Alternate title: In which Benjamin Linus simps hardcore for a Norse goddess ;)
***Be forewarned that this is extremely AU, and although it will feature the majority of the characters from the show, it focuses mostly on the [BenxOC] pairing. Also, please be aware this story regularly deals with all of the following: child abuse, animal abuse, gore, assault, toxic relationships, eating disorders, and just death in general.***
Disclaimer: I do not own LOST or Benjamin Linus. Unfortunately. If I did, well, you can use your imagination. [insert suggestive wink] Let's get spicy, baby.
I awake to a shrill scream. I can smell smoke and ash and something else . . . something faintly clean, like an expensive candle. Oh, shit, did I leave a candle burning while I napped? My eyes flicker open just as I finally register what the clean smell is. It's the ocean.
The soft fluttering of my heart begins to beat wildly out of control as I struggle to piece together my surroundings. I was curled up on my dorm room bed when I dosed off not too long ago, and now warm sand sifts through my fingers as I scoot myself into a sitting position.
Sand?
I sit in a confused stupor as the world around me carries on in complete chaos. Men and women run screaming in all directions, their words blurring together in disharmony.
The man nearest me bellows, "WALT!"
This snaps me out of my lethargic trance, and I push my aching body to my feet, stumbling half blind in the general direction of the screaming mob. Behind us a massive whirling plane engine belches out thick black smoke and causes bursts of air to fling sand around. I have to cover my eyes to keep from going blind.
A nightmare. I'm having a nightmare.
My foot gets caught on a chunk of debris, and I stumble forward onto my hands and knees.
A pair of strong arms hoist me up, and I can already feel the bruises forming from his grip. A man's gruff voice is in my ear, yelling, "Get up! Move!" I try to use my legs, but suddenly I'm flying, weightless, crashing down hard on my back as debris rains down around me.
I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm powerless to stop my vision from tunneling. It flashes back to the forefront in a bright blinding light that makes me squint. I can no longer hear the noise around me over the deafening ringing in my ears.
Am I dead?
Somehow I manage to roll my stiff neck to the right and lock eyes with a man staring right at me. Only, he's not. He's dead.
I roll my head to the left and see the ocean. I watch, transfixed, as it crashes against the shore over and over again with a frothy abandon. A young woman kneels in the sand beside me, sobbing.
When I wake up, the sun has disappeared. Someone built a roaring fire and dragged me near it. I scoot away from its heat.
I can move my arms. I can move my legs!
I could cry from relief. That's when I notice that multiple fires have been lit all along the beach. People sit hunched near the flames, talking quietly amongst themselves.
"The princess has awoken." Sawyer stands next to my fire, a lazy smirk on his lips as he lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. "You're pretty busted up, Buttercup."
I have no idea what he's talking about. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea why a fictional character is talking to me.
Boone squats down and reaches towards me to offer what looks like gauze, but it might just be the remnants of someone's t-shirt. I stop mid-frown when a sharp pain bolts through my skull. I reach up and gently tap the spot that burns like a hot poker. When I pull my hand away, my fingers are covered in blood.
"May I be excused?" I raise my hand, finding my voice at last. "I need to go to the nurses office, please."
"Hey, guys, I don't think she's okay," Boone says to some random man sitting across the campfire.
"Yeah," Sawyer interjects, "well, last I checked, none of us were doing okay, bucko. What do you want me to do about it?"
"Here, honey." An elderly woman next to me offers a bottle of water. "You'll be alright. Just need to make sure you hydrate."
I blink stupidly at them all, fighting a growing pain in my midsection. There's a question forming on my tongue, but it's quickly drowned out by another and another and another until my chest constricts my useless dry lungs and no amount of trying can help bring my brain the air it needs to think properly.
"Doctor, over here," I hear the old woman shout before it all fades to grey. I'm too hot, too cold, too tired to care.
I wake up the next morning fully expecting to find myself wrapped too tightly in my bedsheets, safe and sound in my dorm, surrounded by junk food and sweat. To say that I'm panicked when I wake up and find myself sleeping in sand, gauze wrapped tightly around my head, absolutely reeking of campfire smoke, would be a gross understatement.
I pinch myself multiple times, and the pain feels real. The pulsing wound on my forehead feels real. I don't understand.
I can clearly see Sun and Jin just down the shore. Jin is digging around in the ocean for edible sea creatures. Wait, when did that happen? Episode 1? 2? 3? I can't remember…
The gash on my head begins to throb painfully, so I push my aching body to my feet and wobble my way through camp in search of Jack.
Instead, I find Sawyer. "Stop leaking blood all over my beach, Doublemint," he jabs playfully. "If you're looking for the Doc, he headed off that way."
"Doublemint?" I look up, confused, and notice that he's chewing gum.
He pulls out a pack and tosses it at me. "Found that in your pocket last night."
Even through the dizziness I can feel embarrassment flaring up. I want to say something snarky, but I'm too tired to think. I frown in his general direction before continuing my slow shuffle in search of Jack. "You stole my gum?"
I don't have time for this. Something is obviously wrong with my mind. Maybe I'm in a coma? Maybe I'm in a psych ward, and all these people are just patients that my mind has twisted to appease the fangirl within? Whatever the case may be, I'm tired of it.
I turn to head in the direction Sawyer pointed, hoping that Jack will know what to do to help clear the half-formed thoughts in my head, when I notice a figure standing in the trees. A woman. Only a sliver of her is visible, and only for a split second, before she disappears into the jungle.
If someone back home were to tell me that I would be spending the rest of my life trapped in some sort of parallel dimension with a group of fictional characters on an island that doesn't exist . . . I would have scheduled them an appointment with a psychiatrist.
But here I am—an unexplained anomaly existing within a fictional realm of incomprehensible implausibility.
"Please try to limit movement," Jack tells me as he finishes tying a fresh bandage around my skull. "Your laceration is healing remarkably well, but you may still feel dizzy for the next few days. Probably best if you take it easy for a while."
"Okay," I answer. "Has anyone found any–" It's hard to think again, and the question I wanted to ask is gone. "Any…"
"Medicine?"
I nod, instantly regretting the movement and the pain it brings. Yes, medicine. That's what I was thinking of.
"Haven't found anything yet, but we're sifting through luggage as fast as we can." Jack takes a look around the makeshift tent I'm squeezed under. I can read pity in his eyes. "I need to attend to the other survivors. Have someone come find me if you feel especially nauseous. Or," he adds, "start to lose your vision."
"Lose my vision?" What little nausea had subsided comes rushing back until I feel so faint I worry I'm about pass out.
"I wouldn't worry," Jack says, quick to placate my panic. "You seem to be healing just fine. Hey, excuse me–" I look over at the person he's addressing and air gets stuck in my throat. "This is Cora. Can you check in with her and let me know if she needs anything? I've got to make the rounds."
How does Jack know my name? When did I tell him my name?
"Yeah, no problem," Ethan replies happily, all smiles. "Anything to help. Hi," he says, addressing me with an outstretched hand, "name's Ethan."
"Cora." I reach for his hand on autopilot, struggling to smile over the sudden rush of memories. This man is Ethan, the Other who kidnaps Claire, hangs Charlie, and is eventually shot in the chest by one of the survivors. I remember.
It's this moment that brings me back to reality. I'm in danger. I don't know how, but I seem to be in the beginnings of my favorite TV show. A show notorious for random deaths. I begin to remember all the characters who will die in the coming days, weeks, months and blanche at the thought that I can so easily be one of them.
"You okay?" Ethan asks wearily. "You're shaking."
I'm still gripping his hand, having never let go of our handshake, so I quickly pull away. "Sorry."
"No worries. We're all a little out of sorts at the moment." I watch as Ethan's expression morphs from a casual smile to a brief pensive stare before his lips pull back up into a much less enthusiastic grin. "How's your head?"
"It hurts," I answer honestly. "But Jack seems to think I'll live."
He nods, his eyes traveling the length of my face. After what seems like forever, he asks, "You were on this plane?"
I'm struck by such an odd question. As I struggle to focus, my hairline breaks out in a sweat as I realize why he asked it.
My name is not in the manifest.
"Of course," I lie. It takes all my concentration not to choke on my words. "Same as you. Why do you ask?"
"Checking to make sure you're not slipping away from us all," he answers quickly. "You remember where you're from?"
"Los Angeles," I answer truthfully. "Where are you from?"
"Canada," he replies automatically. "You have any tattoos?"
Is it normal to ask someone that? The absurdity of his question makes me want to laugh. In fact, the urge to laugh hysterically is starting to overpower all other sensations. "No, I'm afraid of needles."
"What's your full name?" He's smiling again, but I can tell he doesn't mean it.
I think about lying, but I honestly don't trust myself to remember my own lie. "Cora Collins, officer. Am I being arrested?"
He doesn't laugh. "When were you born?"
"You know what, I think I'll just wait for the real doctor to assess my memory, thanks." I glance around, taking note of the closest people in case I need to call for help.
"I'm a real doctor."
"Okay." I huff out a laugh, but I can feel the shaking in my chest summoning more. "I think I'm good, thanks."
It's bad enough my social awkwardness makes it near impossible to interact normally with other human beings. But to top it all off, I'm a nervous laugher, which basically means that nine out of ten times if something upsets me I'll start laughing instead of crying. It usually plagues me at the absolute worst, most inappropriate of times. Like right now.
Ethan regards me with an air of confusion. "What's so funny?"
Like a heaven-sent angel, Hugo approaches. "You dudes hungry?"
A relieved grin pulls at my lips. "Yes, thank you so much."
"Oh, hey! You're awake! How's your, uh," Hurley reaches up and taps his forehead.
"Hurts like the Dickens," I answer, desperate for him to see the plea for help in my eyes. "But Jack says I'll live, and I'm kinda holding him to that."
"Cool, cool. So, uh, do you want chicken or beef? They're day old airline enchiladas, so try not to be too disappointed."
I laugh and take a chicken tray. "Thanks."
"So I know you've been, like, kinda unconscious these past few days, but … I mean, the bright side is we're all equally screwed, right?"
"Thank you for the optimism." It dawns on me that Hugo hasn't offered Ethan any food. When I turn to check, he's nowhere to be found.
As the day drags on, I grow bored. Life in early Season 1 isn't exactly as exciting as I pictured it would be. Not without all the editing out of menial tasks the survivors must do. It also doesn't help that everyone is so wrapped up in their own problems that they can't be bothered with mine. I've maybe spoken to two survivors all day, none of them the core cast.
Luckily, before I go crazy enough to do something stupid, Jack seeks me out to check my bandage. He unwraps my forehead and I watch his face fill with surprise or confusion, I can't quite tell.
"Is it getting worse?"
"No, actually. It's…you've completely scabbed."
"That's good though?" Of course I know it's good. But the look on his face makes me think I've developed gangrene.
"Good, yes. Just not normal." He leans away, resting his hands idly at his sides. "Two days ago, this laceration needed stitches. Now it's completely sealed. Should have taken a week, at best." He leans back in, frowning in thought as he assesses the wound. "It doesn't even look like it will scar."
"So," I notice I'm shaking and tighten my fists. "You don't think I need antibiotics?"
"Not at the rate you're healing." He shakes his head, smiling. "I'm going to ask you a few questions to check your memory. It would be better if I could give you a PET Scan, just to be sure, but unfortunately I don't see that happening anytime soon."
"Okay."
"Do you know what year it is?"
I open my mouth to answer 2014, but I catch myself just in time. It's not 2014 in this reality. I can't remember when LOST takes place. It's the early 2000's, I just can't remember the exact year.
"Uh," I stammer, making a best guess. "I…uh, 2003?"
Jack blinks, his eyes looking down and away at something before looking back at me. "No, I'm afraid you're missing a year. It's 2004."
"Oh."
"Do you remember your birthday?"
"December 19, 1994."
He gives me another worried look. "Are you sure?"
I pause, realizing the math makes no sense from his perspective. I don't know how to make the math make sense, so I sit in silence.
"You're 10 years old?" he asks.
"No." I can feel my face reddening. "No, I'm not 10 years old."
"Hey," Jack says, reaching out to pat my shoulder. "Don't get discouraged. There's a high probability your amnesia will lift completely. Just give it some time. Don't force it. It'll only frustrate you."
"Sydney, Australia," I blurt out, desperate for him to not think I'm stupid. "Oceanic 815 was taking off from Sydney, Australia."
"See? You still have some short term working great. That's a start." He's all encouraging smiles, but it ends up making me feel like a patronized child. "Were you traveling alone?"
I look up at this. "What?"
"Did you have anyone with you on the flight? Family? A partner?"
My family. Are they here? Were they on the plane, too?
My mother. My sisters. My brother. If they're here, I haven't seen them. I try to push myself to my feet, but Jack rests a hand on my shoulder.
"Easy," he urges. "You need to take it easy."
"No, I need to find my family." Standing makes me nauseous beyond belief, and to my horror I bend forward and projectile vomit all over the front of Jack's shirt.
"I'm sorry," I groan.
"No, it's okay."
"I'm so sorry," I repeat, turning away to cough up another mouthful of bile.
"Don't worry about it. Just, please lay back down."
Everyone within earshot is staring at me. I hate it. I hate being the center of attention. I hate it more than anything I can think of. Too embarrassed to complain, I lie back down on my blanket in the sand.
Nobody talks to me for the rest of the day. From what I can tell, Jack, Kate and Charlie have already ventured off and found the pilot in the jungle. The Marshal that arrested Kate isn't dead yet because I can hear him moaning in pain a few tents over.
Hugo makes his rounds at night and distributes the last remaining pieces of food—some papayas and airline peanuts.
"Tonight we feast like kings," I tell him, holding up the pathetic portion of food.
He smiles, but doesn't stay to chat. He's probably afraid I'll vomit on him.
If Hugo doesn't even want to be around me, I'm in serious trouble. I go to sleep with the goal of using tomorrow to make some friends.
I wake up right before sunrise to find Ethan sitting cross-legged beside me, one of his hands brushing lightly through my hair.
