Title: Lost Girl
Rating: PG13 or T, I suppose
Warnings: Violence, "Minor coarse language," nothing too terrible...
Summary:OC – What would have happened if things had turned out differently? Could someone change the entire fate of the island and unlock the secrets of the Others? Set in the mid-1st season. Before Deaux Ex Machina.(I know, old)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story(except for the OC). They were created and are owned by JJ Abrams, ABC, and Touchstone Television.
Sidra Willow Carpenter sat on the warm, sandy beach, letting her curly chestnut brown hair wave around in the wind. The day was warm, and her hazel eyes picked up every color in the jungle and the water. Most people would think this an ideal vacation spot. The only drawbacks were that there were man-eating monsters, a psychopathic murderer, and no way off this God-forsaken spit of land the others had the nerve to call an island.
Sidra and the others had been stranded on this island almost a month ago, and they all knew no one was coming to get them. Of course, that was perfectly fine with Sidra. No leaving meant no more prissy foster parents to put up with. No more dealing with stuck-up social workers who "only wanted the best for her."
Sidra had been in foster homes ever since her adoptive parents had been caught selling drugs when she was nine. She'd given eight families a whirl in the last six years, and she wasn't anxious to test drive another one. She disappointed all of them, and they all shunned her.
With each new family, she'd given herself a new name, mostly to disassociate herself with the old family. Amara, Brenda, Brit, Gypsy, Kelsey, Leigh, Miriam, Martina, and Zillah. She'd chosen them all because of their deep, depressing meanings. After all these years, she could still remember every one of them, and the meanings that went with them.
Amara: Unfading
Brenda: Flame
Brit: Strong
Gypsy: Wanderer
Kelsey: Warrior
Leigh: Weary
Miriam: Rebellious
Martina: Warlike
Zillah: Shadow
Most of the them were things she was or wanted to be.
"Hey, could you give me some help here?" a voice behind her asked. Why did they have to ask her? Why couldn't they ask some other, tired survivor that didn't have anything better to do? She'd been able to avoid the attention of everyone on the island for at least five weeks. Why couldn't it have stayed that way?
"Hello?" the voice prodded. Well, ignoring them didn't work. What the hell. She'd help them out. If she didn't, heads would start turning and mouths would start flapping.
Sidra turned around, getting up and brushing off the back of her jeans. The man who'd disturbed her was standing there with a huge piece of wreckage from the plane. Damn, she thought to herself. He was hot. He had perfectly ruffled brown hair and intense eyes. His body wasn't all that bad either. But he had to be at least ten years older than her, and she didn't do older men...usually.
"I'm Boone," the man said. Sidra flicked her eyes over his smoking hot bod but didn't answer. If she talked, she'd flirt. And then, she'd be getting...too close. The last thing she wanted to do around here was make "new friends."
Sidra helped Boone carry the metal to a place on the beach just a few yards away. There were already plane seats and bamboo sticks piled high in clumps that an older black man was weaving his way through. Behind him was a boy, obviously his son, who had to be about ten years old. Ugh, way too young. She was five years older than him, after all.
"Well, hello, curly. Don't believe we've met," a southern man with very sexy blond hair and a chiseled physique – which he was clearly proud of considering his lack of shirt – said, leaning against a tree. Sidra rolled her eyes. Another new friend. And what was with that nickname, anyway?
"The name's Deirdre, by the way," she said coldly. True, Deirdre wasn't her real name, but she liked it. It meant "sorrow," after all. Besides, who cared if they knew her real name or not? This guy sure didn't.
"Good to know, Curly," the man said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Oh, Sidra thought, what I wouldn't do for a good smoke.
"And what's your name?" the newly-named Deirdre asked. If she could warm up to him just enough, she could probably get a light out of him. And maybe another one of those airplane bottles he was holding in his hand.
"Sawyer, Sassy," he said, throwing her a cocky grin that she'd seen only too many times before during her stay in Texas with the Buddhist family.
"Well, nice to meet you, Sawyer Sassy," she said, playing on his words. He chuckled and puffed smoke out of his mouth.
"Nice one, Curly. But the name's just Sawyer," he said. Deirdre threw him a sarcastic glance as if to say "I know, moron." Yes, they were getting along just fine. Just fine indeed.
"Where're you from?" Sawyer asked. Good, he was warming up to her. Or, at least, as warm as his type could get. And she knew his type. The kind that found pretty ladies and charmed them into a good romp, then leave them to wake up in the morning alone and without a phone number. And possibly with some money mysteriously missing. Yeah, he was a User.
"All over...literally," she said, playing his game. All over...
An eight-year-old Sidra walked through the halls of her parents' Victorian house. Paul and Diane Carpenter were supposed to be upstairs right now, tucking her into bed. But they were nowhere to be seen. Where were they? Sidra peeked through door after door, but she couldn't find her parents anywhere.
"Mommy? Daddy?" Sidra called as she wandered in the dark. Normally, she didn't like to walk around at night. The shadows and noises scared her. But she needed to find her parents. Were they playing hide-and-seek with her? Sidra continued to call for her parents as she neared the back of her house.
"Maybe I can help you find them," someone said from behind her. Sidra turned around and screamed as she was carried into the house's panic room. The man dropped her on the floor once the door was closed, and she saw her parents huddled in the corner.
"Mommy! Daddy!" Sidra cried, crawling over to them. She was still scared, but she felt better knowing that her parents were there. Her daddy would definitely protect her now. Sidra's mommy cried and hugged her daughter to her chest. There were other men in the room dressed in all black. They had big guns in their hands and looked mad. This wasn't hide-and-seek.
Before Sidra could say or do anything, the first man pulled her mommy up and had his gun pointed at her. Sidra cried and reached out to her mommy, but her daddy pulled her back. He looked scared, too.
"You can't cross us, Paul. Now this is what happens," the man said, almost sadly. He brought his gun up and shot Sidra's mommy twice in the chest. Sidra screamed and tried to run to her mommy, but her daddy held her back. Her mommy's shirt turned red, and her eyes just kept staring at the ceiling. That wasn't how her mommy slept.
Sidra crawled closer to her daddy for security, but the man grabbed her arm and pulled her up to him. She screamed and quivered with fear, looking at what he'd done to her mommy. Would the same thing happen to her?
"Daddy! Daddy, help!" she screamed, trying to wriggle away, but the man was too strong. He kept her stuck by his side with the gun pointed at her head. "Don't fight him, Sidra," her daddy said. He was shaking too, and he was all wet from sweat. He kept looking down at her mommy, then back to Sidra.
"That's right, little girl. Don't fight me. This doesn't have to be any harder than it already is," the man said. "Say goodbye to your daughter, Paul." He brought the gun up, but turned and shot her daddy in the head instead. Sidra screamed and started kicking and hitting the man. He finally let her go and left, locking her in her own panic room.
"Mommy! Daddy!" Sidra cried, crawling over to them. Sidra put her head on her mommy's chest. It was cold and wasn't moving. She couldn't hear her mommy's heart thumping either. Sidra did the same to her daddy, but he didn't do anything. He hadn't protected her. He hadn't even tried. She was alone now. Truly alone. Her mommy and daddy weren't there anymore. Weren't there to hold her, or help her, or tuck her in at night. They were gone. Gone forever.
