i. The Pilot

[Jack Shephard]

An eye is closed.

The owner of this said eye, or eyes, is completely and blissfully unaware in a dark state of nothingness. The eye does not move, nor twitch—nor does the pale skin lidded over the eye roll as the owner begins to stir. This goes on, the eye simply closed, for a time that no one, not even I, can tell you.

Then, with no warning, the eye opens.

Underneath is an almond colored iris, and a large pupil that dilates from normal to pinprick in about half a second. The eye registers nothing, nothing but long shapes stretched up forever into the sky above. Slowly, the silhouetted shapes focus against the treetops, and the bright sky that seemed so harsh compared to the blackness that had just been before. The shapes focus into long poles, the poles into plants of some sort—and the plants into long bamboo like trees with canopies that swish and whisper the wind.

The eye belongs to a man, lying eagle sprawled on the rough forest floor—seemingly poorly dressed for such an occasion in a navy suit, white collared shirt, and pale gray tie. His face models one who has just been in some sort of fist fight—cheeks bleeding and cut, his short black hair smeared with dirt—eyes panicked and breathing heavy. He lies still for a few moments, merely breathing deeply with a rather dazed look on his face. Slowly, one of his hands rise—fingers twitching and flexing alternatively, testing to see if in fact, he is somehow still alive. The man takes another sharp gasp, somewhat shifting on the forest floor—when a loud crack can be heard through the foliage.

The man starts, head twisting with a sharp jerk to the side in a beginning of a panic. His face twists into one that might resemble confusion, and his gray eyes blink into focus. Through the long swines of bamboo trods a golden retriever—head low and shoulders hunched, tongue hanging out in a rapid pant. The dog, looking to be middle aged like the man himself, pauses upon seeing the man lying on the floor. The man watched him expectantly, not really sure if he was real—when all of a sudden the dog gave a sharp whine and darted past the man, making a sharp left by his head a disappearing into the jungle again.

As if the dog had been his wake-up call, the man furrowed his brow and started to sit up, dazedly. Using the bamboo that surrounded him for support, the man managed to get himself into a technically-upright position, giving a wince and grunt of pain. From there, the man slowly rose to his feet, revealing the back of his navy suit to be utterly shredded. Now in obvious pain, the man groaned and leaned back against the flimsy half-grown bamboo, leaning back his head and closing his eyes for a moment. The man lifted his jacket of his side, peering critically down at his side with a pained expression. Upon seeing it, he groaned, and turned his head away—breathing hard.

After a moment, the man slid a slightly trembling hand into his jacket’s left pocket—retrieving a small glass bottle, which after a moment—appeared to be a small bottle of vodka, no doubt for airplanes, which he stared at for a few seconds before furrowing his brow and rubbing his head with the back of his free hand. Pocketing the vodka, the man paused for a moment—before making his way in the direction the dog had just, a few minutes before, disappeared. Suddenly urged on by some unseeable force, probably adrenaline with a mix of some memories, the man broke into a staggered run—hindered slightly by the thick foliage of bamboo. Ducking and weaving, the man ran past a small clearing—ignoring the pure white shoe unceremoniously caught on its branches.

You see, he already knew how bad this really was—a shoe was the least of his problems.

And so Jack ran.

Bursting out of the jungle, the man came face to face with pure white sand—panting hard. A calm, clear ocean winked back at him—its waves rolling peacefully despite the tragedy that had just occurred. Somewhere off in the distance, a long and shrill scream could be heard, breaking off only to allow the woman giving them time to breathe; a mechanically whirling and clicking half-drowning out her voice. Alerted, Jack’s head jerked slowly off to the left, still somewhat distracted by the ocean in front of him, before breaking off into a sprint in the direction of the screaming.

A half shocked look crossed the man’s face as he rounded the bend, he slowing down and awkwardly shuffling through the sand as he made his way forward. The whirling sound got louder and more pronounced, Jack screwing up his eyes and waving a hand in front of his face as smoke billowed up in his eyes as he walked past a smoking, dislodged, engine of the plane. People, screaming, crying, looking shocked, billowed around him—some standing completely still, looking shocked, others looking for loved ones, still more having the sense enough to run away from the burning remains of the carrier plane.

Neither the front, nor the tail part of the plane was in sight—only a discarded middle part, seemingly ripped into shreds with glass, metal, and flames discarded carelessly about the plane.

“Help me! Help me, somebody, help me out!” Someone was shouting.

Distracted by the sounds and sights of mangled bodies, strangers carrying strangers, people lying sunken in the sand—the man stopped, staggered, and gazed around shielding his face as more smoke billowed into his face from a still half-functioning engine.

The engine whirled, and sputtered, sucking in scraps of cloth from torn shirts—sparkling electricity and spinning like mad—the source of the loud whirling. A short young man with shaggy blond hair stood in front of it, looking somewhat dazed. The Jack's eyes flickered still, catching on a Chinese man shouting someone’s name in a foreign language—yet another man, African American, ran through the wreckage recklessly, shouting ‘WAAAAALT!’ at the top of his lungs. The woman screaming looked hardly more than twenty, blonde, merely standing still in the middle of some wreckage in a short miniskirt and screaming at the top of her lungs with her eyes screwed tightly shut.

“Stay away from the gas! Stay there!”

“WAAAALT!”

More screams.

The plane creaked dangerously, Jack looking up with squinted eyes against the sun to see the plane’s wing precariously perched on the still mostly remaining middle section of the plane—creaking dangerously.

Oh, God.

Jack’s head spun. He spun as well, distracted by the sudden sights and smells and just in shock really. I mean, who wouldn’t be? They had just been, and survived, a plane crash. People were screaming, people were dying—and they were about to get—

LOST.

---

Here's how the thread is going to work! As the first five or ten minutes of the television show is very chaotic--expect that for the thread here. Have you characters run around, disoriented-- interact with other characters, get away from the plane, take a leak--it's all up to you.

Cannon characters will be played by staff until they are claimed by a member. If a member claims a cannon during the middle of a thread, the member takes immediate control over the character.

After the action dies down, and after a half an hour or so after the plane crash happened, you may start another thread-- near or around the fuselage, or in the jungle, whatever floats your boat. Keep it relatively close to the same time as when this thread dies down, and post a link to your new thread in this existing one. Be sure to roleplay your character walking off to do whatever it is you are planning to do in your new thread.

If your character is a member of the front end of the plane, or the tail, look for your thread elsewhere.

Yes, you may walk and talk with cannon characters--just make sure to shout it out in the c-box so a staff member can get on it. Got it?
Questions in the c-box, por favor!

New Thread: [link=url here][b]Title Here[/b][/link]
Tagging Anyone?:
---> Put roleplay of your character wandering off to this thread here.

---

Oh, yeah. Here's some music to get you started. :) Music played during this scene.

[Briar Reeyne Michaels]

Briar Michaels
Catch me
if you can~!
-smilie face-

An eye opens.

The pupil dilates to a pinprick in seconds--fluttering with panic and adrenaline, pale hazel and twitching back and forth, focusing on the blurry world.

Briar gasps to life. Jerks to life is a more accurate term, shoulders going from a still, blissful unconsciousness, to a desperate panic-- zero to nothing--in milliseconds. The girl can feel blood running down her face, and a pounding on the corner of her head--vision twisting dizzily out of the corner of her eye-- what the heck had just happened?

All of a sudden, the loud ringing in the girl's ears vanishes. Completely, without any warning. Almost instantly, she's assaulted with the loud, unnatural rising and falling screech of a plane engine--far too high pitched to be good. People are shouting, someone literally leaps over her presumably dead body, and the horrid smell of smoke makes Briar choke and gasp.

She sits up, clutching her head between her hands-- slowly peering up from them and glancing around in utter bewilderment. The plane... the plane! Oh, god. Briar gaped, staring at the remnants of the plane, gagging on the overwhelming scent of blood and gasoline that reeks the air. The remnants of the middle section of the plane were sprawled in the pale white sand-- scattered to and fro, people scrambling around like frightened birds, yelling, screaming, crying, dying--

Well, crap.

Briar staggers to her feet, pausing and huffing a moment--nearly sinking to her knees again by a staggering wave of dizziness. Geez. She really needed to get her head looked at when this was all over. Eventually, blinking back the dazed look in her eyes-- a fierce look overcame the girl and she sprinted to the nearest body, remembering how the unnamed person had just left her for dead a few seconds ago--leaping over her and content to let whatever explosion that was bound to come envelope her.

She felt for a pulse, ignoring the huge shrapnel that had impaled the person's stomach, ignored their glassy eyes.

No pulse.

Briar ran to the next person, nearly flattened by a huge man that ran past her, her stringy blond hair flapping in the wind from the discarded plane propellers. She fell to her knees beside the said person, feeling for a pulse.

None.

Their legs were gone too.

Next person.

Next person.

Next person--