Swallowed in the Sea

Swallowed in the Sea​

United Airlines Flight 381 was scheduled to take off at 11:20, Eastern Time, from Miami, Florida. Its destination was Madrid, Spain, and the approximate flight time was projected to be a little under seven hours. The plane was delayed by a problem with the fuel, and left Miami International Airport an hour after it was supposed to, at about half past noon, and was reasonably full: about 3/4 capacity.

At 2:00 PM in Madrid, local time, a flight control operator informed his superior that Flight 381 was late coming in. He was told that that flight had been late going out; give it a little more time. Three hours later, the missing flight was headlining news around the globe.

Search teams were sent out; it was revealed that contact with Flight 381 had been lost about four hours into its flight, and also that it had flown into a violent Atlantic storm. Analysts and experts on every station and in every language all predicted the same theory that most people felt to be true - Flight 381 had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. After a few weeks, the search was abandoned. The families of passengers onboard grieved, but eventually moved on. Flight 381 and all the people aboard had been, for all practical purposes, swallowed in the sea.

But they were not yet dead.



The OOC to this thread is located here. For now, the thread is closed, although we may have need of new players as the thread progresses, so check the OOC thread periodically if you want to get on this thread sometime! With no further ado, let us begin...

Scott Ceridwen

Paging Scott Ceridwen, paging Scott Ceridwen. Please report to the nearest white curtesy telephone and dial 183 for a message.

The woman's crisp, plastic voice sounded through the terminals of Miami International Airport repeatedly, calling out to Scott. None of them had yet penetrated his thoughts; he was sleeping.

Finally, with an almost painful yawn, Scott stretched his long legs, his blue eyes bringing everything back into focus as he blinked them repeatedly. He rubbed his eyes, smacking his lips, ran his supple fingers through his messy light brown hair, and settled back down, determined to sleep until the last possible moment to board the plane.

For the fourth time, the distant woman behind the intercom read off the announcement to Scott Ceridwen in her mechanical voice. He straightened instantly, all blurriness lost from his eyes as they swept to the sound of the voice, before he found himself staring somewhat illogically at a speaker in the ceiling.

Looking around, everyone was too engrossed in their own affairs to have noticed his slightly odd behavior. He was sitting in the area surrounding gate C18, the gate for Flight 381 to Madrid. It was supposed to have left at 11:20, but it was now noon - something had been wrong with the fuel compartment or something, Scott wasn't exactly clear on that.

He stood up and hitched his backpack onto his left shoulder, then made his way to the opposite side of the terminal, where a "white curtesy telephone" was located. While he walked, a United Airlines employee made the announcement that Flight 381 was ready to begin boarding: First Class and Preferred Members or whatever system they had were boarding now.

Scott stood in front of the phone, where a blue light was blinking continuously. For a long time he stared at the receiver, before slowly picking it. He dialed in the 183 code almost hesitantly, eyes narrowed slightly in apprehension.

"You have one message from... Mark Black... Press 1 to accept."

Scott's eyes widened, he paled slightly. The name rang in his ears. He stood almost frozen; behind him, a third of the flight boarded while he stood, as the sentence he had just heard repeated itself three more times. Then, hand shaking slightly, he set the receiver back into its place, ending the call. For another long moment he stood motionless, before turning abruptly back towards C18.

As he handed the employee his ticket, she glanced at the name and informed they'd been calling him over the intercom all morning. Expression blank, he reached out and took his ticket stub from her, and walked down the jetway without responding.

Finding his seat - 23B, Scott sat down, stowed his backpack in front of him, and buckled his seat belt. Who knows what thoughts tumbled through his mind.... A slight smile - an ironic, slightly bitter smile - curled his lips, before melting back into one of contemplation.

Flight 381 was about to depart from Miami International Airport - MIA.

Doctor Franz Weider-Chase was on the phone for the whole duration of his boarding experience. His fiancee was very nervous about the flight back and he was doing his best to calm her.

"Ja, liebchen - you know I have already done the most dangerous part of this journey in the cab on the way over?"

He shrugged his apologies at the girl who was doing First Class boarding. She, used to putting up with the odd behavior of the rich, smiled back and processed his boarding from his passport without really including him in the process.

Franz took the ticket and strolled towards the First Class gate into the aircraft, still talking.

"Ja, Ja. In seben hours. Ja, I'll see you then. Of course I love you.'

They'd flown him out in Club class - which he'd expected. But after the successful convention at John Hopkins and the job offer (which he'd accepted) they were flying him home First Class. The head of surgery had let him know that he considered Franz a John Hopkins man now, and that he should get used to First Class treatment just about everywhere.

Franz settled in the comfortable, wide, seat. The extra-pretty Air Hostess smiled at him and did almost all she could do to make him comfortable.

Franz decided that he LIKED First Class.

Jessica Rowen

Jessica's heart was pounding, and she felt dizzy. Like she could pass out in any instant. She'd given the detective the slip; she was sure of that. But he'd found her once before, seeking her out and sorting through an entire nation of names to find her. She was pretty sure it wouldn't take him long to find her in a single airport.

Which was why the only answer that made sense was to NOT be in that airport.

She'd left him in the crowd back at the food court, siezing her chance when a large, sweating man had bumped into him and knocked him off his feat. To Jessica, that huge man had been an angel from heaven, for he'd dislodged the detective's grip on her wrist. She made her way down to the nearest gate and took a seat next to a woman who was peacefully snoring in a chair. Her boarding pass was sticking out of her purse, and it had been easy enough to pluck it out.

Now, Jessica stood in line with the rest of the passangers, ready to board flight 381. Her entire body felt wound like a spring, tightly coiled and ready to jump the instant the stewardess gave her a funny look. But no... she accepted the boarding pass without a second glance, and in a few more minutes Jessica was on the plane.

She worried at the ring in her lip with her tongue as she walked down the asile, looking for the seat number that had been printed on her pass. There it was: 23E. A window seat. And behind some jabbering woman with tall hair. Someone to hide behind if the detective found her on the plane before it took off. Jessica wasn't sure where it was bound, only that it had to be better than Miami. If she didn't know where she was going... it'd be that much harder for the detective, and by extension her mother, to track her down.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and relax. All around her, people (NORMAL people) were settling in, adjusting their carry-on luggage, leafing through magazines, buckling seatbelts. It was, she admitted to herself, kind of nice not to have to worry about luggage. At least she'd be able to make a quick getaway once the plane landed, and she had the space under the seat in front of her to stretch her long, slender legs. Either she'd get away or she wouldn't. Still... she slumped down in her seat, hiding behind the row in front of her without trying to look too much like she was hiding. You couldn't be too careful!

Sir Reginald R.H. Trowbidge (Reggie, hereafter)

"So tell me dear boy, have you decided whether or not to carry on this flight?" Lord Ipswich asked imperiously as they sat at the Captains Club bar waiting for Reggies' flight to be called.

"Dammit Jimmy, if you call me 'dear boy' one more time, I'm going to tie you to a chair and force you to watch while I rape 'er Ladyship here," Reggie snarled as he one-arm-hugged the still very comely Lady Mary-Margaret.

"How can I run the video if I'm tied up?" Jimmy asked with mock innocence.

"OH Jimmy, you twisted old swine," Meg groaned as she hit him hard at the precise apex of his sternum, causing him to dribble a bit of his cuba libre.

"Yes of course Darling," Lord Ipswich choked as she dabbed at the drool on his chin with a napkin, "Any way, what did you decide?"

"Actually, I took your advice, you twisted old swine, the world is indeed in a rummy place at present and why not have the happiness of a warm gun, though I'm quite certain that is not what dear John meant when he wrote that line."

"Right you'd be, Darling," Meg smirked as she leaned in for hug and felt the just slightly oily butt of his Glock model 17, 9mm at the small of his back. "And the mags?"

"Thighs and ankles, M'Lady, just like the old days...the Air Marshall was just lovely, I got the feeling that he saw Connery's face when he looked at me.

They all laughed heartily at that, knowing full well that in their day, both Reggie and Jimmy had had much more in common with the Bond of Fleming's novels rather than the impossibly charming and decorous Connery and Moore of the film adaptations.

Flight 381 to Madrid with connections to Rome and Istanbul now boarding at gate....

"Oh my, that's me," Reggie giggled as their laughter died. "It's been so very lovely to see you, M'Lady and I absolutely promise I'll never let His Lordship know how much you love it in the arse," Reggie solemly intoned as he looked Jimmy in the eye.

"Oh Reg, my minor Saint," Meg whispered as she held him tightly for a few seconds. Meg remembered well an incident from a decade before when Reggie made sure that she got her James back, though everyone had said that he couldn't be retrieved from an East Timor jail.

"Now, now, we had to have the old fool back didn't we?" Reggie smiled as he thumbed away a tear that had rolled halfway down her cheek.

Then Reggie turned to his beloved friend, "THUG."

"Murderer!"

"Killer!"

"Assassin!"

They clasped hands firmly and slapped each others backs.

"I'll never forget," Jimmy said flatly.

"An honor to be of service, Your Lordship!" Reggie grinned.

"I mean it, you smarmy blighter."

"I know, my friend," Reggie winked and began to move toward the gate.

Messalina Bishop

Lost in thought, Messa vaguely heard the conversations around her and very nearly missed the call to board. It was only the sensation that some of the voices had moved off and that she was sitting alone that made her sit up and look around.

"Crap!"

Snatching up her backpack, she ran toward the end of the diminishing line, grateful that she'd at least had the presence of mind to drop off her luggage at the curb when she'd arrived at the airport.

Relax. Relax. Deep breaths. This was supposed to be a vacation of sorts before things were back to "business as usual". Okay, maybe not a vacation, but a chance to get things sorted out.

"Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry, is this seat taken?"

Messalina had just opened the latest issue of "Athena Review" after stowing her backpack when she heard the voice and looked up over the top of her glasses in surprise. Frankly, she hadn't expected anyone to head toward the empty seat beside her in First Class as she was trying to avoid hours worth of mindless chitchat when she chose her seat. "No," she replied, knowing that her smile didn't extend to her eyes. "It's not taken."

Returning to her magazine, she tried to read -- or at least appear to be reading -- while the gentleman twisted and turned, tugged and yanked, elbowed and nudged himself into a comfortable position. Maybe she should just close her eyes and take a nap. Messa had taken enough flights that she knew the drill routine the stewardess would give almost better than she did. And what could the pilot say that she hadn't heard a dozen times before either?

Deciding that the nap was the best tack, she tucked the earpiece of her glasses into the front of her scoop-neck tee and closed her eyes.

"I say! These seats are a tad narrow."

She murmured something unintelligible and nodded, keeping her eyes closed. He was right though... she had very little leg space of her own and he appeared a few inches taller than she at five nine. Trying to avoid rubbing arms with him again, Messa shifted closer to the window and wished for quiet.

"Sir Reginald R.H. Trowbridge O.B.E.," he suddenly announced, confirming her suspicion based on accent that he was a Brit.

Messa considered keeping her eyes closed and ignoring his attempt at an introduction, but even she wasn't that rude. Turning to face him, she accepted his already extended hand and shook it firmly. "Messalina. Messalina Bishop, P... " she bit her tongue as she started to sarcastically add her degree to her own name.

"P... ?"

She nodded, her grin genuine this time. "PFFT... you know... pfft." and made the sound to verbalize the letters she had assignated to her name.

Pfft, eh?" Reggie repeated with reverence. "Hmmm, sounds like a well-worn, time honored family name, going all the way back to when your people were dragging their knuckles across northern France, I presume?" Reg knitted his brow and stroked his chin in mock consideration of the lineage of the eminently fuckable Ms Messalina. Then Reggies' demeanor changed to child-like wonder, excited curiosity, "So, do you have a spirit ancestor name, Gronk or Blorg perhaps?"

Messalinas' smile broadened farther despite herself and Reggie's face morphed slowly into his most inviting smile. More attractive by the moment, this one. Funny, sassy and oh so well formed, looking at her had a parade of unnatural acts marching thru Reggies' gently-perverted brain.

Take off time was imminent, Reg checked his seat belt and then leaned slightly toward his pulchritudinous seat-buddy, making positive contact with her firm shoulder. She looked toward him and was greeted by a conspiratorial wink. Messalina rolled her eyes but continued to smile/grimace.

Terry McGinnis

The tip of the pencil whispered across the page, a hummingbird's dance as a rough sketch took shape on the paper. The page already sported multiple abandoned studies and thumbnails across it's surface - faces and forms, interesting poses or clothing that had been worthy of momentary attention, a look or attitude that should be preserved, even the unusual pairings that humans seemed to move in. There is little effort at realism as a whole effect, rather a quick rough assigning of primary points for later consideration, then quick work at capturing the one thing that had caught his attention. A series of blocks and circles offered a basic human shape in it's simplest form, but the backpack the person had been wearing was captured with better detail, to include the colored banding and tension cords, and the stylized company logo. A primitive ovoid form sported the quick cross point to denote the placement of the vermillion line, but an accurate rendering of a shaggy hairstyle even offered quick points about the coloring that he had seen. Two close studies showed the fine detailing of a hand and the slant of an eye. A fast sketch captured the shape and weave of a shawl that had passed by him.

Some might call it dedication to an art. Some might think of it as nervous energy. Some might look upon it as simple boredom. But Terry knew that it was something even more. At least to him. It was an effort at keeping himself useful and viable in the business. Some of the sketches might one day be part of some of his work, some might just fall away into obscurity. If he was really lucky, some might one day be shown on a futuristic version of Antiques Roadshow .

He fought down the brief moment of self pity. His business was hardly a long term affair. Artists in the comic book world actually had a higher unemployment rate than the combined actor's guilds. And there were very few true success stories. The two creators of one of the world's greatest iconic characters had traded their work for a combined total of $130 and a pair of ten year contracts at pittance wages. Most artists burned out in very short order, the massive demands on their time and talents forcing them into decisions about their priorities within the first year. For him to have lasted this long, especially having covered as many bases as he had in that time, was a matter of pride.

"Flight 381 to Madrid with connections to Rome and Istanbul now boarding.."

His pencil quickly slipped into the case at his hip, and the sketchbook snapped closed. His earphones were pulled out, the mp3 player was shut off, and his belongings were arranged and zipped away in their appropriate cases and pockets. With practiced moves, he picked up and settled his carry-ons, and crossed the concourse, not even looking as the water bottle launched itself from his fingers, flipped twice in the air, and rolled against the rim of the industrial (yet so stylish) waste bin.

His ticket and boarding pass were briefly shown to the pair of attendants at the gate, and he followed the line of people down the jetway. Business class was hardly his preferred class of travel, but it was the best he could easily afford. Especially if he was to have the nice little stopover and try to bridge the rift that had formed between himself and his parents.

Scott Ceridwen

Scott fidgeted in his seat, feeling a mixture of emotions. One part of him wanted to run out there and take that message, the other just wanted this damn plane off the ground and away from Miami. The hell could Mark have wanted to tell him anyways? They hadn't spoken in ages... positively ages.

Gradually, Flight 381 filled with passengers. It was reasonably full, and as always, he felt uncomfortable. Flying was something he had always hated; he was one of those people who tended to turn his knuckles white from clenching his fist as the flight took off, closing his eyes and pretending he was anywhere else.

In his mind, he knew there was nothing to fear. What was it... there was more of a chance of getting struck by lightning twice than being in an airplane that crashed? Something like that...

A portly man scooted in past him to take the window seat, and a woman took the isle seat. So much for at least having one open seat by him. He didn't pay much attention to either of them, being rather lost in his own thoughts.

Scott was tapping his fingers together rapidly, shooting looks at the door. Maybe he should get off, run to that phone... He was almost out of his seat when the door shut, closing the plane off completely. Eyes clouded over, he settled back in and fastened his seat belt, weary already of the flight.

He gave little attention to the flight attendant who walked the business class through the emergency procedures. She was just like a robot: smiling and demonstrating with her detatched equipment and attitude. There was nothing to fear, after all. In a few hours, he'd be in Madrid, and from there...

Flight 381 took off ten minutes later, and began its trip across the ocean.

Madrid, however, was not the final destination.

Messalina Bishop

Take-offs were always the worst for Messalina, between that ear thing she had going on and the stomach flips, topped by the cloying aroma of her seatmate's cologne... She leaned back but kept her eyes riveted on the barf bag sticking out of the magazine holder affixed to the seat in front of her.

It was impossible to avoid touching, but right now, the feeling of someone else's heated body and bare skin pressing against hers was almost more than she could bear. Not to mention the fact that she'd broken out in a cold sweat. Squirming uncomfortably, she tried to shift herself, but that seemed to activate some sort of sadistic homing device in Trowbridge's arm that made it follow her movements everywhere in a sort of bizarre push-me-pull-you way.

Her mouth open and ready to protest, Messalina snapped it shut as a wave of nausea coursed through her. Managing a feeble eye roll, she turned away again, but not before she caught something in his eyes that directly contradicted his present and previous behavior. Interesting, she thought, but it was probably only something she'd imagined. She didn't relax again until she felt her ears pop and knew they'd attained altitude.

Jessica

Jessica's heart was pounding now. "Why isn't this damn thing taking off yet?" she thoguht to herself. With nothing to do but think, she barely noticed as someone sat next to her. She'd imagined that the detective had figrued out what plane she'd snuck onto, had managed to contact the pilot, and was talking to him right now. She leaned to the left, risking a peek out the window, and saw in the terminal the woman she'd stolen the boarding pass from. She was arguing, waving her arms like a maniac, with an airport employee. Obviously trying to convince her that she was supposed to be on this flight, and obviously not doing a good job of it. Jessica found herself worrying more that the woman might get throguh to the employee, when suddenly she felt the jet lurch and begin rolling away.

She sighed, then slumped down in her seat, making sure to fasten her seatbelt. With each second, the jet drew closer to the runway... and closer to freedom. The nervous twisting in her stomach and her pounding heart were fading, and as the jet took off, Jessica even smiled to herself. It had gone so perfectly... and in a few hours she'd be in Madrid! Amazing!

Terry

Business class was everything he feared, and more. The overhead bin was already filled with someone's golf clubs and laptop. The man next to him offered attempts at conversation intermixed with a rolling wet cough. The person behind him was openly ignoring the "Turn Off Cell Phones" light while they carried on incessantly with a series of "Ya don't say.." and "Yer killin' me.."'s that made up her entire end of the conversation. The person ahead of him had already discovered their seat's ability to be laid back as far as possible. And his seatbelt was twisted and preset for some anorexic supermodel wannabe.

Fighting the urge to voice his opinions of his nearest companions, Terry managed to loosen his belt sufficiently to allow him to be seated safely and also breath, spent a moment carefully fixing a stylus in his pack to stick out at a precise angle just before he shoved his carryons under the seat before him. Hopefully his reclining associate before him would decide to swing their heels a bit. He then worked a bit at making himself comfortable, kicking his shoes off, popping his neck, opening his outer shirt to reveal the charming shirt he'd been sent by one of his Japanese admirers - a wild swirl of pale green and burnt umber with stark black letters spelling "Super Sexy Than You" across the chest.

The usual issues were dealt with before the flight could get going - the safety briefing that everyone ignored, the repeated requests for upright seats and disconnected electronics that were likewise essentially ignored, the quick headcount as a flight attendent speed walked the length of the plane, the almost warm welcome from the flight crew. The plane finally pulled away, the motions slow but remarkably smooth, the sensations marred by the shrill whine of the engines. But they were on their way, even if it was just to the waiting line for take-off clearance.

Finally there was the last of the positioning, the faint tremble as the plane readied itself, then the sudden shriek as the engines powered up to max thrust. The plane arrowed down the runway, it's wings trembling as they fought for lift. There was the brief feeling of weightlessness, then the sudden shock as the faint noise from the tires on the pavement died away. The plane had barely gotten it's teeth into the wind it seemed, when it shifted and rolled, finding the proper direction in a stomach wrenching turn that likely seemed perfectly graceful to those watching from outside.

Terry fought the usual minor discomforts as the cabin went through it's pressurization adjustments. He briefly watched the various lights on the status board, then decided that he had better things to keep his attention. Hooking a toe against the strap of one of his bags, he pulled the bag back towards him enough to reach the outer slit pocket. He reached down and caught hold of his quarry, easily removing it before returning the bag to it's place.

With a calm demeanor, he began leafing through the two comics he'd pulled out - Big Team Kabuki 6 and All Purpose Cross Cultural Cat Girl Nuku-Nuku .

Franz had plenty of space to stretch out - First Class really was a different world on these transcontinental flights, he discovered.

No sooner had he stowed his laptop in the ample pocket in front of him than a drink was brought to him and his jacket was hung up for him by the Stewardess. He reclined happily, reflecting that not crippling the human being behind him was the ultimate expression of "Do no harm" made easy for the physician.

The safety briefing was already halfcompleted when the plane finished its rollout and strained for takeoff. He dropped off, the rest of the briefing unheard and barely stirred when the stewardess covered him with a light blanket and turned out his reading light.

Amalia De La Garcia

Amalia raced towards the boarding gate, as the last call for boarding of Flight 381 came across the intercom. She was going to miss her flight, if only she had left the photo shoot earlier. Damn her father, he always found a way to manipulate her time. She had only agreed to model his latest designs this time, because of the desperation she had heard in his voice. As it had turned out he had not needed her as much as he claimed, but as always he insisted on having her as the face of his new line. Though Amalia loved spending time with him, she knew it was just another part of the game both he and her mother played. Ever since they had divorced when she was a girl, she had been swept up in their ongoing battle over who could win more of her loyalty. Truth be told she loved them both equally, and was tired of being torn between them. At 23 years of age she should be able to put their foolishness aside and focus on her own life.

Amalia picked up her pace as she caught sight of the boarding gate .Her long legs carried her swiftly forward as she made her way through the crowds of people. Her lithe frame moved with the elegant grace of a model, her hips swaying with each step. The thick chesnut waves of her hair flowed over her shoulders, her bronze skin glowed from the exertion of her brisk pace. She arrived at the gate, just as the gate attendant was about to close off.

"Un momento, un momento!!" she cried desperately, waving her boarding pass in the air. Stopping just short of the attendant, she thrusted the pass into her hands.

"Por favor es necessario que ... mmm lo siento" Amalia trailed off realizing she had slipped into her mother tongue. Shaking her head as if to clear it of all thoughts, she started again.

"Sorry" she said breathlessly "Please say you haven't closed the flight. It's absolutely necessary that I get on."

Looking at the document in her hand the airline representative smiled.

"Looks like you just barely made it." she frowned " But ... I'm afraid we have a slight problem."

"Que? Que es la problema?" Amalia asked, suddenly distressed, her hazel eyes clouding.

"You're holding a first class ticket Ms. De La Garcia" the gate attendant raised her eyes to Amalia's face apologetically "and unfortunately that cabin is full, we can only accomodated you in economy."

"I'll take it." Amalia said quickly. At this point she could care less about where she sat on the aircraft. As long as she was able to leave today she was happy.

After placing her small carry-on tote in the overhead compartment Amalia took her seat. The attendant had seated her in the first row , a vain attempt at making her comfortable and making up for their overbooking. At least she had the extra leg room. As the aircraft taxied the runway Amalia looked out the window and sighed. It would only be a few short hours, this was a journey she had made a million time before. When her parents split up, her father had moved to the U.S, and Amalia had found herself making this same trip several times a year to see him. That fact that she had not chosen to live with her father had been considered a major victory to her mother. Amalia had nothing against the bright lights and fast pace of America per se, but it had always been the slow sensual pulse of her native Madrid that called to her heart.

Home again, was her only thought as she settled back into her seat, just as the plane began it ascent.

Melissa Ann Wilkins, 22, auburn hair, statuesque, gorgeous, from Pinckneyville, Tenn.

A beauty pageant contestant through most of her childhood (including her first win in the coveted Little Miss Pinckneyville Cornflower Panorama), Melissa Ann Watkins finally hit the big time when she claimed the queen's crown in the American Beauty Pageant. Missy (or Prissy Missy as she was called behind her back), bested the other national contestants with a fair amount of cunning and, frankly, a lot of backstabbing. The snobby Melissa Ann is a raving beauty and she knows it, using her effect on men to get whatever she wants.

Part of the prize package from the American Beauty sponsors was a trip to Spain. Melissa Ann would be making the trip alone since she broke up with her boyfriend last night. He had the nerve to propose marriage to her last night now that she had won pageantry's top prize. She laughed at him. He was still a student, after all, a football jock at that, and his family was rich. So, her loyal and long-suffering boyfriend walked out on her. Melissa Ann could not have cared less.

"Damn, damn, damn," Melissa Ann muttered to herself as she struggled with her carry-on luggage, rushing to the gate to board the plane for her long-awaited trip to Madrid. "This is the last time I intend to carry my own luggage. What's wrong with the men around here anyway. Don't they know who I am?"

Melissa Ann made quite an impression wherever she went. She, quite simply, was a stunning woman. Every strand of her auburn hair was perfectly in place and her make-up was lavishly and expertly applied. Her green eyes sparkled from under her long lashes. Her lips glistened with glossy red lipstick. Years of training on the beauty pageant circuit had prepared her well. She never went anywhere in public without looking her absolute best. You never knew when you would run into a judge.

Melissa Ann's clothing was also pageant perfect, a white, thin jacket over a white camisole and a tight white skirt that was cut fashionably several inches above her knees. White heels completed the look. As Melissa Ann entered the plane, the flight attendant welcomed her and asked if she needed any help.

"Actually, yes, you may help me," Missy said. "These bags are entirely too heavy. You can bring them to my seat and put them in the overhead for me."

Not expecting a passenger to take such advantage over a simple offer of help, the attendant nonetheless pasted on a smile and accommodated the beautiful, but apparently selfish, passenger.

"Why are going so far back," Missy said to the attendant. "Surely you know I only fly first class.

The attendant informed her that first class was full. The only choice Missy had was a seat towards the rear of the plane. Melissa Ann threw a hissy fit.

"This is not what I have come to expect," she said. "The reigning Miss American Beauty does NOT fly economy class. Surely you could free up a seat in first class by moving someone less deserving."

The flight attendant sighed and explained the situation again. The passengers who already had taken their seats took notice of the exchange. They were captivated by Missy's beauty, but stunned at her incredble bad manners and the snobby entitlement she apparently expected. But, without any other options, Melissa Ann reluctantly accepted the seat she was offered, surrounded by passengers she felt were clearly beneath her status.

"This is just not fair," Missy said to the attendant. "Beauty queens just aren't treated this way. I've worked too hard all my life to end up at the back of the bus."

"Just wait until I get back," Missy said. "Your airline president will definitely hear from me."

Elvis Daly

Elvis Daly is a 34-year-old used car salesman for Jack Schmitt Motors whose last three marriages ended badly when his wives caught him in flagrante with various female car buyers. He didn't lose too much sleep about the loss of wife, chalking it up to job the hazards of his job.

Elvis was the top salesman at the Memphis-based dealership, whose slogan was "If you don't buy your next car here, you don't know Jack Schmitt." The flamboyant salesman was successful due to his guile, his beaming smile and slick and slippery style. He sold a lot of cars to people who originally came in just for a test drive. He was particularly effective with women, aiming his pitch at the girlfriends or the wives because he knew they usually made the bottom line decisions on large purchases. Win over the females and a guy would put himself in debt just to own one of the questionable vehicles on Jack Schmitt's lot.

Elvis' beguiling and mesmerizing personality also made him successsful in the Memphis cocktail lounges he usually frequented since his last divorce. He would stop by his favorite watering holes straight from work, striking up conversations with anyone in a skirt on the off-chance they would leave with him. Often they did.

The vacation trip was a gift from Jack Schmitt for Elvis's sales last year. He topped all of the other salesman by a large margin. He chose Madrid for the trip because he always had been smitten with the sultriness of the flamenco, a dance he tried to perfect in the Memphis dance clubs. Truth be told, Elvis was a very good dancer, all the better to make him more attractive to the dance-starved women whose husbands never danced unless it was a slow song.

Elvis was running late to the airport, but he only had a carryon bag anyway, figuring he would buy some sharp clothes in Madrid. Always trying to look good, Elvis was in full meat market mode, black pointy boots, white linen slacks and jacket and a black silk shirt. He had a gold chain that hugged his neck and another that dangled gaudily. A gold bracelet flashed from under the sleeve of his jacket. Elvis's dark hair was combed straight back, then pushed forward into a slick pompadour. Sunglasses completed the 80s disco look.

"Hello, one and all," Elvis chirped as he walked down the aisle of the airliner, looking for his seat. "Isn't it a beautiful day? And to think we're all heading for exciting Madrd."

Elvis received quite a few open-mouthed glances as the supremely confident and friendly used car salesman stepped to the rear of the plane.

"Greetings fellow travellers," Elvis said to one and all as he found his seat in the back. "Elvis has entered the airplane. Looks like they saved the best crowd for the rear of the plane."

Smiling at everyone and even shaking a few hands, Elvis felt like he held a dead fish when he shook hands with a gorgeous woman who looked like a beauty queen.

"Wow!" Elvis said. "If I'm not careful you'll get me all shook up."

Receiving no response, not even a smile, Elvis decided to cool it for awhile. He settled in his seat, buckled his seat belt and jabbered at severl of the people around him.

"Always impatient, Elvis finally announced. "Isn't it time we got this tub in the air. Madrid is waiting."

The Crash​

The plane had been flying steadily and seemingly without problem for many hours. As time zones shifted and the plane ploughed through the atmosphere, time seemed suspended. The passengers of Flight 381 were passing the time in varying ways: sleeping, talking, listening to music, drawing... however they relaxed best.

A light came on as the captain came on the intercom, informing everyone that they were expecting a bit of turbulence ahead, and that everyone should return to their seats.

Suddenly, without warning, the plane dropped over one-hundred feet. A variation in atmospheric pressure or temperature, who could say the reason? Certainly few of the passengers, most of whom were now screaming. The plane had dropped right into the middle of a storm, and the view outside of the windows was now completely black except for the brief flash of lightning every couple seconds.

Oxygen masks dropped from the overhead compartments, and passengers scrambled to get them. Red lights blinking in the cockpit and miscellanious noises only the crew could understand were drowned out by people's voices, shouting to each other, to themselves, to God.

And then, something very strange happened. Time seemed to slow down, and people were pulled into their seats, pulled out of them, pulled in every direction. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly; it was as if the very air was being sucked out of their lungs. Perhaps, if one looked, they would see a glass of water falling out of someones hand, the droplets of water perfectly still...

And then, all the lights went out. Time and space returned to normal; screams were renewed. In the cockpit, the pilots were stunned: Everything had just stopped working. Every single light was out, every beep was silenced. The throttles were loose and pointless. Gently almost, the plane careened downwards.

The crash was different for everyone. Some remembered it vividly, some not at all. Some would swear that the plane sank entirely into the water, completely swallowed in the sea, while others maintained it glanced off a mountain before it crashed into the land.

No matter what each person percieved, the end was the same for most of them. Most of the plane - the fuselage, one wing, the cockpit, first class and a majority of the business class - was at rest in what was unmistakably a jungle. At least a fourth of the passengers were dead, whether in the fuselage or scattered about the jungle. Passengers woke up in different stages, some where completely unharmed, others had branches or metal sticking through their abdomens. Some never lost consciousness, while others would lie prone for hours.

The tail section and the other wing were no where in sight.

The storm they had flown into moments before the crash was completely gone. How this was possible, none of them could yet say. But they could not deny the sunshine and the gentle, almost mocking breeze that wafted in from the beach to where the plane rested. Behind the broken end of the Boeing 767 a trail of fire had been violently scarred into the land, a distance of about 100 feet which started at the beach.

Despite being somewhere in the Atlantic, the island resembled an almost post-card version of what most people envisioned an uninhabited island of the Pacific to be. It was like a tropical rainforest, where bamboo and palm trees were the norm. It was humid and hot, but the mysteries of climate were only the beginning.

Flight 381 had reached its final destination. Welcome to The Island.

Franz stumbled out of the wreckage of First Class, following a few passengers, being followed by others.

He was a trained surgeon and, whilst this was a world away from the top flight operating rooms he normally worked in, his analytical mind was beginning to recover from the shock.

Stumbling out into the undergrowth he turned to the stewardess and shook her.

"I'll have my triage here. Start bringing the wounded here - and the able bodied I'm going to need some help. I need medical supplies. I need boiling water. I need some instruments. I want a covered shelter to use as an aid station. And hurry - people are dying right now while we're talking."

Messalina Bishop

As a vague awareness of her surroundings eddied hazily to the surface of her re-awakening consciousness, Messalina's eyelids fluttered open, though she remained perfectly still waiting for the rest of her senses to catch up with the distorted fun house mirror imagery of her brain.

Voices. Retching. Screams. Pleas for help. Panic.

Pandemonium.

Convulsive jolts. Vibrations that jerked and jarred like someone in the throes of St. Vitas Dance that ended in a macabre pirouette that left her dangling precariously. A breathlessly pitched battle for... release? Plummeting into piceous darkness.

Shrill, piercing inhuman screeches followed by...

Light. Bright and glaring. Like fire without heat. Blinding.

The feel of something familiar. Clutching. Racing in a headlong flight with madness nipping at her heels.

Even now she could taste the fear, both acrid and sweetly pungent in the back of her throat. Stinging her eyes. Burning her nose. Astringent, like the smell of burning tires and electrical wires.

Looking skyward, she recoiled, crying out sharply when a droplet of water slid down from a deep green... leaf? and splattered against her forehead with the all the force of an explosion that spurred Messalina into action. She struggled to move though every effort ignited searing pain.

Scrambling to her feet she began to run, heedless of the light rain or the cold that seemed to permeate her very soul. Away from the trees.

"Fire!!!!" Was that her?

Messalina plunged toward the conflagration despite every instinct that told her it was wrong. She had to find... the eyes! Those eyes. Anomalous. A paradox in an incongruous face that somehow bespoke of strength and... invulnerability.

Oblivious to her surroundings, she urged herself mindlessly onward, stopping only when her momentum was halted by a huge boulder.

"Fire!" she rasped.

"Help!" she whispered.

"We crashed," she mouthed as the abstract pieces fell together to form a fragile yet somehow tangible whole.

The plane had crashed.

"Pfft!"

Messalina blinked. And blinked again. The eyes! As he staggered to his feet to face her, she instinctively knew she was safe.

The Stewardess​

The stewardess, a once-bespectacled woman in her early thirties, jumped with fright as Franz shook her and began informing her of what to do and how to help him. Medical supplies? Covered shelter? For a moment the woman stared at him vaguely (either because of her shock or because she could hardly see a thing), and then collapsed abruptly into a dead faint.

So much for that.

Scott Ceridwen​

Vague, dully-colored images wandered across Scott's conscience... Bursts of light and muted sound danced beneath his eyelids, enticing him and denying him, before his eyes opened slowly, as if stuck together.

He was staring at the sky, and for a moment his slowly-turning brain could only wonder why he was so damn uncomfortable... Stirring, he attempted to roll over, and almost fell out of a tree!

Fully waking up instantly, he flailed for a moment in utter confusion and panic, as a sound that was something between a scream and a wail tore from his throat. His grasping hands found a branch, and he stabilized himself, breathing heavily, his heart pounding fit to burst.

Not daring to move, he uttered a cry for help, only to hear for the first time the screaming and crackling of fire that his shock-numbed brain had previously hidden from him. What the hell had happened?

Taking a better look around at the tree he found himself in, he decided he could climb down himself. After a minute or so he was standing down at the bottom, and as he attempted to calm himself, he gazed around at the wreckage of Flight 381. It didn't help his nerves much.

Bodies - live or dead - were strewn around the smouldering area of the forest. People were either screaming or in shock; one man, he noticed, was clutching the bleeding stumps of what was once three fingers on his left hand. Scott felt nauseauted, but restrained his urge to vomit.

He quickly checked his own body for wounds, but could find nothing more than cuts and bruises. He had fallen out of a crashing plane, landed in a tree, and had not broken a single bone? Gazing around, the thought occurred to them that they should have all died, and yet many people were like him, similarly unscathed... How could it be possible?

Gazing to his right, he saw what he recognized as the flight attendant faint upon a man who looked decided German.

Terry McGinnis

He'd been dozing in his seat when the announcement had been made. He'd been tempted to pay it no mind, but a flight attendant had been making her way up the aisle, her eyes sweeping back and forth, occasionally stopping to touch someone's shoulder, and ask them to buckle up. So he'd complied.

Barely had he re-affixed his seat belt when the plane suddenly pulled off one of those spectacular maneuvers meant for airshows or emergency simulators. His stomach launched itself upwards as the plane pulled his body downwards. Vertigo and nausea fought for dominance, but the battle was forcibly sidelined as he realized the true problem, and he engaged in the greater battle - keeping his wits.

For a brief moment, he was completely positive he had lost the battle. Everything snapped into a vision straight from one of his comic, complete with what seemed to be borders and panels. He saw an image of his neighbor's hands, white knuckled, digging into the armrest. A petite travel bottle of vodka hung for a moment, perfectly framed in mid-air. A baggage compartment snapped open, it's contents held by an unseen force before they sprung free, missing only the speed lines indicating their motions. A child's toy scooted down the aisle, button eyes staring balefully at him.

Even the sounds seemed to stutter, brief silences punctuating those images in his mind, then the roar of the engines, the screams of the passengers, the now ignored movie soundtrack running neatly through headphones, all of it returning in a blast of audio presence. For a moment, he even thought he heard someone, a movie star of some sort, one of those recognizable voices that you had to pause in order to assign a name to, shouting something about something on the wing. (Shatner? Lithgow? Who was that actor???)

Then there was the actual hit. The flight deck crew had failed. The universe had won, and the plane impacted on.. something. He remembered that he seemed to feel multiple impacts, below, to the side, behind.. the entire plane was struck and shaken. Multiple lungs released held breaths in a mass "OOooofffff!", and multiple heads struck the seats before them with varying nasty hollow plastic sounds.

Then darkness..

He fought his way back to consciousness with a growl, surprised to find the tang of salt. Not just the salt in his eyes (from the sweat of his fear..), not just the salt in his mouth (part of that charming coppery taste from where he'd bitten something that he shouldn't have..), but salt in his nose.

Salt air. Why was there salt air? The cabin shouldn't have that type of aroma therapy system, no matter how calming it might be.

Then he heard the voices. Cries of pain. Cries of panic. Cries of fear. Cries of grief. Cries of gulls.

Terry looked around, noting a brief pain as his head turned to far on a stressed neck. Reflexively, he rolled his head back and forth, and something popped, the brief pain forcing him back to full reality.

With no better idea in his mind, Terry unsnapped his belt, retrieved his bags, and left the plane, almost ignoring his seatmate with the peaceful look on his gray, doughy face.

Clearing the wreckage, he stumbled across the beach, marvelling at the sensation of his shoes sinking into the sand.

"What now?" The words came to his lips, but an answer didn't immediately come to mind. Nor did anyone seem to have a reply. He spent a long moment trying to remember where all the emergency supplies might be kept, but gave up on it. Lacking a better idea, he moved along the trail of debris, gathering items that had been strewed about, some from the cabin, some from the cargo bay, carefully arranging things in a group of piles, trying to find his own checked belongings as he did.

Jessica

Jessica gasped for breath, then doubled forward and fell into a tremendous fit of coughing. Seawater spewed from her mouth as she continued to hack and cough, her eyes screwed shut in pain at the wracking sensation in her chest. When she was out of breath and gasped in a new one, the feeling only redoubled the urge to cough. It seemed to go on forever, and when the urge finally passed, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or not.

For now that she could breathe again... what she saw as she looked around was something she'd wished she hadn't.

Bodies were everywhere. Strewn across the beach, floating in the water, even hanging from trees. For a moment, she felt as if she was standing on the beach of Hell itself, and when she realized that many of those bodies were still alive, writhing, she suddenly became convinced that she was indeed in Hell. The urge to scream rose for a moment in her mind and then, just as suddenly, it vanished. A strange calm settled over Jessica. Intellectually, she knew what had happened. The plane had crashed, struck down by some storm or something (the fact that the skies above were crystal blue bothered her, but she wasn't yet sure why). A lot of people were dead, or dying, but she seemed almost to be untouched. Soaking wet, sure; she was standing up to her knees in a sloshing tidepool, strips of seaweed hanging from her shoulders and hair, but she was unhurt.

Jessica waded up onto the beach, pulling away the seaweed as she approached the closest clot of mobile people. A flight attendant had just fainted against a man, and someone else had just managed to clamber down from a tree. People were screaming, the surf was pounding, and Jessica knew no one would hear her but she couldn't help but ask.

"What happened? Where are we?"

Suddenly, the weight of the crash seemed to bear down on her. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled down onto the sand in a half-sit, half-sprawl.

Amalia

A terrible tremor ran through the craft, waking Amalia from her light slumber. Looking around she saw the distressed faces of her fellow passengers. She tried her best not to panic and quickly tried to fasten her seat belt. Its just a bit of turbulence, she assured herself inwardly, there's nothing to worry about. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, the aircraft suddenly lurched forward and seemed to plummet from the skies.

"Dios mio!!!" she cried, her voice thin as the air was sucked from her lungs.

Frantically Amalia clutched at her chest, closing her eyes as her fingers closed around the small gold crucifix that dangled just above her bust. Mentally she recited the Lord's Prayer, hoping he would hear her pleas for safety. The metallic body of the craft groaned as it convulsed then jerked suddenly to the right, sending Amalia's body flying forward. As her head struck against the wall of the cabin, Amalia winced before succumbing to the cold embrace of the darkness.

Death was near, she felt it hovering in the shadows, drawing closer to her. Could this be it, she wondered, could this be her end?

NO!!, she raged inwardly, twisting herself away from the gnarled grasp of death's hand, Not today, not ME!!!

The silence of her mind was penetrated by agonizing screams, and Amalia's eyes flew open, the distinct tang of sea air filling her senses. I'm not dead she thought to herself, vaguely aware of the light trickle of warmth flowing down her face. Her head swam with dizziness as she tried to sit up. Then she realized something was holding her down, focusing her eyes she saw that she was pinned beneath a row of seats. Gathering her strength Amalia pushed hard against it, then screamed as a flash of burning pain tore up her left thigh. Giving up, she collapsed backward, sobbing softly.

"Help! Please ... someone ... someone help me!" she cried her voice trembling weakly "Please..."

Elvis Daly knew a lot about cars but had only limited experience flying. However, even he knew the jetliner was in trouble as it barrelled headlong into the blue ocean below. The usually talkative used car dealer was stunned into silence as his life passed before his eyes, particularly the good times he had with his last three wives.

Elvis went into shock at the realization that his number appeared to be up. He had sold a lot of used cars in his life and now, just as he was to enjoy the fruits of his labors with a vacation in Madris, the plane he boarded turned out to be a lemon. He didn't see ay way to avoid the impending doom. He certainly couldn't talk his way out of the situation, and talk, especially the silver-tongued oratory he used to sell cars at Jack Schmitt Motors, was his best asset.

Stunned and almost catatonic, Elvis started to tear up. His eyes were glazed over as he stared dully ahead, barely aware of the screams, the prayers and sobbing all around him. He was unaffected by the pandemonium inside the plane, oblivious to the panic and fear, locked in his own thoughts and his imminent demise.

A piercing scream to his right brought Elvis back to reality. The beauty queen who was his seatmate was petrified, her eyes wide in fear, occasional screams punctuated by a sorrowful wail. She grabbed at Elvis as the plane continued to plummet.

A massive crunching sound was followed by chunks of metal and other pieces of debris flying through a large gap in the roof of the plane. The jet was breaking up. Suddenly, the entire tail section creaked and groaned and then separated from the plane. Those near the break were sucked into the void. The bedlam inside what was left of the plane suddenly turned to complete silence as the passengers were enveloped by the sea.

Elvis reached for his seat belt and freed himself, as well freeing the belt of his seat companion. He floated into the deep blue water as the tail section hovered briefly near the surface but then quickly started to sink, carrying, he thought, many passengers who were still belted into their seats. He had reached for the woman in white and pulled her from her seat, but she struggled and fought him off. He eventually released her quickly made his way to the surface to get some sorely needed air in his lungs.

When he broke the surface, Elvis was astonished to see no signs of the large jetliner anywhere. It was as if it never even existed. The water was littered with flotsam and jetsam from the plane, and Elvis swam to a large flat crate that floated nearby. Strangely, he saw no other signs of life, or for that matter, no signs of death. There were no bodies, dead or alive, in the water. He was alone in the middle of the sea, hanging tenuously to a wooden crate that was stencilled Dolce & Gabanna.

Elvis heard a splash behind him and saw his seatmate pop out of the water, gasping for air. But she quickly sank below the surface again. He swam to her and pulled her up, finally bringing her head above water. She appeared to be unconscious.

Now that Elvis had time to think for just a moment, his first though was "Now what the hell do I do?"