Firkle had a plethora of lighters in his carry on backpack that he'd snatched from under the seat on his way to the raft. Out of everyone on board, only Firkle, Bebe and Butters had sense to grab something on the way out. Ike couldn't really say anything, since he'd had his stuff in the overhead and hadn't time to fiddle with grabbing it. All he had was his phone, quickly dying and without service, and his wallet in his pockets. Thankfully they'd managed to stay dry. Butters had grabbed his tote bag, which was filled with useless shit and a few snacks that he insisted on saving. Bebe had left her purse with them, but no one had gone through it, all the boys worried about snooping through a woman's things. But Firkle? Oh, Ike could have kissed him. Firkle went nowhere without being prepared. At least, technology wide. Who'd have thought to bring a solar charger?
"We're going to the beach," Firkle said, voice monotonous, as if it was obvious. "I'm not going to sit in the shade without an outlet, I was going to binge watch Jessica Jones." Stick the thing in the sun, you got juice. Along with his chords, charge blocks, solar charger, Firkle had lighters. A few packs of smokes. Three family sized bags of skittles, Ike and Fillmore each claiming a bag for themselves.
"Dibs on the sour," Filmore demanded, grabbing the pack before Ike had a chance too. Fuckhead. Firkle got first choice, picking tropical. The irony. Which left Ike with the shitty pack of plain. He supposed it was better than nothing. "Asshole," Ike huffed, sifting through all the other shit in Firkle's backpack. Ike had taken charge priority on the charger, his phone and the red brick sitting in the sun waiting to power up. Oh he was soooo fucking glad he downloaded the whole series of Orange is the New Black to his phone. Netflix Offline was a blessing, and Ike had half a mind to send them an edible arrangement in thanks if he ever made it out of here.
When everything was sitting out neatly on Filmore's discarded shirt, Ike spoke, "We have three packs of skittles, already allocated to each of us. Next we have a chocolate pudding, which we'll have to eat before it goes bad. There's a few packs of cookies Firkle swiped from the plane, which gives us three packs each. A bottle of triple x vitamin water which is already half gone. And two minis of Smirnoff. I say we mix the vitamin water and Smirnoff and enjoy it later with the skittles. Or we mix them with skittles." That was it for anything edible, except for a pack of halls that they'd keep on the chance one of them got sick. Fuck the others, they could starve. Kyle and his friends hadn't wanted them here, only allowing them to come to help cut down the costs. The three of them collectively decided to hoard the snacks. Hell, Ike was grateful Firkle was open to sharing. But they were a team.
"Oh, hold on," Firkle said, going into the backpack and ripping open the false bottom. They hadn't gone through any security at the small airfield, but Firkle wasn't going to be careless. Out he pulled a smell proof bag, followed by a Ziploc of weed and a pipe. "I love you," Filmore sounded completely serious, but Ike had to agree. "Hide it, Kyle will give me shit," Ike said, looking over his shoulder to make sure none of the others were watching them. They weren't, focused on the pilots and Kenny. Bebe was showing off what looked to be a stick, and Butters seemed way to excited over it. Whatever, Ike didn't care.
Firkle put away the bag into his black backpack, and Ike continued on to the non-edibles. "We've got a bottle of Advil, which will come in handy. An Exacto, because Firkle was going to do arts and crafts or some shit..." Ike wondered briefly if Firkle had brought it for self harming purposes, but since they'd last spoke of it, Firkle swore he'd stopped. Ike wasn't going to reprimand him for starting again. The band-aids that followed sort of confirmed that suspicion, but Ike didn't comment. He made the mental note to keep it away from him. While things were fun and games right now, Ike didn't think they'd stay that way. In a dark place, where there wasn't hope for survival, the last thing Ike needed was to bury one of his best friends. The thought sobered him up. They'd pre-gamed on the flight, all three of them landing on the island with a slight buzz that was now faded from Ike's system. One look at Filmore and Firkle showed the same thing. "We'll be grateful for when we need to gut fish or if we get hurt. Maybe we should keep the alcohol for disinfecting..." Filmore said, turning one of the bottles over in his palms.
Ike nodded, continuing on. "There's two iPhone chords, a micro USB, and two power bricks. We can continuously charge the bricks with the solar charger, when we're not using it for phones. The key is to keep them dry, if it rains. Everything can go into the smell proof bag, we'll keep the weed in the Ziploc, who cares about the smell. After that, there's four packs of smokes so lets hope we're rescued before Firkle goes into nicotine withdrawal and turns into an even bigger asshole."
Firkle just sent him a nasty look, picking up one of the packs and lighting up. He normally smoked a pack a day, but the idea was to cut back on the trip. Now he'd really have to ration himself. If he limited himself to five a day, he'd have just about two weeks worth. He'd be an asshole alright. "Also, you have a baggie of tension tamer tea... Why?" Ike hadn't ever seen Firkle drink tea. He drank dark roast coffee. Burned, even. Because he was a fucking lunatic. "I brought it for you," Firkle said. "You get tense when exposed to heat." Well, Firkle wasn't wrong... They were in the shade, thankfully. But Ike wasn't built for this weather. He grew up in the Rockies of Colorado, cold enough already most of the time. But the real kicker was his Canadian body. It was clear, with his dark eyes and large mouth, where he came from. His body temperature was naturally lower by a few degrees, which meant any heat was that much hotter.
And boy, did Ike turn into a right cow when he was overheating. "Thanks, Firk," Ike said, rather touched by the gesture.
"Here," Firkle said, pulling out a rolled joint from the cigarette pack. "This can be your present, you jealous prick." He handed it to Filmore, who sat between them looking sour that he didn't get anything special from their friend. He lit up, both himself and the joint. Filmore was always pushy, and Firkle wasn't in much of a mood to deal with his bullshit right now. He was feeling pleasant, which would likely soon pass. "The last few things are," Ike said, reaching over to swipe the joint from Filmore's hand for a quick inhale. "A black eyeliner, a notebook, pen and Firkle's ereader." Upon inspection, it was filled with what Ike would have expected anyway. Edgar Allen Poe's collective works, Catcher in the Rye, Lolita, Othello... 1984, Fahrenheit 451...
"Dude," Ike said, stopping on a page in his library. He bit down on his cheek, trying not to laugh. Filmore turned to look at the ereader Ike held out for them both to see. Fifty Shades, all three of them. Filmore burst into laughter, blocking Firkle's way as he reached to try and take the Kindle out of Ike's hands. "I'm reading it ironically," Firkle said, voice flat. It was always flat, but Ike and Filmore had been friends with him long enough to hear the slight embarrassment in his voice.
"We believe you," Filmore smirked, blowing a puff of smoke at the goth. Firkle responded by pressing the lit end of his cigarette into Filmore's arm. "Fuck!" Filmore cursed, smacking at Firkle's hand. "You're such a shithead!" It didn't break the skin, not being in contact long enough to do much damage. But it left a red welt, soot behind. Filmore stuck his hand out expectantly. "Kiss it better, you ass." Firkle responded by flicking it.
Fifty feet away, the others had dragged the yellow life raft from the water and onto the area where sand began to turn into grass. Craig and Tweek had focused on one task after the other, first digging out a hole in the sand. Then they filled it with small rocks. After that, they went and gathered larger ones to build a perimeter around it. While they did this, Craig had asked Butters if he wouldn't mind finding some wood and some tinder. Ever helpful, Butter's made quick work of it. While the girls tended to the pilots, Kyle had gone off in search of some form of water or food with Kenny. This left Craig and Tweek with much needed alone time, allowing Craig to softly talk Tweek into a state of calm.
For anyone else, Tweek's calm would be considered a serious break down. But for Tweek, it was almost normal. And for that, Craig was thankful. Nothing broke his heart more than watching him descend into such a pit of despair. He loved Tweek. The blonde was the most important person in Craig's dull, boring life. And maybe they weren't in love anymore, but they were still each other's everything. Their relationship had been over for several months now, Tweek ending it when he could clearly see how he took a toll on Craig's own mental health. Craig had insisted that no, he was fine. But it wasn't the case, and there was no sense lying. Tweek could tell, and it just made him worse. So they'd decided it was better off as friends. Which it was. Nothing much changed. Tweek had never much been a fan of kissing, rarely wanted sex. Asexual, he said. He'd looked it up on the internet, apparently. One of Tweek's points for their break up was that it wasn't fair to Craig. So long as Craig was in Tweek's life, Tweek was happier. Calmer. And Craig went no where. They still lived together, still climbing into Tweek's bed when he woke up screaming from night terrors, holding him until he fell back asleep.
Until someone who was capable of loving Tweek the way he needed to be, Craig was going nowhere. And in turn, Tweek didn't mind if Craig went out with others. He rarely did. Craig was a miserable asshole, and not many people found it all too attractive. Not that it was any skin off his back.
Butters returned shortly after they'd finished their pit, his shirt removed and tied into a sack filled with branches and coconut husk. "Thanks, Butters," Craig said, pulling it out and forming it in the pit while Butter's took a seat beside Tweek.
"How you doin', fella?" Butters asked, voice soft and kind as it almost always tended to be. He was good with Tweek, patient. Craig appreciated it. "Jeez," Craig heard Tweek say, and he felt Tweek reach for the back of his shirt to hold on to. "It's..! It's stressful! What if we die!?" Butter's laughed softly behind him. "Oh, don't worry, Tweek! We'll be just fine. Got lotsa smart people, here. It'll be just like our holiday, only instead of a resort, we're camping!"
"But..! The bugs. Oh god, the bugs! I hate mosquitoes! Agh. Tiny vampires. And snakes! And crabs! Pinching, pinching! Oh, God!"
Craig scrunched the tinder under the bundle of wood, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a bic. Flicking it into a flame, Craig ignited the husk and blew until the flame grew bigger. He listened to Butters try and console Tweek. "It'll be okay, buddy. We'll all sleep in the raft, nice and comfy and off the sand. Wendy and Bebe are gonna make it a roof, they've already drawn up a plan! Look here!"
Once Craig had gotten the fire going, he sat back and took Tweek's hand in his and looked at the small note pad that must have been in Bebe's purse. Sure enough, there was a rough sketch of their idea. Sticks propped up in the four corners of the raft, held together at the top by vines and more sticks. It created what reminded Craig of the base of the Eiffel Tower. On top were a bunch of scribbles, an arrow pointing at it labeled 'net with palm leaves.' Over all, it seemed pretty impressive. The raft was big enough for all of them, technically designed to hold about twenty four, if the small food and water rations inside of it were to go by. "Impressive," Craig said, lifting his head up to see Bebe cooing over Captain Marsh. Ridiculous.
"You okay here with Butters for a bit, Tweek?" Craig asked, and Tweek nodded, letting got of Craig's hand. Standing, Craig brushed the sand off his jeans and walked over. "Nice work, Bebe." He handed the notebook over, but Bebe smiled, looking up from the first officer and gestured to Wendy. "Wasn't me, thank Wendy." Craig gave the dark haired girl a nod, and Wendy gave him a smile before she returned to chatting with Captain Marsh. "Any of you up to helping me look for this shit? Sunset's in a few hours, and I think we'd all fare a bit better with some shelter." Wendy was about to offer herself up, but Stan put an arm on her knee and pushed himself off the sand with a grunt. "I'll come. I'm sick of sitting around in pain." Craig rolled his eyes, but accepted all the same. "Let's go, then."
They walked up into the forest of coconut palms and other trees that Craig had no idea. "Feeling any better?" Craig asked, not really caring but he decided to be civil. Stan shrugged. "Yeah, s'pose so. Hurts like a bitch, but it almost feels worse sitting. At least I can distract myself. Cartman's a useless sack of shit, though. But he's loving the attention from Wendy and Bebe. I doubt he'll move for the next few days. I half expect Bebe to fanning him with palm leaves while feeding him grapes." Yeah, that'd be the day. Maybe they'd see her doing that with Wendy. But Bebe always was a caretaker, he supposed.
"We need four branches, probably about four to five feet in height," Craig said, scanning for thin trees that they could break, or branches to rip off. "Then we need ones probably about fifteen in length..." Craig looked at the picture, wondering what on earth they were going to use to support the center. "Wendy's blueprint isn't perfect." Craig said, Stan coming to stand close beside him to look at it. "We'll need support beams on each corner. About forty five degrees, so eight and a half feet or so should do it. At least for the width. The length is about seven, so about six feet should do it..." Craig spoke mostly to himself, pulling the pen out of the spiral to flip the page and draw a quick sketch, writing down the dimensions of the raft. "Keep an eye out for anything long enough, and I'll gather those if you can manage to grab some of this viney shit..."
Stan nodded, keeping close to Craig so they wouldn't get separated as they went about their assigned tasks. Craig had manage to get his hands on a couple easy to snap off trees over the course of twenty minutes. It was rather cathartic, breaking shit. "So, what do you do, Mr. Tucker?" Stan asked, grunting with pain and breathing hard as he yanked vines off of a tree nearby. Craig pursed his lips together, not wanting to talk about his personal life. "Craig. And civil engineering. Nothing special." He wasn't quite finished his studies, but he was close enough. "That's cool," Stan called out, wrapping vines around his waist to keep them from getting tangled. Craig rolled his eyes. "Don't sound so sarcastic."
"I'm not," Stan argued. "It is cool." After a few moments of silence, Stan spoke again and Craig groaned. "People tell you it was stupid?"
"Yep," Craig said, short. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about this shit with the man who got them stuck on this fucking island.
Bending over a tree, Craig climbed on top of it and jumped up and down until it snapped, leaving him with a length of about fifteen feet. He dragged it to the pile of the others. About a third of the way done. But Stan was still trying to talk to him. "I know what that's like," he said, and Craig turned to stare at him. He was a big guy, though not as tall as Craig was himself. But Craig wanted to snap him like a tree as well. "Yeah? Well, maybe they were fucking right. You got a bunch of people stranded on an island." Stan stopped what he was doing, moving over to stand in front of Craig. "Listen, man. I had no control. None. The controls went haywire. There were dual engine fires. My co-pilot's yoke was out of commission. We did our walk around. The mechanics hadn't noticed anything off. I don't know what happened, and I tried my fucking best. I radioed, I only got one reply before the radio was shot." Craig rolled his eyes, not giving a fuck about Stan's excuses. But Stan wouldn't let up, apparently, because he kept going. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be completely out of control? My whole job is control. I had none. I tried so fucking hard, and it wasn't enough. I fucking get it, so if you could kindly shut the fuck up, it'd be appreciated."
"If you were going to lecture me, you should have just stayed behind," Craig said, and shook his head in exasperation as Stan grunted in frustration. "Who else am I supposed to blame, huh? It's not my fault. And apparently it's not yours, either."
Stan leaned against a tree, looking exhausted already though they hadn't been out here long. "I'm sorry," Stan said, staring down at his feet. The look on his face had Craig feeling slightly guilty, and he hated it. "I'll try to make this right, I swear."