Day One

Raya’s eyes slowly came open with the sensation of sand scratching her retinas and throat. Parts of her felt like they were on fire, where others were simply numb and she had to cough but found it hard to draw in air. An unpleasant feeling sat in the muscles of her entire body and at first the world she saw with tearing eyes didn’t make sense. Grass was growing from the sky and everything was tainted an unnatural shade of green or blue, or maybe grey.

Her heart thumped harder, trying to provide enough oxygen for explanations. Soon everything received a very simple answer. She was lying on her back with her limbs twisted in all sorts of awkward positions and her bag had somehow ended up pressing down on her chest. Picking herself up slowly, the woman could feel there had been something digging into her back. Sand and sticks rained down her shoulders as her head assumed the position nature had intended. Feeling too dizzy to walk just yet, she tried to remember the events of the recent past.

And came up blank. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. In fact, she should have been in class right now… And it should be about four in the afternoon…. shouldn’t it? Class… maths… the dreaded test….

Then what was this? Raya cautiously turned her stiff head to inspect the surroundings. Barren land all around, the gloom of dusk or dawn barely outlining some trees in the distance. No roads around, no electricity poles, no light pollution from a nearby city.

Did someone assault me and leave me for dead? Fear crept into her heart as she gingerly looked down at her clothes for signs of a struggle. Nothing. Then what the heck was she doing in the middle of this wasteland…?

Confused and trying to keep the fear at bay, Raya turned around to see what had caused the stabbing in her back. And she froze.

It was a hand. A human hand….

Nausea and panic were quick to flood her system and she staggered backwards, only to bump into… another body.

“Oh God….” She whispered breathlessly, realising there were a few others scattered around. All completely motionless. “No…no, that can’t be. It can’t be--!” She chocked and desperately started shaking the person nearest to her.

Please be alive!

Mervyn started as someone shook him awake, bolting up into a sitting position and glancing around blearily as the world spun around him uncontrollably. He swayed back and forth planting both hands behind him to steady himself as the world slowly began to settle around him. "I'm up!" His breathing rapid, from being startled awake, Mervyn focused his eyes reluctantly and saw a young woman's face centimeters from his own and he blinked in surprise, unable to do much more than stare in shock as his world wasn't quite stable yet. "Or am I?"

Realizing his rudeness, Mervyn jerked his head away from the woman blushing and sending his glasses tumbling from his face. Great job Merv you wake next to a woman and the first thing you do is stare like a dumb lamb, that's sure to score some points. And stop acting like bimbo! You're just making things worse! You try waking up to a stranger shaking you! I'm not even in bed, and my clothes are all on so we didn't do anything together.. bummer. He caught his glasses with a practiced hand, and slid them back on before checking the rest of himself.

He felt... mostly numb, but a little sore too. He was breathing slow deep breaths now and checking his pockets and searching the bag that had lain next him... nothing was missing. He looked around seeing the unfamiliar sights around him, and the others, and turned back to the woman who'd woken him. What the dickens? Was this some kind of party or what and how did I get invited if it was?

"Where am I? Who are you? What happened to me, er us?"

When she was five, Renata demanded to be addressed as "Your Royal Highness". She had read The Princess and the Pea and identified so strongly with its main character that she began acting like a royal; her parents complied with her finicky commands, assuming that her overactive child mind had just conjured another fleeting fancy. Two weeks later, they called her by her first name again, and she complained so much that they were forced to buy her an entirely new bedroom set, complete with an ultra-soft mattress and satin sheets, before she was appeased. Ever since, even the slightest lump in her bed, whether it be a small movement of the springs or a predestined pea, displeased her fine senses so much she couldn't sleep and had to call whichever local authorities were responsible for what she termed "emotional trauma".

Renata couldn't sleep.

She woke up with her muscles tense and slender tanned hands twitching, half-curled into a fist. "Cabron!" There was no pea in her mattress. In fact, there was no mattress at all.

She had been in New York, or Los Angeles, or some other smog-filled American city, marching through the streets (no doubt to attend a high-society function), and then a second had passed and she was unconscious and then she was here. Nowhere. Other than some life-weary trees, she had woken up to a flat plane of withered grass and an oddly clear sky.

And bodies. Not bodies in the sense she typically saw them; these people were clothed, not particularly attractive, certainly nowhere near famous, and unconscious.

Mouth pulled in a taut line, Renata stood up unsteadily, wiping off the dirt on her jeans and frowning at the streaks of brown and green on her bleached white blazer. Two others had woken up already. They looked like the type of people she would sneer at on the street - poor unfortunate souls. Renata withheld a low wail of desperation.

"You don't know where we are," she repeated, looking down at the most unfortunate looking of the lot (and certainly of the conscious lot). "This must be a sick joke!" Renata exclaimed, clasping the purse she only just realized was still wrapped about her shoulder. Who hated her enough to leave her stranded with these losers?

Nobody, she realized with a growing sense of dread.

She was perfect.

She kept having horrific nightmares of being an art teacher, forced to watch dozens of children ignore shading or any sort of color theory. What was worse would be the constant requirement of pretending that they were doing fabulously. As if their atrocious little drawings were worthy of being compared to the likes of Klimt or Vermeer. No one appreciated you until you were dead, and unfortunately, Matilde was still expected to live on for a few more decades. Therefore, as an artist, her only choice was to either face the former, or become the sellout that she was already morphing into. It would have been incredibly lovely to survive as some sort of anarchist, living in the outskirts and painting whatever pleased her. But she was too comfortable with a life indoors, and had settled into the routine of eyeing bridges and tall buildings with a certain lust.

This time, her heavily tattooed arms were covered in various shades of pink and gold. She'd been commissioned to paint the anniversary gift for an unfulfilled housewife, its subject too childish to ever garner approval above the age of ten. The husband, however, had been overjoyed and paid generously. Matilde still struggled to be discovered by galleries, and though she had attained enough income to support herself, the woman detested having clients to appease. They were uncultured, and most likely the type of people who thought that Banksy was an underground artist.

"C'est quoi ce bordel?," she almost yelled, finally noticing the rest of the group. She'd woken up with the worst back pain, and the reality of sand in her underwear finally settled in. Matilde lived nowhere near the beach. The others were unruly looking and worse off than she. Grass and dirt had been caked into their clothing while sand seemed to be the only offending medium on her. One character stood out somehow familiarly, and Matilde could remember the Spanish model from several magazines.

Matilde wasn't sure whether to run off or not, and could feel her legs twitch in anticipation. She'd seen enough movies to know about what trafficking was, and looked around for any other suspicious characters. Bags filled, those that surrounded her seemed almost ready for the trip. Clearly, the young woman was on her own as she searched her own pockets. There was almost nothing to her name apart from a few coins, and Matilde wasn't even sure if she was still in France.

*Posting Note: Due to facilitate easy writing Kjartan's thoughts will be in plain English, his speech accented"

Kjartan Reinhølt

Blue eyes blinked groggily at the sky, and then squinted fiercely at the sunlight that danced across the scarred face. Kjartan was intensely aware of how much his head hurt and threw a muscled arm across his eyes to block out the sun all the while muttering under his breath. It took him a moment, perhaps it was the hang over, he wasn't sure, but he was suddenly aware of the smell of crushed earth and grass, and the unmistakable sensation of damp turf beneath his bare back and shoulders.

An idle thought flashed through his head as he lifted it slightly so that he could see through a narrow slit between his arm and his cheek, the lads would never let him live this down if he'd passed out on the rugby pitch. He was flat on his back, right knee in the air, kilt falling around his waist and he supposed it was a good thing he was wearing rugby shorts underneath or he'd be showing the world "the goods".

Through the gap he could now see a pair of tight blue jeans and black boots. Whoever this person was happened to be facing away from him and he smiled slightly at the curve of her backside as it strained against the jeans. He'd certainly woken up with less attractive women and not been able to remember the night, his initial concern was if he'd used protection or not, I he already had a half dozen illegitimate children running around the Commonwealth nations.

The thought was abruptly cut off as the person of his attention began to talk to someone else nearby and he raised his head some more to see a pathetic looking little fellow on the grass. His gaze shifted to the right and he saw more people. Now he was confused. He laid his head back down on the grass with a slight groan, maybe if he went back to sleep they would all be gone by the time he woke up and he wouldn't have to speak with any of them. That would probably be best. Yes, he'd do that.

His eyes flew open quite suddenly. He'd been at a fund raiser, now he remembered, and it hadn't been just ANY field he'd been on. It was a Team Scotland fund raiser and the team had been at Balmoral Castle to meet the Queen. He'd been one of the first selected to meet her because of his military service. Now he was worried he had passed out on the grounds of the castle. He sat up abruptly, his head spinning so hard he almost vomited. For a horrifying moment he thought he would but it passed swiftly and he staggered to his feet, eyes racing around as he turned quickly about him. No castle. No guards. In fact, beyond the people lying about in the grass with him, there was no one he knew at all.

"Thank ze gods..." He muttered out loud and allowed himself to sink into a crouch, head in his hands.

@RisenDead
Justin Beiber, the one whose backside the man had been admiring, turned around with a shining smile.

"You're welcome."

@Doc Doctor I feel you, Doc, but you gotta learn how to spell your own character's name right. (Maybe hijack some other RPs while you're at it, eh? Maybe less serious ones with players who'll actually appreciate it?)

Fearghas's face itched. A haze filled his thoughts, a darkness his eyes, and grit his mouth. He attempted to spit and eject the offending material from his tongue but his body would not respond. Neither could he raise a hand to relieve the itch on his face which he had determined to be grass. His mind registered no threat or unusual situation despite his apparent paralysis, focused instead entirely on the fact that there were unwanted plants and minerals invading his face.

A burning began to form in Fearghas's body, somewhere below his head. Each second made the pain increase in intensity and size, spreading up and down his form. Noise broke his reverie and his lungs opened along with his mouth, air rushing in to resucitate him before lack of oxygen knocked him unconscious. Quick, soft gasps escaped his lips, accompanied by a shuddering all across his body. The presence that had been clouding his mind cleared, leaving Fearghas in a lucid state.

He screamed, a deep-throated yell of primal fear, hands scrabbling around him as he rolled. In panic for a couple of seconds, his mind slowly came to the realization that he was not about to die. He wasn't falling. But the last memory he had was that of hanging of a cliff face. What the hell is going on?

Lifting his pained head to glance around him, Fearghas saw that he was in a prairie with several other people, seeming to be in a similar state of confusion. Scrabbling backwards, he trampled a hard object, turning to see that it was his backpack. Eyes crinkled as he tried to affirm that assumption. Slowly opening the bag, he found that a good number of the items inside were damaged in some way, mostly the food-stuffs. Yes, this was his. Returning his attention to the others, he waited, uncertain as to what to do.

Raphael seldom had trouble falling to sleep but this night was different. He assumed it was because of the excitement he would experience the next day. Everything was in place; his mother had prepared her meals, his coworkers would have the office space decorated for the occasion and even his young daughter had been given the task of screaming “CONGRATULATIONS” when he returned home. So why was he having so much trouble sleeping? One could guess that blame belonged to his meticulous nature, but he had gone over all the details time and again and everything was in place. Coming to this conclusion he attempted to rest once again, the fatigue making his eyes heavy, the excitement making his mind spin.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but he soon found himself staring blankly at the wall, the sound of his television barely audible and his sleep ever elusive. Shaking himself, he stood from his bed and glanced around his room. A stiff stretch and dragging steps brought him to his desk where a bit of his reading material sat. He took the seat in his chair and double checked the contents of his bag for the next day. He knew it was all present, he had checked twice before, but decided to look again.

Raphael couldn’t tell you when it happened, hell he wasn’t entirely sure he had ever gone to sleep, but it seemed like a split second later he was prone on his back and his eyes closed. As consciousness crept back into him a slight smile emerged onto his face. This is it. This is the day that he had planned so long and hard for. Slowly he opened his eyes and instantly knew something had gone wrong. The picture in front of him was an unfamiliar scene.

Instantly panic gripped him and he felt his pulse quicken, his breaths shallow and worried.

“Relax”, he thought to himself, unsure of what his next move should be. He began to focus on breathing, separating his lips slightly and sending his exhaling breaths through and inhaling through his nostrils. His thoughts turned to his daughter and instinctively his right hand reached for the shining silver necklace locket.

“Everything will be fine.”

Raphael sat up, dizziness threatening nausea. “Oh, what happened,” he spoke out loud in a dry rasp. When he looked up, he noticed something that almost set him off again. He wasn’t alone. No there were others and they all looked as if they were having similar experiences of confusion.

“Seven. There are seven including yourself. he thought as he scanned all the strangers. “Who are they, I wonder? Why are we all here?

He eyed them all with a sharp eye as he noticed his bag lying next to him and pulled it closer. He wasn’t sure what to do next but think logically and so he stood and uneasily addressed the others.

“Hey, I’m Ralph. I don’t recognize any of you, except her.” He said quietly as he pointed to the Spanish looking lady. He knew he had seen her face in various places when spending time with his girlfriend and daughter. Maybe a magazine or runway show? “So, I’m very confused as to why I am here. Does anyone want to answer that?”

At first there was relief. Relief that the person she was shaking was in fact alive and breathing. Then there was surprise as more and more people shifted and awoke and none of them seemed to be Bulgarian. Then again, hadn’t she herself just spoken English? Why?

Confused and dizzy, Raya stared at the boy in front of her, taking in his red hair, his accent and his flaming hair. He was asking questions she couldn’t answer. She hated not having answers so she really did struggle trying to get some, but none came. She couldn’t even remember how she got here, let alone where this “here” is.

Then another woman interjected and said it’s ridiculous she didn’t have answers. Raya felt inclined to believe but the woman’s tone and her ridiculously polished appearance made her brow twitched.

“Do you know where we are?” Looking at her, Raya assumed if this is a kidnapping attempt this woman would have been the target to begin with. The pretty woman just humped at her and started browsing in her handbag. Raya got up and reached out for the Irish-looking boy in front of her to help him up. As people awoke they were asking questions or muttering to themselves, and all were different but all seeming equally confused.

A black boy was the first to introduce himself and note that he didn’t recognise anyone but the pretty woman. Raya didn’t recognise her but as everyone started introducing themselves she realised she’d heard the name. The woman was famous for… whatever. And of course, she had an iPhone. And of course, that was out of coverage.

“So… where are you all from?” Raya asked, trying to figure out the task at hand. The answers painted a very confusing picture. Two Americans, two people from the British Isles, one girl from France, one from Spain and herself. What the hell? And apparently they all seemed to last remember being in their home-towns, nowhere close to each other.

Renata snapped her out of her thoughts with a loud announcement that this is all utterly crazy and that she’s “going”. She took off towards the woods with the other girl falling in toe silently. Raya threw them a worried glance, hoping they would be alright but was too shy to try and stop them. She looked over the rest of them, all guys. Her mouth felt dry.

“Well… There’s probably no use sitting around….” unless this is a mine-field she thought and shuddered. “…. So should we split up and explore the vicinity?” She suggested helplessly. There was no light-pollution around, no road, nothing. She spotted a tall tree a few hundred meters to the right and thought it might be a good idea to use it to get a better vantage point. “I’ll try to climb that and look around.” She suggested, throwing everyone a nervous glance. She wasn’t especially trusting so being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers was more than unnerving but she was doing a good job at keeping the panic at bay so far. She just hoped it lasted.

Having recovered from his shock at not dying from a fall upon checking his bag, confirming that this was in fact the real world - unless heaven was strangely normal - he took time to actually examine the gathering of people around him. Most of them seemed not-American simply by the way they talked, held their posture, and felt. Fearghas had always considered himself adept at being able to sense the dispositions of others. A warmth and then pang of uncertainty spread through him as he remembered thinking he was psychic earlier in life. Where was home?

When he was asked where he came from, he swallowed a shudder. "America. Why are we here?" The answers from the others showed to him that whatever was happening, strange as it was, was not limited to simply one area. It made the possibility of a mass kidnapping for some unknown reason that much less likely. And villain logic dictated that any captives would be secured, unless of course they were being tested. Tests were never good, academic or otherwise. He enjoyed trials much more.

Two people took off, apparently estranged as to the whole situation. Safety in numbers, however, appeared much more preferable than to the chance of being caught out alone. Raya's next question further reinforced Fearghas's belief that he was psychic because otherwise how would he have answered the question without it being proposed?

"Uhm, I don't think splitting up is the best idea. I don't know any of you, and I don't know why we're here, but there is safety in numbers as the phrase goes. Maybe." Quieting down, he looked over at the tree which Raya had indicated. Checking back inside his bag, he saw that the rope had snapped , though where in the coil he couldn't tell due to all the other clutter. "If we're going somewhere, it should probably be together."

Mervyn's mind raced along barely digesting the full implications of the last thought before moving on to the next and trying to maintain some small scrap of sanity... No knows anything about why or where we are, and none of this looks particularly familiar, I don't see even a hint of civilization anywhere. No planes in the sky, no signal on my phone, and it'll probably be awhile before I get back to an outlet, so it might be a good idea, to keep the laptop off for a while... Are we alone? Why are we here? Is this some sort of survival reality show? The weather seems nice, I wonder if we'll get to see any natives tonight. Are there natives to be seen? Are we stranded on some deserted, god forsaken isle? Think! what's the first thing people always do on these shows... build shelters and find water right? But what if we run into natives, what will we tell them? how will we keep them from taking everything we have? Will they even understand us? If only I knew where we are I might be able to help with that... but no one knows where we are, or why we're here, unless someone is lying... but who? who would gain something by bringing any of us here? What if this isn't a survival show, what if we've all been trafficked? Are we really alone, are we being watched?

If Mervyn wasn't accustomed to such paranoia he might be in a full blown panic by now, but oddly enough he was simply numb, considering their plight in a surprisingly clinical and detached manner. He mindlessly responded to the questions asked of him, though neither they nor their answers helped him understand what was going on. He shook his head as a look of horror spread across his face at the suggestion to split up and scout the area, none of us even knew what to look for. Thankfully someone else got their mouth working and said as much in tone that wasn't full of panic. Calming down a bit, Mervyn spoke up again. Trying to maintain a level voice. "Splitting up will only get us all used and killed by the first band of brigands, or tribals, or whatever it is we're facing out here. Plus we may be the only ones who can understand each other, so let's stick together so we can try to brainstorm how to communicate if they don't understand our English. Also, we're less likely to get bullied as a group."