Fading in and out;;OPEN

[lizzieh]

The silence hissed in his ears as his vision was faintly distorted-his hands in his lap appeared unusually large and at the same time remote, as though viewed across an immense distance. He raised one hand and flexed its fingers and wondered, as he had sometimes before, how this thing, this machine for gripping, this fleshy spider on the end of his arm, came to be his, entirely at his command. Or did it have a life of its own? He bent his finger and straightened it. The mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when his intention took effect. It was like a wave breaking. If he could only find himself at that crest, he thought, he might find the secret to himself, that part of him that was really, truly alive.

He brought his forefinger closer to his face and stared at it, urging it to move. It remained still because he was pretending, he was not entirely serious, and because willing it to move, or being about to move it, was not that same as actually moving it. And when he did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of his mind. When did it know to move, when did he know to move it? There was no catching himself out. It was either-or. There was no stitching, no seam, and yet he knew that behind that smooth continuous fabric was the real self-was it his soul? -Which took the decision to cease pretending, and gave the final command.

These thoughts were as familiar to him, and as comforting, as the precise configuration of his knees, their matching but competing, symmetrical and reversible, look. A second thought always followed the first, one mystery bred another. Was everyone else really as alive as he was? For example, did his sister really matter to herself; was she as valuable to herself as Foster was? Was being Stella just as vivid an affair as being Foster? Did his sister also have a real self-concealed behind a breaking wave, and did she spend time thinking about it, with a finger held up to her face? Did everybody, including his father, mother, and friends?

If the answer was yes, then the world, the social world, was unbearable complicated, with two billion voices, and everyone's thoughts striving in equal importance and everyone's claim on life as intense, and everyone thinking they were unique, when no one really was. One could drown in irrelevance.

But if the answer was in fact no, then Foster was surrounded by machines, intelligent and pleasant enough on the outside, but lacking the bright and private inside feeling he had. This was a sinister and lonely, as well as unlikely, for, though it offended his sense of order, he knew it was overwhelmingly probable that everyone else had thoughts like his. He knew this, but only in a rather arid way; he didn't really feel it.

Foster was shocked out of his thoughts by a noise off in the distance, which he only assumed to be a bird. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness lately, and he was not sure why. Foster had not suffered any major damage in the crash, other then a few deeps cuts. He started out with a suit on, but it had desecrated into walking around with just pants on, using his tie to bandage a gash on his left arm. Foster had been needing to get away for a while, and walking to the caves seemed to be the only solution. It was chaos everywhere he turned, plus scared people started asking way too many questions.

Foster sighed, kicking his feet in the sand and running his hand through what little hair he had left. Surely someone had to notice that there was a huge aircraft missing. Right?
“Right…” he muttered to himself and the bird. Reassurance never seemed to get him anywhere before, but perhaps in this instance it would work its magic.

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[LEAF LUKOSELENE]

Leaf walked gracefully toward the caves. Sometimes I just need a break from.... people. He thought, exasperated. The forest floor was much kinder to his bare feet than the glassy wreckage, although some twigs seemed to purposefully try and aggravate him. I'm sure I'll get used to it. Wait, why am I sure of that? Do I think we'll be here for a long time? He asked himself mentally with a mixture of fear and surprise. The fear faded into an odd sort of impulsive disappointment, Someone will find us.

Caves sure are nifty. he thought, then questioned himself again for using the word nifty. Leaf restrained himself from entering any of the cave entrances. They could go for 100 feet and stop at a dank rock wall, or interconnect in a complex system under the entire island. It's not the right time for spelunking. I'm just taking five, then I need to return to the wreck to help out.

Then Leaf encountered Foster. He looked like he was deep in thought, eyes intelligent and contemplative. Something Leaf could easily relate to. He felt like he and this man had much mentality in common. He felt a sense of compatibility compel him to speak to this man. Afterall, it looked like he'd come here to take a break from the others as well.

"I'm Leaf. Penny for your thoughts?" he asked. Leaf tried to make his expression one conveying absolute understanding and friendly curiosity at the same time. He savored casual philosophic conversations, and enjoyed them as a way to get to know fellow intellectuals. But this was an island. Shortly after a plane crash. Leaf's psychology-tuned mind couldn't resist delving into the thoughts of a fellow survivor, especially at this potentially pivotal moment in one's forcibly active, and possibly erratic, psyche. Leaf smiled.