jack mused, clearly listening but giving no eye contact or physical response.

“I’m sorry?” With Lexus now being the one needing clarification.

“Nobody has ever reacted like that before, most people question why we do it, and want to know what would happen if we don’t.” Jack said.

“A bit of belief and gratefulness goes a long way.”

[RESUME FLASHBACK]

“What, let me get this straight, you actually live here?” Lexus asked the man, in disbelief.

“Struggling to open your mind to something a little different?” The man asked.

“No, I think it’s fantastic. Crazy, but crazily fantastic. Very…. Open plan?”
Lexus said, struggling for words, “Though I couldn’t do it myself...”

“You know, I’ve just incredibly rude I’ve been. I invite you to my home, but have yet to introduce myself,” the man said, smiling and offering his hand to shake, “Everyone calls me Disco.”

“Disco? Between your name and your home, does anything you do even verge on being normal?” Lexus asked, as he shook "Disco's" hand.

“Normality is overrated," Disco dismissed, "Anyway, what do people call you?”

“My name is Lexus. Lexus Reed.”

The man who called himself Disco laughed.

“Haha, funny coincidence, I have one of those,” he said. Disco pointed over to the selection of cars, where a black convertible sat amongst them - one being a 'Lexus'. Human Lexus smiled.

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“You’ve yet to tell me your name,” Lexus said.

“Yeah I did – Disco,”
he replied, satisfied that he had responded.

“No, I mean your actual name…”
Lexus persisted.

“What does it matter?” Disco asked, waiting a beat while Lexus failed to respond, “It doesn’t matter what we are known by. Just who we are.”

Lexus decided that this man - Disco - was intelligent, and not simply a criminal thug. He clearly lived in a very different fashion to most, and while much of it could be put down to eccentricity, he came across a very approachable and normal man.

“Look, whatever this place is, whoever you are… maybe this isn’t right for me,”
Lexus protested, holding his hands out as if to keep Disco away, “You live in a warehouse… you park your cars in the same room as where you watch TV. It’s not decorated, yet you have the latest gadgets... I don’t even know why you invited me here.”

“I think I can help you, Lexus,” Disco said, I think we can help each other.

[END FLASHBACK]

“And this is the pantry,”
Jack said, continuing his tour. Glancing in, Lexus saw half-filled shelves of DHARMA-labelled food, with the remainder on the beach. He was awestruck by the nature of the facility, and the wealth of entertainment down here was sure to appreciated. It was almost a foreign concept to have these things on the Island. The plane crash, and then cutlery and libraries, did not go hand in hand.

Jack led the way past the kitchen area, down a corridor. At the end of it, he saw a bunkbed. Lexus was immediately struck with the desire to sleep on a comfortable, sand-free mattress which was separated from the elements by more than a sheet of tarpaulin. However, that wasn’t Lexus’ true delight.

“One bathroom, including a shower,”
Jack announced, smiling. Lexus could already imagine the feel of the gentle pounding of the pressured water, to clean himself from the traumas of the past two weeks. Feeling he’d scored a point over the sea, as he could wash his scruffy hair without being subjected to flashbacks of those dreadful days and nights. He was going to thoroughly enjoy his shower; the real and refreshing hot water would be marvellous.
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Phoebe, Tailie
Phoebe Barret
Day Forty-three, Entry One: Tarpaulin and Popcorn


The vague framework of a shelter stood firmly in the ground, arching effectively over Phoebe. It had taken her a while, but she felt confident that she had found a successful method. Now only one finishing touch remained….

She grabbed a large piece of tarp and threw it over the frame to make a roof. The blue sheet sailed over the structure and landed gracefully on the other side.

Phoebe cursed, rain battering her through the roofless frame. She was going to need a better method.

“Need a little help?”

Phoebe turned to see Ed, the man who had refused to show her the film reel in the Swan two days earlier.

“Er – well, it’s just, I’m not really much of a builder,” she mumbled. Ed’s previous dismissal left her wary of him. Now, however, he was smiling amicably.

“Well, maybe I can help you there. I’m pretty handy.”

Ed’s genial offer of help contrasted starkly with his former manner; he seemed like a completely different man. Phoebe nodded, deciding to give him another chance. “Sure.”

He retrieved the tarp and reached up to drape it over the frame. His superior height allowed him to arrange it with ease. Phoebe reached up and held the corners in place while Ed tied them down, and she was barely tall enough to do that.

They stepped back and looked at the shelter, finally complete. And not too shabby, Phoebe thought. It was a far cry from her shambled old shantytown shack back on the other side of the Island. She knew she couldn’t have done it without Ed’s help, and turned to reconcile with him.

“Look – I’m sorry if I bothered you the other day. It’s just, curiosity gets the best of me sometimes….”

“Don’t be sorry. I came to apologize to you.”

Phoebe looked slightly taken aback. She hadn’t expected Ed to even speak to her again, much less an apology.

“When you came to ask me about the film reel, I was preoccupied… I wasn’t myself.” He seemed contemplative for a moment as he explained himself. Phoebe nodded sympathetically – Ed was certainly not the first person she had seen acting strangely on the Island; they all had more than enough reasons.

Ed smiled, returning to the present. “Now, I’m all for a movie night. If you still want to, that is.”

“Of course!” Phoebe replied, a little too enthusiastically. She thrilled at the prospect of finally discovering the meaning behind the mysterious reel.

Ed raised his eyebrows. “Well, don’t get too excited. It’s no Masterpiece Theatre.”

“I mean – that’s great. Yeah.” She corrected herself abashedly, averting her eyes to search for the Bible and its cryptic cargo. Ed fought a growing smirk of amusement. “Ah, listen, I’ve actually got to go do something real fast – it’s important, but I’ll return promptly…. You don’t mind if someone else comes along, do you?”

“No problem. You get your friend, I’ll grab the Dharma popcorn. Meet me at the tree line when you’re ready.”

Phoebe nodded happily and set off for a shelter down the beach. She had a promise to keep.
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Jimmy, Lostie and Doogie, Tailie
Jimmy Simpson
Day 43
Entry 1

Jimmy still had not completely gotten over Shavo blowing his brains out right in front of him, but, he thought, he had seen worse. The arrival of the tail section survivors, while out of the minds of most people, still perplexed Jimmy.

What are the chances, he thought, of Lexus drifting right to them? Destiny might be playing a bigger role than I thought.

He continued to look at the ocean, contemplating just what this island was, the hatch, the cable, these others.

He turned his back to the ocean. He had seen enough of it for the day. He walked through the jungle, heading toward the hatch. He needed a book, something to hold his attention. It did not take long for him to familiarize the route to the hatch. He had been good at orienteering in Boy Scouts. He finally made it to the door leading into the hatch. He entered and found Lexus and Jack both talking about the hatch, and more importantly, the shower. He glanced at Jack, acknowladging his presense with a nod of the head, which Jack returned. He walked to the bookshelf, and grabbed The Turn Of The Screw. Something was behind it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A film. It talks about what this place is for. By all means, watch it." Jack said.

"I don't need anymore confusion," Jimmy said, with a chuckle, "we can press that button all day long, I really just don't care at this point, least it gives us something to do."

He put the film back on the bookshelf, and put the book back as well. He shuffled through the rest of the books, finally stopping on Carrie.

"Well Mr. King, it appears as though you will entertain me once more." Jimmy said, smiling.

He sat down at the small booth next to the feux window, opening the book to admire it's contents.
Edited by Ceb18, Aug 1 2009, 12:10 PM.
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Phoebe, Tailie
Phoebe Barret
Day Forty-three, Entry Two: The Reel World: Island


A familiar figure sat calmly outside his newfound shelter, a tidy construction built with good tarpaulin.

“I see you’ve found yourself a used tent,” Phoebe mused. The boy looked up.

“Hello, Phoebe.”

“Hello, Jamie.” She paused. “We haven’t spoken in a while,” she pointed out. Phoebe sometimes wondered if her friendship with Alex was a strain on her relationship with Jamie; the tension between the two had been more than obvious on the other side of the Island.

“No, not really since coming to the new beach. It’s been a bit busy.”

Phoebe nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. I’ve been working on my own shelter, myself. It has been a bit of a…” she searched for the correct word. Struggle somehow seemed an understatement, but endeavor implied a happy venture – she settled on “catastrophe.”

Jamie smirked. Some things had changed since they moved across the Island, but Phoebe’s construction skills – or lack thereof – were certainly not among them.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got that sorted out,” he said. “I saw a man help you finish it up earlier today.”

“The man who was helping me – his name is Ed. He’s agreed to introduce me to the film projector.”

Jamie’s gaze intensified. “They have a film projector?”

“Yes – in a station they’ve discovered for scientific research. They’ve been referring to it as the Hatch. And in that Hatch there’s an orientation film – with pieces missing.” Suddenly Jamie became aware of the Bible misplaced in Phoebe’s hands.

“Did you tell them about the film pieces?” Jamie asked quietly, wary of divulging their secret to anyone untrustworthy.

“I’ve only told Ed,” Phoebe assured him, “but he’s agreed to show us the rest of the film. He’s waiting for us right now by the tree line.”

Jamie’s curiosity overpowered his uneasiness. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He stood with a glance across the tree line, quickly spotting the man he had seen helping Phoebe earlier. The two Tailies joined Ed and together they set off into the jungle, ready to see the mysterious Hatch for themselves. There awaited the most anticipated film either had seen since the Oceanic Airlines flight safety video.

Phoebe hoped this one would not be as urgent.
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Bullzeye
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Jamie Batten
Day 43 Entry 1 - Tailie Movie Night (plus Ed)

So this was the famous 'hatch' Jamie had heard people talk about. It was far from what he had expected it to be like, and he had learnt that the people who built this place and the arrow one were actually called DHARMA. Lexus would surely have something to say to him about that.

When Phoebe had told him about the film here he had been overcome with curiosity, why had a film from this side of the island had pieces removed from it and stored in a bunker, far from the people who would be watching it? Ed and Phoebe seemed more interested in what this extra piece of film had to say. Jamie couldn't blame them, but he didn't have a huge amount of interest in this place, Phoebe had said it was for scientific research and the only science Jamie had ever been any good at was biology.

The extras had been added to the film, so Ed lead the two of them into the area where the film could be watched. It began with an image of that same logo Jamie had seen on entry, and beneath it were the words Orientation - Station 3 - The Swan. When the logo faded, a tall man wearing horn rimmed glasses and a white lab coat appeared, and spoke into the camera.

“Welcome. I am Dr. Tim O’Brien, and this is the orientation film for station 3 of the DHARMA Initiative. In a moment you will be given a simple set of instructions for how you and your partner will fulfill the responsibilities associated with the station."

He went on to describe the history of the organization, nobody seemed interested in this all being the brainchild of Mr. and Mrs. DeGroot, or their pursuit of research in meteorology, psychology, parapsychology, zoology, electromagnetism and utopian social... something.

"You and your partner are currently located in station three, or The Swan, and will be for the next 540 days. The station 3 was originally constructed as a laboratory, where scientists could work to understand the unique electromagnetic fluctuations emanating from this sector of the island. Not long after the experiments began, however, there was... an 'incident'... and since that time, the following protocol has been observed:"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie observed Phoebe stir slightly, her eyes wide and fixated on the film.

The man continued "Every 108 minutes, the button must be pushed. From the moment the alarm sounds, you will have 4 minutes to enter the code into the microcomputer processor... When the alarm sounds, either you or your partner must input the code. It is highly recommended that you and your partner take alternating shifts. In this manner you will both stay as fresh and alert... it is of the utmost importance, that when the alarm sounds, the code be entered correctly and in a timely fashion."

"Now do not attempt to use the computer for anything else other than the entering of the code. This is its only function. The isolation that attends the duties associated with Station 3 may tempt you to try and utilize the computer for communication with the outside world. This is strictly forbidden. Attempting to use the computer in this manner will compromise the integrity of the project and worse, could lead to another incident. I repeat, do not use the computer for anything other than entering the code. "

Dr. O'Brien congratulated and thanked the viewers, and then the film ended. Jamie turned to Ed, the only person around that had seen the video with bits missing.

"So what wasn't there last time?"

"Last time it told us not to use the computer for anything, the warning about misusing the computer is new. But as far as I've noticed, you can't use the computer for anything other than putting in the numbers when the alarm goes off anyway."

"I'm guessing somebody wanted people to try and misuse the computer then. I bet it's the same people who've been attacking us since we arrived here."

Jamie had been filled once again with curiosity, someone had gone to all the trouble of removing that warning and taking it across the island to hide, but for what purpose? Something more was going on with this DHARMA initiative, and he wanted to know what it was. Phoebe on the other hand seemed more than a little worried by what she had seen. Her eyes were still wide and buzzing with thought, and there was a distinct glint of fear around them.

"What is it?" Jamie asked, concerned.

"It is... absolutely imperative -- we have to ensure that the station, that... the button must be pushed." Phoebe rambled, in a kind of frantic daze. "This station may very well be the most important thing on the island."

"It gets pressed, there's nothing to worry about honest. The place has been here since like the 80's with no trouble, I'm sure it can survive us lot."

"No... no, trust me, I know about this... stuff. If that button isn't pressed then the results really could be devastating."

"So it really could end the world, as the popular theory suggests?" Ed asked.

Phoebe met Ed's gaze with a grave expression.

"I don't--" She stopped abruptly, rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights.

Right on cue, the alarm had begun to sound.
Edited by Bullzeye, Aug 1 2009, 03:11 PM.
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Phoebe, Tailie
Phoebe Barret
Day Forty-three, Entry Three: Numbers 101


“I don’t—”

Phoebe froze. A clear beep resonated throughout the station, followed one second later by another, calm yet insistent.

The timer was ticking down.

She wouldn’t allow herself a moment to spare; Phoebe leapt off the couch and ran to the crossroads of several entryways. She spun around, casting frantic glimpses through each doorway, until –

There.

One doorway opened into a large dome – the same one from the orientation video – with complicated equipment whirring and clicking around its periphery. Looking up, Phoebe saw the timer ticking down the seconds, each panel flipping with a faint click that mirrored the measured mechanical beeps. 3:42. 3:41. 3:40….

Sitting in the midst of this urgent symphony, composed more of clinical silence than the minimalistic contributions of its instruments, was a very ordinary old computer.

Though Phoebe knew what had to be done, and knew that it had to be done immediately, something about the room commanded her to compose herself. It felt strange, the way such a large space was centered around the small computer... it gave off a sense of importance in spite of its status as the most normal object in the whole room. The metallic silence coupled with sonic mechanics deeply unsettled her. It wound its way into her consciousness, mesmerizing her.

This is all too familiar….

Then as suddenly as the hypnosis had washed over her, a single click dispelled it. 2:59. Phoebe walked briskly to the computer, abandoning the bizarre notions to focus on the task at hand.

Now, there was a code…. Her eyes fixed on a post-it note tacked to the computer.

4 8 15 16 23 42

Okay. She typed the numbers into the computer, carefully checking them against the note. All the while she was acutely aware of the clock ticking down in the background. Her finger hovered over the final key, one marked EXECUTE.

2:34.

EXECUTE

The measured, individual ticks gave way to a collective chatter of flipping as the timer turned back to 108.

Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly a voice came from behind her.

“Thanks for getting that for me.”

She spun around to find the source of the voice; a man with brown hair dyed blond at the tips – giving him a vaguely metro appearance, Phoebe thought absently – and a congenial smile stood in the entryway.

“Why didn't you get it?” she blurted, startled by his unexpected appearance.

“I was on my way back from the bathroom. Would've made it on time, but it looks like you've got it covered,” he answered. He seemed unfazed by the accusation.

There's a bathroom? Phoebe thought vaguely. She surveyed him uncomfortably, not entirely sure what to say to the strangely calm button-pusher.

“You’re from the tail section, aren’t you?” the man continued. Phoebe responded with a hesitant nod; she noticed that he had more ink on him than every tattoo she’d ever seen combined. “I’m Jack.”

He held out his hand to shake. She took it. “My name is Phoebe.”

“Nice to meet you.” Then Phoebe’s eyes focused on something impossible. The arm Jack had extended for a handshake wore a tattoo of particular interest: the very numbers Phoebe had just entered into the computer.

“I, ah… don’t suppose you have a tattoo parlor on your side of the Island?” she asked, indicating the numbers with a nod of the head.

Jack chuckled. “Oh, no. These were here before. As a matter of fact, that’s how we got the code in the first place.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows skeptically, releasing Jack’s hand. “The code for the computer just happened to be tattooed on your arm?” Her eyes narrowed; some of the more startling implications had just flicked on in her head. “Have you ever been on this Island before?”

He seemed to consider this for moment before responding. “Well, I can’t say that I have.”

“So how could the code from this station possibly have ended up on your arm?” The curiosity in her voice was ebbing, leaving only annoyance behind.

Jack paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“You don’t know?” Phoebe’s tone grew more incredulous by the syllable. “I don’t suppose that’s one of those drunken tattoos I’ve heard of, people wandering intoxicated into a tattoo parlor and awakening the next morning with a hangover and a mysterious sequence of numbers carved into their skin?”

“For all I know, it could be. I don’t remember,” Jack explained softly. “I lost my memory when I crashed on this Island.”

Despite the gravity of the revelation, Jack’s voice remained calm. In fact, he seemed serene, at peace with himself, as if this loss had not really been a loss at all.

Phoebe, on the other hand, was mortified.

“I’m – I apologize. I hadn’t, I mean, I had no idea.”

“It’s okay. Stranger things have happened on this Island.”

That was certainly true… but relativity strips all meaning from words like strange and normal, Phoebe mused silently. She jumped slightly at the sound of a light click; the clock had just turned down to 107.

“You seemed pretty interested in pushing that button,” Jack observed, following her gaze to the countdown above them.

“Yes, Jack, I am. I’m very interested.” She turned her gaze from the clock back to Jack. “I think that this station, this… button, may very well be the most crucial thing on the entire Island.”

Jack smiled. “It’s nice to hear that.” His casual tone caught Phoebe by surprise; he did not seem at all startled or concerned about the implications of her statement.

“It just so happens that I agree.”

Phoebe smiled, relieved to have found an ally in this cold, clinical dome where uncertainty and foreboding hung in the air like a thin fog. It had been so long since she last lost herself in an unfamiliar lab, so long since she had needed an accomplice so badly and actually found one. Her smile faltered as the inevitable parallel nagged at the back of her mind.

She could only hope that this alliance would not end as badly as the last.
Edited by Sender of Eight, Aug 3 2009, 12:49 AM.
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Phoebe, Tailie
March 2002


A rusty old shuttle struggled over sweeping white hills, battered by tireless winds and minute white bullets of snow. Though the bus creaked with every movement, it was the snowbanks that parted and tumbled under its huge, sturdy wheels. The driver spoke, glancing back at the rest of the bus in icy rear-view mirror. It was empty save for a small bundle of winter clothing.

“Don’t you mind the weather, now. The old sonuvabitch has seen much worse.” His voice was dry and crackly, but full of warmth and well-meaning. It was reminiscent of nothing so much as a smoldering, smoky old campfire that had been burning for a very long time and simply refused to die out.

The huddled stack of thick puffy coats and mismatched scarves, topped with an earflap hat, remained motionless. The scruffy driver continued, undeterred by the silence.

“Yep. Sure is an old thing, but that’s what makes it reliable.”

The bundle nodded faintly, a pair of bespectacled grey eyes peering out from between a plaid lemon-yellow scarf and a blue and red striped Boston Red Sox one.

Conserve your energy. Don’t move.

“I take it you’re headed for the research facility. Har – of course you are, that’s where I’m takin’ you.” The man laughed, though it sounded more like a hacking cough than a display of mirth.

“Well, we’ll be there in a few minutes. Sure I don’t know much what goes on there. They’re awful secretive. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what you’re down here to research.”

He paused hopefully. The bundle shifted uncomfortably, a few strands of red hair coming loose from the entanglement of scarves.

“Science,” Phoebe answered briefly.

“Hrrrmf.” The driver hummed judgmentally, a sound not unlike the grumbling noise of the old shuttle’s reluctant engine. He fell silent, unimpressed by the company as frosty as the weather outside.

Truth be told, she herself didn’t know much about what she would be researching. We’ll fill you in on the details when you get here, they had said. She tried to remember why she had accepted the job in the first place; Boston winters had been traumatizing enough for the young Australian.

The engine’s complaints ceased as the bus came to a halt outside a complex of buildings that was almost as rusty and metallic as the vehicle itself.

“Well, here we are. Enjoy your stay,” the driver grumbled tersely.

Phoebe stood stiffly and waddled over to the open door, hopping carefully down the steps and into a snowdrift below. A snowdrift that took her entirely by surprise, as she toppled headfirst into the freezing white mass.

Typical, Phoebe managed to think miserably through her brain freeze. She scrambled to her booted and many times wool-socked feet.

A very disgruntled man towered before her, wearing a large parka over a long black coat and a sharply cut suit. Atop his head sat a similarly fuzzy and oversized Russian hat, complete with earflaps, and two exceedingly large furry creatures. They were huddled together – For warmth? Phoebe wondered dimly, But what are they doing on his head? – and then she finally identified them to be eyebrows.

They did not look happy.

In fact, the massive hairy huddle looked somewhere between bemused, perplexed, and utterly horrified.

“Miss Barret?” The eyebrows’ cousin to the south, an equally bushy mustache, spoke in a deep and disapproving British voice.

“Erm – yes.” Phoebe’s already meek response was significantly muted by the mass of scarves covering her face.

“Hrmm.” Two small, beady eyes peeked critically out from under the eyebrow twins. They were a severe, critical shade of blue ice. He paused for a long moment, seeming to seriously reconsider his decision to hire Phoebe. She took no notice, however; her eyes were fixed with morbid fascination on the beastly eyebrow creatures.

Like gigantic grey Tribbles—

“You’ll do. This way,” the man commanded, cutting her thoughts short. He walked smoothly away, Phoebe wading through the snow behind him. It now occurred to her that his superior height was due mostly to a pair of snowshoes affixed to his much more formal leather business shoes.

She followed him past a cluster of very large equipment on the outskirts of the facility, whose purpose Phoebe could not distinguish. It seemed very important, though, as it was fenced off on all sides and locked up carefully with padlocks at every gate. The equipment was very clean and completely devoid of rust – streamlined, shiny, and much newer than anything else in the area.

They reached the main facility, buildings with labs, housing, and other purposes, and ducked into the first one. It was comparatively large, apparently a type of main office or greeting center, and Thank goodness well-heated.

Phoebe began her struggle to break out of the scarf cocoon she had created. It dawned on her that she had forgotten now exactly how many scarves she was wearing.

The man removed his parka and large cap simply, the little eyes watching disapprovingly as Phoebe fought her way through her maze of insulation. His hair was surprisingly short and neatly combed; it stood in stark contrast to his unkempt facial hair.

“I thought introductions would be rather useless when we could not see each others’ faces,” he said distastefully as the Red Sox scarf flew past his ear. Phoebe declined to comment on the visibility of her employer’s face.

“I am Dr. Edgar Braufurrough. I am head manager of all operations here at the Primary Southeastern Research Institute, scientific and… otherwise. In short, I am in charge.” His mustache moved with each syllable, obscuring his mouth. One might assume that it was in fact the mustache that had spoken. He reached up with one black-gloved hand and stroked the furry creature. Phoebe could almost hear it purring conspiratorially.

“And I, of course, already know that you are—”

“Barret. Phoebe.” Phoebe interjected, her voice muffled by the coat sleeve flapping over her head. She tore the puffy sleeve away, finally free of her stifling winter clothes and dressed comfortably in an unusual combination of work shirt and cargo pants. She hadn’t been sure whether to dress formally for work or in the rugged spirit of the wintery frontier, so she had compromised.

“Yes. Charmed,” he lied, looking quite the opposite: his wind-whipped red face had the appearance of a squashed grape.

“As you’ve no doubt observed, we are not alone.” Phoebe’s gaze swept the room; she had not observed. A thin Indian woman who appeared several years older than Phoebe sat pleasantly in the corner. The area consisted of a small group of chairs arranged like a waiting room.

“This is Dr. Amrita Manjari, manager of electromagnetic research operations. As such, she will be your supervisor.”

Amrita stood and approached Phoebe, extending a hand to shake.

“It is very nice to meet you, Phoebe.” Her manner was warm and friendly, completely unlike Dr. Braufurrough.

Phoebe shook weakly, in contrast to the doctor’s firm grasp.

“Er – yes. Yes, much obliged,” she replied, trying to put on a formal voice. Amrita suppressed an amused smile.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to introduce her to the facilities, doctor.” The furry thing left abruptly, door slamming behind him.

“You’ll get used to him,” Amrita said sympathetically.

“I certainly hope so.”

“Come with me. I will show you our facilities and explain the procedures. It may seem like a lot at first, but you will adapt quickly. This way…” Amrita gestured confidently to the door, escorting Phoebe back out into the complex. When she arrived at the doorway, she stopped suddenly and turned back to face her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I almost forgot,” she began, offering Phoebe her pile of scarves.

“Welcome to Greenland.”
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Eva Javari
Flashback: Hampshire, England, 1999



The short plump woman concluded her reading with a theatrical smile that reeked of insincerity and did her shocking overbite no favours. Eva wasn’t quite sure what the poem had been about, her attentions had steered elsewhere when the stubby looking woman had declared the piece as of her own composition, but with half an ear still trained in she’d been treated to some laughable metaphors and sentiments she knew without doubt, the deceased would have hated or rather, knowing her uncle, met with hysterical laughter.

The small woman let herself hold the stage for a short while longer, her prevalent pearly whites exposed to the crowd of mourners a moment more. And then, almost at the exact moment the stretching smile subsided, the assembled well wishers began to disperse. The poet wandered off to her right, then half collapsed with spectacle into another’s arms, and let herself be led off toward the fleet of gleaming cars, parked out of sight beside the chapel, guarded by grim faced men in tailed blazers and tall black hats.

Another mourner, this one more bearable than the one that had half held Eva’s attentions for the past few minutes, took a few cautious steps toward her, a delicate smile holding on her face as she approached. She was she knew this woman, the face and voice flicked some switch of recognition in the dusty parts of her brain, but nothing solid formed there. The woman asked her something, and with her semi-aware mind, Eva gleaned an offer of a ride. Back to the house, to the wake, to the poet and no doubt more unbearable speeches and expressions of condolence. She was sure she couldn’t manage it just yet, and frankly, was uncertain she’d be able to stomach it at all, but for now she’d just wait, let herself indulge in some quiet time, some solitary weeping if the mood took.

It took a good few minutes before the last of the gathered mob finally departed; most crammed into the expensive hired cars. Some left on foot, and those who owned vehicles sombre enough for such an occasion left the dreary place in the comfort of their own cars. She saw one car left for her, one of the grim faced men stood discreetly next to it, hands folded behind him, steady face gazing outward, but not looking at anything in particular. She wasn’t sure if she was keeping him from anything, whether or not he was working to a schedule, but she needed some private moments to herself before she braved the gathered crowds once more over a bleak buffet and teary toasts, so would test his patience.

She began to walk, away from the plot of disturbed earth where her uncle would now lay for all eternity unless some curious sort decided to go digging one day a thousand years from now. She walked slowly, in no particular direction, the cheap sensible shoes she’d forced herself into that morning, pinching at her feet.

“Miss Javari?” asked a voice, male, that was clear enough, but of no discernable rank or region.

She didn’t answer, just turned slowly. The cheap soles of the uncomfortable shoes made an almost cheerful squeak against the wet grass as she turned so her eyes might meet with the mystery caller with the blank accent. Thanks to the bothersome sun, she saw only the shape of him first; tall and slight, long limbed but not rippled with it. He took a few steps more toward her, and the harsh light was at last blocked out enough by the tall man’s form to let her eyes focus in on the details. The height of the man struck her again, and for a moment she knew her face was quite clearly advertising the shock. She shook the expression from her face as swiftly, and as subtly as she could just in time to accept one of the tall man’s bony hands in her own.

“Victor Abergast” he declared, clamping her outstretched hand with his spare one. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m an old friend of your uncles”.

Doubtful, she thought. Not to be snobbish about it, but her uncle had a certain criteria when it came to even the most casual of acquaintances and this man, with his manicured hands, flash suit and a meek handshake that only a pen pusher could excuse, quite frankly, didn’t adhere to. Still, she kept quiet her observations for the sake of politeness.

"Thank you"

“Your uncle was a great man” Abergast declared, with an expression that almost rivalled the dramatics of the short toothy pet. “And what a wonderful service, I’m sure he would have loved it”.

“Well then, Mr Abergast, I’m sure you didn’t know my uncle as well you seem to think you did”.

“Oh, on the contrary Miss Javari”, Abergast stalled for a second, dropped his small round head to the side slightly and flashed a slight smile. “Might I call you Eva?”

She gave him a shrug of indifference and returned to walking forward, letting him catch her up again and match her pace to the right of her.

“Well then, Eva, I’ve an offer to put to you that I’m sure you’ll find very interesting”.
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November 3, 2004 “New Day”

Familiar voices signal the coming of dawn, like her they do not mark time by the sweep of artificial hands, but by the circadian rhythm of nature. Murmuring amongst themselves about the weather and the presence of the foreigners without alarm as they fluff and contemplate breakfast, the birds are an always welcome presence as extra security. Dozens of eyes with a better vantage than her own and unbiased undiluted flight instinct make the perfect perimeter guards anywhere in the world.

The human is meditating on the Ocean, quite pleased to be looking across empty waters to the ominous outline afar. For a day, if no chugging breaks the calm in bearing danger, everything will be new. The ground, the trees, what they find, even if all are variations of the same, they will not have passed beneath her feet or hand before this day. On this day, she is not on the Island and the prospect of the answer being within her grasp adds a brightness she does not need the multicolor burst of distant radiant light to feel.

“I don’t think it’s a road.” Her companion utters as his first words of the day, “I believe it is a runway.”

While she has been looking out on a different view for the first time in five years, he has been looking inward, “Misuse of metaphor.” She muses looking back over her shoulder, “Unless we find drag racers, it’s a runway. You see this kind of rough LZ anywhere there are small islands.”

“Voice of experience?” in casual inquiry with a slight gleam to show he knows he may be trespassing.

“Methuselah’s.” with equal cheek.

They rested well and deeply each, she was given the Lion’s share of darkness and he was sound asleep until moments ago, he must have spotted it when heading into the bush, “It’s not complete and much of the clearing looks recent.”

“I did foretell of there being something of interest to them here.” She reminds, “We’ll want to camouflage Frankie before heading out. Place isn’t big enough to get lost on, so no need to leave a bread crumb trail.” Pausing, “I miss hot buttered toast dripping with strawberry preserves.”

“Thank you for that.” Accepting his ti leaf served breakfast of cold cooked fish and two fruits as she lifts it in offering now that he has torn himself away from surveying the fascinating new island that has him engrossed.

“De nada, enjoy.”
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Jack Midler
Day 43 – Entry 1
“Retribution”

All the survivors of the crash got a new start on the island, Jack thought. He, for one, had been liberated from his agonized past where he was an innate killer. Jack was unable to distinguish righteousness from evil back then. He just did what he was ordered, a loyalist executioner. Fortunately, Jack became freed from his sins, not even having recollections of most of his evil deeds. He was one of the many lucky individuals from the plane who got a reset in life. The island gifted them a new beginning. Some had not yet found their salvation, but he was sure they eventually would. It was practically meant to be.

Amongst those who had not yet found their redemption was Cecil Galloughan. The odd hooded advocate hid a dark secret. He confessed to Jack – before restraining himself – that there was a certain memory he would rather forget. Not everyone turned out to be as fortunate as Jack was that he became wiped of his sinister history. Cecil, Jack hoped, would be cleansed of the demons that forever haunted him also. He deserved that.

Just then, as Jack had that thought, the sheltered nonconformist entered the computer room. Even in the Hatch, where the sun’s rays did not pierce, he remained enclosed in his clothing. He covered most of his body using his signature hood, large hat, and a coat with a very high collar. His eyes – the feature which Jack believed defined anybody the most – were also blocked by sunglasses. He seemed embarrassed and unwilling to reveal his true self behind the layers of garments. Every island needed its mystery man, and it had two, the tattooed amnesiac included.

Jack’s shift came to an end just as Cecil’s began; a lucky coincidence. This gave the two oddballs an opportunity to converse. Jack said, “Hello again, Cecil.”

He slightly nodded. “Hey,” he replied hoarsely.

“So…are we going to pick up where we left off?” Jack asked, referring to their previous interaction.

“Not now. I’m not in the mood.”

“Please,” Jack pleaded, “I’m a good listener if you want to vent your frustrations. Surely there’s got to be something on your mind; maybe, whatever it was that you started telling me about before. We all get a new start on this island and if you are not willing to expel your demons…maybe you’ll never get yours.”

I’m fine,” he bluntly answered.

Jack took this to believe that Cecil was not yet ready to talk. His concise answer, brutally succinct, made his intentions clear. He thought himself to be all right – not requiring Jack’s gratis assistance – no matter how desperately he truly needed his help.

“Okay,” Jack said, “I can’t say that I didn’t try.”

The amnesiac picked up his belongings, a book, a photograph, and an axe, and made his way out of the suddenly packed computer room. Cecil obviously did not want him around. “See you soon,” he bid farewell.

“Wait!” Cecil cried, with an unexpected eagerness, “Sit down. I’ll talk if you listen.”

Jack grinned; his efforts were, as a matter of fact, not in vain. “Yeah. Sure.”

Jack took a seat with Cecil – prepared to listen to his tale. He felt a bit excited at finally getting a chance to help his friend. “Start from the beginning,” he said.

Cecil concurred. He started to talk but stopped. It became difficult for him to speak, the experiences unquestionably haunted him. Whatever memory Cecil wanted to forget he had trouble speaking of as well. The words were indescribable. Just thinking of the recollection made him stiffen; it was a difficult incident for him to speak of.

Finally, after awhile, he began, “My God, how I loved them – Monica and Timothy. And they loved me for no particular reason at all, just because of the way I am. It was perfect, heavenly, for awhile anyway.”

“What happened?” Jack asked eagerly.

Cecil’s voice deadened. “They died.”

For a short time, Jack felt guilty. He forced Cecil to speak to him – made him remember the past. Jack knew he did not want to remember his precedent, and he was sure the hooded oddity did not want to retain his either. What was done was done; they could not change the past. Nonetheless, Jack helped him heal. The only way for Cecil to recover from what happened to him was by expelling his discomfort. He needed to emit before healing.

“I’m sorry,” Jack ultimately said.

Cecil remained painfully motionless. “Yeah. So am I.”

Cecil sat beside Jack without movement. His mind remained concentrated on his recollections of the past; meanwhile, the present was of no importance to him. All that mattered to him was Monica and Timothy. Cecil continued to be creepily tranquil while his psyche wandered. He owed them that much.

Jack ultimately asked, “How did it happen?”

All of a sudden, Cecil’s posture hardened. Jack could not read his eyes, but, from his manner, he understood the subject hit him hard. This memory, whatever it was, was dark, very dark.

“There was this man,” Cecil explained, “an arsonist, who burned down the hotel I was staying at. They were caught in the fire, and…”

“It’s okay,” Jack comforted him.

“Yeah, well…it’s not okay that he’s still out there. That man, I…I deserve my vengeance. It’s not fair…”

Jack placed a comforting hand on his broad shoulder. “I know, I know.”

“The worse part is…I can’t forget him. It’s like his face, his deadpan ugly expression, is embedded on my mind forever. I want to forget, but…I can’t. I sometimes even get this intensely real feeling that…he’s watching me…while smoking his damn cigarettes.”

The realization suddenly clicked; he spoke of none other than Cigarette Man. It came to no doubt in Jack’s mind that his enemy was capable of such a feat. Coincidence or not the man Cecil sought revenge against was on the island. Fate had thrown them together on the very same battlefield. Perhaps, Jack wondered, this was Cecil’s chance at redemption. He needed to kill Cigarette Man.

The chance connection came at a startling moment. Jack could not kill his nemesis; he was no longer an executioner. However, just as this dilemma arose, Cecil confided to Jack that they shared a common enemy. If Jack was not meant to dispose of Cigarette Man, Cecil was. This was no coincidence; this was fate.

“You deserve your retribution,” Jack said, “What if I were to tell you that the man who killed your family is on this island?

Cecil raised his shielded eyes at Jack. “I’d ask you to take me to him.”
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Cigarette Man
Day 43 – Entry 1
“The Truth”

Cigarette Man took advantage of his present situation. Before joining the camp he would struggle to obtain food and subsequently starved for days. Food quickly became scarce out in the wilderness when the boar migrated shortly after he began hunting. With little food, and no access to the beaches for fishing, he became famished for several days. However, now that he was amongst the survivors’ camp, there was food aplenty. Hunters, namely a redneck firebrand with a girth of knives, brought food daily for the camp, whether it was boar or smaller indigenous creatures. Trained fishermen, meanwhile, stock piled fish to share with their comrades. Then there was the food from what the front end survivors called the Hatch. Bars of candy, containers of ranch dressing, bags of chips, and several other assortments of food made up the groceries being procured from this wondrous trench in the ground. Although plenty, he got the feeling there was much more hidden in this underground pantry. Food came from there, indeed, but the extent of it had not yet been formally introduced into the survivors’ provisions.

Cigarette Man celebrated his decision to infiltrate the camp. He no longer had to worry about food, water, or several other difficulties he faced when he went into the wild. Everything was provided for him. He even had free medical care from a trained physician, albeit he was a priest. The old man did not particularly like being amongst all the people, but he enjoyed the benefits of his necessary sacrifice. All was perfect.

Nevertheless, Cigarette Man desired the provisions kept secret in the Hatch. He fantasized of the many treats hidden from him. His mouth salivated at the idea of pork, prime ribs, and just about anything that could cause him heart trouble. Those were his favorite types of food; thus, he set out to quench his sudden craving.

The hike was merely just a fifteen minute stroll through the jungle. Some of the survivors described to him the trail to the beloved storeroom. The details, though, were mostly vague. There existed only so many ways to depict which path to take in a jungle where every tree looks exactly the same. Therefore, Cigarette Man generally followed his gut feeling when making his way to the Hatch.

His instincts led him to a clearing where he decided to take a break and put up his feet. He needed to rest – his energy after all remained low following his recent lost of blood. If the priest only knew of what Cigarette Man was doing he would definitely disapprove. This venture could kill him, but that perception did not impede him. If anything, it propelled him to prove he could still do all the activities he did before the incident. Cigarette Man did not want to feel like an inadequate old man.

Still, he required a bit of relaxation. His ravaged lungs alone from years of smoking could not handle the long trek into the jungle. Reminiscent of his father, and his father before him, they had all suffered and died from lung cancer. Cigarette Man believed his lifetime would be shortened as well although he already lived longer than either one of his forefathers. It was his fate, and his rite of inheritance, to die from the killer disease.
Just then as Cigarette Man reflected on death he heard a whistling sound. He turned his head and watched a knife come flying by him. The old man could feel the wind from the tossed dagger on his face as it passed. The knife luckily missed him by a mere inch as it landed perfectly on a tree behind him.

He then heard a cry from the direction whilst the airborne blade came from. It shouted, You killed my family, you son of a bitch!

Standing there surrounded by high grass rested a hooded personage with another knife in hand. His entire body was either cloaked by a hood, glasses, or layers of clothing. He looked like a lunatic hacker from a low budget horror flick with Cigarette Man as his target.

He quickly came at the old man and pinned him to a tree. The assailant placed the cold steel of the knife menacingly on his neck. You’re mine,” he announced hoarsely.

Cigarette Man pleaded, “I have no conflict with you.”

“Shut up!” he cried, pressing the knife closer to his neck, “I’ve waited for this moment for a very long time…”

Although covered, Cigarette Man then recognized the man who had just assaulted him. He was Cecil Galloughan; he had lost his family in a fire caused by a certain arsonist several years beforehand. The day still vividly reminisces in his mind. The fire, the heat, the death, all remained embedded on his mind. He remembered that day, and he especially recollected the memory of those who had died.

Cigarette Man also remembered he did not set that building on fire, as many would have him claim. He explained, “I didn’t kill your family. It was somebody else; somebody I know. I was with him that night, and he…”

Bullshit,” Cecil spat, now blood dripping from Cigarette Man’s neck.

“It’s true! The man you are looking for; the man who killed your family. His name is David Crane…”

I don’t believe you!

“You have no proof that it was me! I only offer the information you seek; the justifiable facts. You’ve let your thirst for vengeance get the better of you…its clouded your visions, made you believe it was me who killed all those innocent people when it was not. Your premature presumption is false. The truth is still out there!”

Cigarette Man could feel the doubt stirring inside of the assailant. “Lies…” he uttered.

“No. The ironic part is…David Crane, the man who actually set that building on fire, is among us. He is here!”

“There was no David Crane on our plane,” the man corrected him.

“You’re right. There wasn’t. However, you may know him by his alias…” Cigarette Man paused as he attempted to recollect the alibi his old acquaintance often assumed when traveling. “Jack Midler.”
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November 3, 2004 ‘Into the Unknown’

Navin Tasir has skills she can appreciate, following standard field hand signals without needing coaching, and the sense to keep low as they move within sight of an incongruent vision creeping up from the thick tropical vegetation. Sharp angles and stark materials identify it as yet another of the deposed regime’s stations, a stark and ugly scar upon what has been lush land as they have made their way through the brush along the presumed runway.

She had some undisclosed information gleaned from miscellaneous found documents scattered about the other stations that there was a facility here, and some utility schematics, but the scale of this building is a mild surprise, reaching at least four floors above ground and knowing their penchant and its purpose, probably deep below as well.

A circling finger is understood and the pair began a cautious reconnaissance of the area around the building, kept but unkempt, signs of recent and repeated use in the cleared paths,, while places of no concern to them are marked by overgrowth.

Not a single building, there are satellites within visual range to be explored later, nothing she would discern as housing by cursory glance, simply the science station, which has numerous points of entry and external stairs to choose from, “If it patterns after the other science stations, we can expect to find a centralized laboratory, staff offices and facilities, security stations, storage and utilities, perhaps living quarters if this was manned around the clock when in service.” Bata tilting towards a second level entrance, “Rules?”

“Leave everything as you find it, never leave the others line of sight, silent until the all clear is determined, evasion and retreat are to be attempted before confrontation and combat.” Navin repeats dutifully.

Awaiting her orders, eyes ahead, when there is none, he turns eyes to find her holding with an expectant purse of lips which forces a sighing, “Wipe your feet, we don’t want to leave any tracks.”

“Good man.” Giving the thumbs up before launching into a swift moving lead to make a low profile approach and scaling of the stairs for a cautious back hand test of the door handle, it yields for a turning and is cracked just enough for an initial scan of the space beyond, the Bata signals their move forward into a wide empty corridor lined with closed doors.

Pausing as planned, to strip jacket and poncho for stuffing in their packs, towels she carries at the ready to arrest the spread of rainwater from their feet and clothing. Barefoot to this point, she pulls on the dry boots, tucks in the pants legs and swipes excess off everything else.

Satisfied but keeping the towel handy, they begin a silent sweep of the floor, finding staff facilities such as a large locker room with an open shower stall, various abandoned offices, each poring over desk contents for evidence of recent occupation. Most abandoned rooms reveal their status when the door is opened by sending forth a wave of escaping mustiness that leaves a thick taste on her tongue.

Navin Tasir is increasingly disappointed by the lack of great discovery, she conversely is more pleased, save one office with recently dated reading material and a picture of one of the local women on its desk, the upper floors are- routine and expected, bunk house quartering, minimal storage or abandoned goods related to the last regime, they do not routinely stay, also in her mind a good thing.

“Hello.” Under her breath to see a familiar array in the first door after entering the subterranean level, into the chair before the six screen security panel to pop a panel to her right with a turn of the multi tool in the shabby lock mechanism to help herself to the nervous system.

“A bit paranoid were they?” Navin whispers.

“Rather, but some of these appear to be trained on what would have been test subjects,” indicating a screen on which a large outdoor cage is featured before setting to work at a switch panel, “See if these are fixed or switching views.” To inform her companion of her intention just as views begin to change, “Excellent.”

Working her way by three switch combinations through all of the different video feeds without commentary, “What about this cabin?” Navin points as she returns the screen to the first view.

“Main Island, a few of these are and none surprising.”


“To you.” Navin reminds.

“Anything you see on these screens, avoid as enemy territory. This is not the only video monitoring station. Look around for any kind of recording device, they are all cabinet sized here, we’ll want to make it forget we were here if there is.” Ty instructs succinctly.

Beginning to her left, as most things are, the cabinet is unlocked, “Three rifles, three Walther P38 pistols and several boxes of ammunition.” Navin inventories.

“Which we are not stealing.” She reminds firmly, “A sore temptation I know, but you need to learn to save knowledge for the future here Mr. Tasir. What is theirs and what is salvage becomes clear over time.” Carefully returning the chair to the exact position she found it in before crouching in front of the electronic panel, “God Bless its antique heart.” Seconds before all six screens go blank, throwing a casual shrug his way for a puzzled look, “Relay burned out.”, As if innocent of any hand in it.

“Speaking of antiques, I don’t even recognize the machine, but the tape deck is empty.” Navin reports just as she pops in unnervingly close over his shoulder to nod her approval of the find.

“Looks like we have at least two underground levels to search and I would like to be back where there are exterior exits ASAP.” Pivoting off, “Let’s roll.”
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November 3, 2004 “Cursum Perficio”

Here, this is where she stood in the dreaming three years in the past, gazing up on another concrete desecration born in the unimaginative mind of an individual whose vision of the future was devoid of beauty or nature that did not fit within- tolerances.

From here methodically, almost trancelike in this subdued environment, less space, less wildlife, the oceans diluted saline merging with the air even mid island for her inadvertent tasting while trickling off her lip. Allowing the information being absorbed by her senses to be processed by memory with each step, she cannot miss a single detail, nothing will be stored for later recollection in analysis as is the norm, for what was here for her to see three years ago may have changed or be gone with no trace, and she will not squander what could be a singular opportunity.

Tracking Navin Tasir’s like wandering by the sound of the rain being absorbed by his clothing, the birds have gone to lightly conversational in the surrounding jungle that overshadows and embraces, even encroaches on this man made construct. Of the places tainted by man, this open yet stifling space has crept mostly deeply into her core as- wrong. Simply wrong.

Shivering to envision the helpless lives of those bound within the array of cages strewn along this central walkway, ever uneasy on open ground, the claustrophobic close of her throat for the sense of how these animals must have been tortured daily by the sounds of the free indigenous just feet or yards away makes her want to bolt for the safety of the cloaking cover nearby.

Focus, set aside the empathy.

The walkway, as with all manmade surfaces, feels alien as her soft hog hide and foam soles spread like Snow Leopard paws with each measured step.

Forty-three steps. Seventeen plant species registered in the last pass. Four different species of birds are communicating all is well. The rainfall rate is a quarter inch an hour give or take. There are three bullhorn speakers mounted on the pole to her left.

Counting and breathing cease simultaneously.

One black sole.

Gravitating towards the waffle pattern stamped into a toe pad, plainly visible near eye level as it rests on a concrete platform behind the bars of the largest cage on the concourse, all else falling away as insignificant, except to lift a padlock off the cross member left of the open door for some assurance of safe exit during the steadying pause before entering.

A Skinner box, they studied the man and his methods in wildlife biology. A fork-and-knife embossed operandum passes through her peripheral field, the related plate on the floor afar. No cover save fallen palm fronds, ammonia stained concrete floors and discolored construction grade steel frame the platform stretching left of the reward and punishment mechanism.

Mentally disconnected from her earthly body, watching her right hand reach for and fall on a rotting green field blanket, squeezed water trickling between her fingers from its scratchy fabric during the act of a tense crushing lift aside to expose all above the waffled sole resting atop a chest high platform that was someone’s idea of a area- suitable for habitation by mammals.

Trembling fingers creep over black leather that tropical weather has had its way with for some time, the partially open top curling back for the failing of eroded laces she remembers once binding tightly while braced between her knees.

“There, happy now? It fits in your damn boots.”

“Will it stay on when I kick your ass?”

“Absolutely, and weighs enough to crush your skull when I beat you with it.”


Drawn towards her for bringing into both hands by the right as her left sheaths the Bata, the flesh tone casing of the prosthetic has held up, and the straps that bound it above his knee. Fingers find the metal dedication plate for reading, “Because I owe you one. Love-"

No, no detail such as that would escape you Peter. Her name is gone, willfully erased by a furious scraping. He kept the tongue in cheek dedication and by the smoothing wear on one corner, held to it as she holds to her kanji and Bata. Tracing the path, she imagines him lying beneath this ragged fabric, one of the animals tortured by the sound of the free indigenous, tortured by them.

One thousand, eight hundred and sixty two days and cumulatively as many miles have brought her to the answer. Just lying there in the open, she suspects as he left it on the chance no one would care its fate once he was gone, something durable that would not wash away, like the loyalty and faith that has bound her to this mission for five years unwavering.

Not unpredictably emotional, flash floods within her flawless memory are dumping vignettes and novellas alike of a twenty year relationship into every available cognizant space, she has a heart and soul and both are wrenching mercilessly within, but the tears forming only brim not flow, this is neither the time nor place and they are dabbed away with a sopping sleeve that is dripping more water than her eyes.

Wringing out the green blanket produces a disturbing swirl of colors she dare not attempt forensic examination of, it holds up to the twisting and folding for tucking under the leg as it laid in the crook of her arm. Presence of mind knocks and is answered with a scanning of the area to locate her present companion, also near a cage, standing at a wary distance while leaning about visual blocks to his own inspection.

One such framing beam in her line of sight is cause to redirect focus for the peculiar presence of organized scratches that, upon closer inspection, reveal themselves to be the print handwriting of her captive companion.

The vault of memory is wide open, no need to delve, the combination of symbols, numeric sequences, Welsh, Irish and ordinary English sentences that would seem the gibberish of a madman to others, to her who was there when he amused himself during long flights creating the coded alternate for every possible word combination, reads it as easily as any might their first language.

Following the determined engraving by touch back through his time to the beginning, rubbing grime away vigorously with her sleeve as needed, to the now open door frame where he must have stood studying his surroundings in the way she taught him, coolly, analytically, aesthetics are for girls.

“I am a girl."

“Well, you’re more like us than most without penises.”


More than the simple truth she sought, the whole truth, painstakingly etched into steel day after endless day, each marked from a begin date with at least a single entry, there are breaks, sometimes of days, he tries to recount them. Frenetically chasing his words, they escape her working mind audibly in key points, names of his captors, she knows them, fish biscuits, he hates them, no love here, over and over, room 23 repeats.

“Ma’am.”

Startled by Navin’s quiet interruption, she peers over the crossing beam she is reading probably looking a little too wired for comfort, “Uh-what?”

“I try not to be pressing, but I really must know if I should be alarmed by your clutching of a lower leg and manic rambling of absolute nonsense while pacing in a cage. Are you-?”

Rising up from her crouch, “Cursum perficio.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“My journey is over. -It is time for me to go home Navin.”
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Yea, though I haul ass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; my machete and my staff they comfort me …
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