This is something I've been working on for a few weeks now. I was a little hesitant to post it tonight, since I kind of wanted to have the whole thing done before I published it, but I can't stand the fact that I'm done with Wide Awake. Blah.
This is going to start of VERY similar to the television show Lost. I swear, though, after the first few chapters it will separate from the show. I guess this is my version of Lost...the way I thought it was gonna go. Mixed with DP, of course, because apparently I'm incapable of writing anything else for this website.
I chose the name because tabula rasa is Latin for 'blank slate,' for those of you who don't know. You'll understand why as the story progresses.
Okay, I think that's pretty much it from me for now. I don't own Danny Phantom, Lost, or anything else you recognize.
Rating might go up. Maybe. We'll see.
Enjoy (:
Tabula Rasa
Chapter One
February 22, 2014
Being a close friend and side-kick of Danny Phantom for a good portion of her life meant a lot of unconsciousness. Sam Manson grew quite accustomed to getting knocked out; it hardly bothered her anymore, especially considering most of the time it meant waking up in the meticulous care of Danny himself. Sam could count on one hand the number of times she had awoken in an unfamiliar environment. There was only one occasion in which she was completely alone, and she'd never been so disoriented that it caused a panic. Her first reaction upon realizing she had been knocked out was to immediately assess her surroundings while keeping her eyes firmly closed and body perfectly still. This usually lead her to figuring out if the situation was still dangerous, who she was with, and whether or not she was alone with said person or people. This information, in turn, generally calmed her racing heart and allowed her to analyze a possible escape method if one was needed.
On one particularly sweltering June afternoon, Sam suddenly became aware of the fact that she was flat on her back. She squeezed her eyes shut against bright lights as a nauseating wave of pain twisted in her abdomen, threatening to spill the scant contents of her stomach. Slowly, so as not to aggravate the nausea, Sam inhaled through her nose. The surface beneath her was hard and uneven, telling her that she was not carefully tucked into a bed.
Panic began to bubble in her chest, her heart threatening to burst, but she pushed it away with practiced ease. Quickly running through her mental check-list, she flexed her arms to find that she could move them freely. The fabric of her flannel shirt shifted against her biceps, telling her that she was still clothed. She dug her heels into the earth and lifted her hips slightly, deducing that she still had her pants and boots and that she was not restrained in any way.
She inhaled deeply again. The smell of ocean water and smoke nearly suffocated her; the sounds of crashing waves, people screaming, and a curious revving engine sounded about a hundred yards away from where she was laying.
Against her own better judgment, she allowed her eyes to pop open. Towering bamboo trees swayed easily in a soft breeze high above her head, the lazy action a direct contrast to the chaotic noise of the place. The light was watery and pale. She blinked rapidly, trying to get her bearings.
A deafening crash, quickly followed by several shrill screams, drew her attention to her left. Sam found that she was lying on her back on the edge of a bamboo grove, which was surrounded by a forest. The sunlight filtering through dusty air between tree branches combined with the sweltering heat suggested that it was late in the afternoon.
Another scream forced her bolt upright, drawing a hoarse cry of pain from her lips. She reached around to her left and pressed the palm of her hand into her side before drawing her hand back. It was glistening with blood. She swallowed hard.
Using the thin trunks of the bamboo trees around her, she pulled herself up to a standing position. Her eyes fluttered shut and she swayed backwards as another, more powerful wave of nausea washed over her, but she managed to keep herself steady. Glancing down to verify that her clothes were still mostly in-tact, she was still for only a moment longer before she began to run.
Towering trees stretched their limbs down, reaching for her, as she crashed through the forest. Her breaths came in gasps as the sounds of chaos grew closer and louder. She could hear other voices now, people calling for help or the names of loved ones or shouting instructions. She could see blue ahead and the smell of the ocean was so strong it nearly made her knees buckle.
With an unintentionally dramatic burst, Sam tore through a bush and skidded to a halt on the edge of a beach, sending a large amount of sand flying up in front of her face. It slithered around her boots and the movement momentarily drew her attention down, but she was quickly distracted by a flurry of activity to her left.
The remnants of a passenger plane sat in smoking ruins in the sand several yards away from where she stood. It was almost in the water. The nose and the tail were missing, but the right wing stood nearly broken in half at an angle over the beach. The engine from that wing was completely detached save for a thick tangle of wires, and it was the source of the revving sound she heard when she first regained consciousness. Dozens of people were sprinting in all different directions, some dragging motionless bodies away from the wreckage and the water, some attempting to gather luggage where it floated in the ocean, and still others trying to free those still trapped in the wreckage.
Her feet carried her forward before she was aware of making a decision to move. Sand flew through the air in her wake, but she hardly noticed, so focused was she on reaching the other survivors. A man in a torn suit with wild, dark eyes stood upon noticing her.
"Get them away from there!" He bellowed, pointing to her right. She nearly tripped as she stopped and whipped around to find him point to a man in a grey hoodie and ripped black jeans hunched over a motionless body just a few feet away from the revving engine. She glanced back at the man in the suit to find him administering CPR to a woman whose leg was bleeding profusely.
"Hey!" She screamed as she ran toward the engine. The turbine was still spinning, sucking air in like a giant vacuum. "Hey!" The man did not even turn to glance at her; he was desperately beating against the motionless man's chest. "Stop it, we have to move!"
"He's...not...breathing..." The man grunted, his voice barely audible over the deafening revving. He punctuated each word with a blow to the second man's chest.
They both grimaced and flinched as the engine gave a particularly powerful rev. Sam could feel herself sliding toward it, so with every ounce of strength she possessed, she seized the hood of the man's jacket and dragged him away.
They made it a total of fifty feet before the engine exploded. The force of it threw them both forward, face-first into the sand. Sam quickly pushed herself up on all-fours, turning back to stare at the mushroom cloud rising over the wreckage as she tried to catch her breath.
"Bloody hell," The man beside her whimpered.
"C'mon," Sam said, scrambling to her feet. "They still need help." Without waiting to see if he would follow, Sam jogged forward. A young woman with curly brown hair who looked no older than twenty-five was trying to drag an older, sobbing Asian woman whose forehead was bleeding through the sand; Sam quickly stooped and lifted the woman's feet. Together they were able to quickly move her to the edge of the beach, into the shade of the trees where the heat was slightly less oppressive. The brown-haired woman nodded in thanks, too out of breath to speak.
The next hour or so passed in a similar fashion. Between dragging people out of the wreckage, helping the man in the suit (whom she was beginning to think was a doctor), and gathering luggage, she wondered if it would ever end. Eventually, though, the panic began to settle down. She collapsed in the sand, positively drenched in sweat and the pain in her side nearly unbearable. Her muscles cried in relief at the break.
She peeled her flannel shirt off of her torso and carefully lifted the hem of her tattered undershirt up so that her midriff was exposed. A gash about the length of her hand from heel to fingertip was bleeding profusely over her ribcage. She turned her head away and sucked in a deep breath when she caught a whiff of the metallic substance, ignoring the nausea and the dizziness that made her head spin. She only ever reacted that way to her own blood. That was something she learned about herself when she was younger.
"That's gonna need stitches," A voice called to her left. She slowly turned her head and opened her eyes to find the man in the suit approaching her, calculating gaze fixated on her side.
She managed to choke out a laugh as he dropped to his knees at her side. "I'll get right on that," She muttered.
"I'm a doctor," He murmured, confirming her suspicions. "I know this isn't exactly an ideal situation, but I'm afraid it'll get infected if I don't close it quickly." He pulled a sewing kit from the pocket inside his suit jacket and rattled it rather ominously. Sam eyed the plastic container warily. "Please, I'll do it quickly. It'll only hurt for a little while, but it'll be much better than the treatment for whatever infection you would get if I don't."
"What's your name?" She asked, glancing up at his tan, sweaty face.
"Mark. I'm a cardiologist back in the States." Mark shook her hand and his grip was firm and steady.
"Sam," She breathed as he released her hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Sam. You were sitting a couple rows in front of me, weren't you?" Mark asked as he popped the sewing kit open and balanced it on a relatively flat rock to her left.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the people she was surrounded by on the plane, but the only thing she clearly remembered between boarding the flight and waking up in the bamboo was the announcement that they were hitting a little turbulence coupled with the suggestion to fasten their seatbelts. "Uh, yeah. I think so." She lied. She opened her eyes and watched the sunlight bounce off the surface of the needle nestled innocently inside the kit. She blinked in confusion when he seemed to pull a small bottle of clear liquid with a sealed lid from thin air, which he balanced beside the kit. She did not recognize the brand on the label, but she definitely recognized the word 'vodka' beneath the brand. "Where'd you get that?"
"A flight attendant snuck it to me before the crash," He shrugged his jacket off and tossed to the sand behind him. "Well, she gave me three, but I drank one during the flight."
"Nice." Sam muttered. He was rolling his sleeves up, still visually assessing her wound. Her gaze drifted further down the beach, slowly scanning the horizon. The sun was just starting to set over the ocean, giving the scene a false sense of romance.
"You were writing for most of the flight. I remember, because at one point I looked up and wondered how in the world one person could write for five hours non-stop," He chuckled half-heartedly and Sam forced a smile. "What were you writing about?" He asked as he unscrewed the lid of the vodka bottle.
"I was writing a letter," Sam murmured, watching the Asian woman she'd helped earlier tightly embrace an Asian man. Briefly she wondered if they were married, running the tip of her index finger over her bare ring finger subconsciously as she watched.
"Ah." He grunted. "That's pretty cool. Not a lot of people actually write letters anymore. Was it anything important?" He asked as a sharp pain ignited in her side. She cried out before quickly stuffing the heel of her palm into her mouth. The pain quickly subsided, and people around them were already looking away when Sam forced her eyes open again.
"N-no," She hissed as he quickly shoved the tip of the needle through her skin. She gritted her teeth and tried to focus on the feel of his left hand, warm and steady, holding a firm grip on her shoulder. "I was just trying to get my thoughts straight."
He grunted. "So you write to help you sort out your emotions. That's a very intellectual thing to do. I usually end up either punching something or drinking to sort out mine."
Sam chucked shakily. "I used to do that. But then I broke my hand, so I figured I would find a less violent way or releasing everything," She gasped at a particularly hard tug. "Jesus Christ," She whimpered.
"Almost there. So, Sam, how old are you?" Mark asked.
She felt a deep-rooted defensiveness kick in, urging her to deflect any and all personal questions away from herself, but a rational part of her mind assured her that Mark was only asking to distract her from the pain. "Twenty-six," She gasped. "I just turned twenty-six last month."
"Well happy belated birthday," Mark murmured. "Sorry my gift is kind of shitty. You'll thank me later, though, I swear,"
"I'm having a hard time believing you," Sam grumbled. She rolled her eyes as he chuckled.
"Okay, let me tie it off and cut off the excess," Mark said a few moments later. Sam contented herself to study the people trotting down the beach, most of them still clearly in shock. A rather tall, blonde, model-esque woman was sprawled out in the sand, sobbing, and a man who Sam thought might be the woman's brother or cousin trying in vain to comfort her. The man Sam pulled away from the engine earlier was watching the crying woman as well from the woman's other side; just as Sam was about to look away, he made eye-contact with her.
"There. Done. Now, I know this might be asking a lot considering we don't know how long it'll be before we get rescued, but please try not to put too much of a strain on it, okay? Try to take it easy until they get to us," Mark packed the sewing supplies away and tucked it into his pocket, before standing and smiling. His teeth were perfectly straight and blindingly white.
She nodded and he trudged away, leaving his jacket forgotten in the sand. As he passed before her, she was afforded a glimpse of the man she'd saved picking his way toward her. He was almost in ear-shot when the broken wing of the plane finally snapped and hit the ground in a thunderous, earth-shaking explosion of sound.
A fresh wave of panic washed through the survivors around her, the sobs of the blonde woman renewed. The man was still staring back at the newly settled wreckage as he stumbled over to her side.
"Bloody hell," He muttered under his breath. Sam raised a thin eyebrow at him, at which he grinned. "Sorry. Bet you think that's the only thing I ever say."
She did not respond, still squinting up at him. His eyes were a curiously bright blue, almost as bright as Danny's, but they sparked and twinkled in a cheerful way. Not like Danny's. His rosy lips parted to reveal slightly crooked, not-quite-white teeth. The skin on his face and neck was tan and smooth, scarcely interrupted with any wounds bearing witness to the crash they miraculously survived. His British - or is it Australian? - accent was light and almost bubbly, and his face was creased with laugh lines.
"D'you mind if I sit?" He asked, gesturing to the patch of sand on her left. She shook her head and pointed to the ground, which he immediately occupied. "I'm Cedric, by the way. But everyone calls me Ced."
"Sam," She took his outstretched hand and shook it, only just then noticing that two of her knuckles were split.
"Well, it's a hell of a circumstance, but it's still nice to meet you, Sam." He flashed her another grin. "Saw that doctor bloke tending your side. Are you alright?"
Like he can't see the giant bloodstain on my shirt, she thought rather savagely. "Yeah. Just stitches," She muttered, turning her gaze toward the horizon. From the corner of her eye, she could see him nod.
"Thanks for pulling me out of there earlier. I reckon I was getting a bit carried away. I probably wouldn't have gotten away in time if you hadn't dragged me out."
"S'no problem," She sighed.
"Sorry, am I bothering you? I kind of talk a bit when I'm nervous and it really hacks some people off. If I'm annoying you just tell me, I swear I won't get offended or anything, I - "
"Ced!" Sam gripped his shoulder and squeezed, silencing him instantly. "You're not annoying me. I just don't really talk a lot."
"Oh," His eyes were glued to her hand as she withdrew it; he did not speak again until well after she'd carefully folded it on her lap. "Well, yeah. I'm Ced. Thanks for saving me. So is Sam short for something?"
"Samantha," She could feel herself snarling around the name, secretly pleased that her full name still irritated her.
"I take it you don't particularly like that name?" She shook her head and he laughed. "Why not? I think it's a fine name."
"Thanks, but it's not really my personality." She turned her head slightly as the sun began to dip below the horizon. "We should build a fire. It'll be dark soon."
Three hours later, Sam, Ced, and a group of other survivors gathered enough firewood to start three medium-sized blazes across the beach. No one seemed particularly partial to being anywhere near the fuse-lodge, where several unlucky people still hung limply in their seats, so they managed to clear away enough wreckage for the survivors to gather in groups around fires. Sam sat in the group furthest away from the fuse-lodge, her back to the wreckage, with Ced on her right.
"So you're from the States?" Ced asked her quietly. Conversations were buzzing all around them, but the atmosphere was subdued. The enormity of the situation settled across them like a thick blanket of snow.
"Uh, yeah," Sam said distractedly.
"What were you doing in Australia?" Ced asked, shifting a little in the sand. Sam clenched her jaw and swallowed hard against a wave of annoyance with him. He's just making conversation.
"I've lived there for four years," She said, gaze fixated on the fire.
"Oh, really? Okay, what were you doing going to the States?"
"I needed to make sure I made the right decision when I moved to Australia."
"Well...d'you have an idea?" She turned her head and stared at him sideways. "I mean d'you have an idea about whether or not it was the right decision to move?"
She sighed. "I don't know. I've been on the fence for a while, now," the words tasted bitter in her mouth. The wind was blowing the smoke almost directly into her face. "I'm just not sure." She stood and stretched. "I'm gonna move to another fire, this one's a little too smoky for me."
She turned toward the forest, eyes on the second fire just a few short yards away, but before she could take a step forward a dazzling flash of red light ignited the night air around her. Gasps rippled through the band of survivors, every eye on the beacon of light shining up from somewhere further into the island. She felt more than heard or saw the other survivors standing to get a better look at it.
"What the hell is that?" She heard Mark mutter from somewhere behind her.
A piercing shriek deafened her before she could hear anyone answer. She grimaced and slapped her hands over her ears, but it made little difference. Chills raced down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck and on her arms stood on end, goose bumps erupting across her skin in an internal earthquake. Just when she was beginning to think that the sound would never end, an unsettling silence set across the camp. The sound was over as suddenly as it began.
When she opened her eyes, the light was gone. Her hands slid away from her face slowly, gaze still fixated on the empty place in the sky previously inhabited by the beacon of light. She swallowed thickly.
There was something unsettlingly familiar about that shriek.
Uh...oh...
- Tori