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[CaNz]

Welcome to the Island of
THE DEPARTED

CAST:
M Rellic (CaNz)
V Stellano (nightscapture)
E Niel (Humaru)
C Carry (PseudoWhim)
J Bernard (Anomaly)
A Douglass (Kre)

He hated the way his hat scratched his head… and the way women mistook him for an old man, and the Men called him a baby, he hated not being able to chose what haircut he would get and when, but right now, he really hated getting a sunburn on his bald head. Scratching it didn’t help, but that couldn’t be avoided. There were just too many questions. He was tiered of hearing the same responses from the people who knew his old boss. People shouldn’t be able to just vanish, no goodbye.
Relic lied down on the grass. He had to cover his eyes from the sun. the day had left him weary and he shut his eyes for a second.
‘The intense red was replaced by with the suns light. I had to squint my eyes until they adjusted to the illuminating rays bursting through the window.

“So you‘re awake,” a frame of a female figure combated the oncoming light. The comforting shadow spoke once more. “everyone has been waiting for you to outside. “ The shadow moved to a door and was replaced by a couple in their late forties, early fifties. “Son,” they said in unison, while approaching, the bed. The vision hazed, until all he could see was the light of the sun, and some sort of chime, the note hung in the air, as the island returned to him.’

His hand had fallen, and he wasn’t sure how long he had been staring directly into the sun. He hoped it wouldn’t effect his vision, because he still had a man to look for. He wondered what the boss would say about these visions… this has been the only one that he could remember clearly but he still wasn’t all that sure about it. He was in his bed it seemed, but why was his family waking him up? And was the chime an alarm clock? There was only one person to see for this kind of thing… a man called ‘The Recorder’ because of his giant walls that he writes on. People here have visions a lot, and they are hard to remember so its best to see him while it is fresh.

When he arrived at the Recorders shop, he found it closed. On the door there was a single word posted upon it : Wait.

Edited by CaNz, 11 December 2010 - 10:15 PM.

[Kre]

A sterile white, his favorite color, beamed down from the ceiling. He walked down a path of doors, each one holding a story. None of these stories were his to write, but he could edit them all, improve them with his skills ad knowledge.

“Dr. Dougless, we are having a problem with the patient in room 959, Mr. C. Harper.

“Yes, we had him on dialysis if I remember correctly.”

“You did, but he is struggling with the procedure, if this keeps up I am unsure if he will make it.”
These stories were not his to write. He personally hated tragedies, though he knew most of those doors were nothing but a the covers of them. He opened one of his books, and inside he found the island. Not his normal tragedy, but it would do.

~

It would certainly do. Do a great job of waking the doctor up. His breathing was heavy, heartbeat erratic, and sweat glazed his exposed skin. The widened eyes belonging to Douglass scored the room for the source of the sudden hallucination. A dream. Yes, that's what it was... A sigh of relief washed over the man's face as he wiped his hand over it. Or was it? He leaned back upon his palms, trying to decipher just where he was. The familiar dull color of the ceiling walls greeted him, as well as the mahogany colored couch he lay upon. He was in his office; that's what it was. Not the white, unnatural office of his dreams, but his island office. It was fully intact with the beige colored painting upon the walls and ceiling, the tile floor, and the odd objects he had put up here and there to make it seem much more lively. If he wasn't so disturbed by this vision, he would have smiled to himself at the presentation of his home.

Quickly, he rose, moving towards the oaken desk that lay in the middle of the room. This was his personal room. He kept what medical records he could record here, as well as having his own desk to work at and a couch to relax, or sleep if need be; like he had just done. His actions were still frantic, the familiarity of his environment had yet to calm his nerves, and his hands searched the desk for paper and a writing utensil. In the process, he shuffled a couple folders to the floor, and they clacked upon it. But the doctor was too busy to care at the present moment. He sat upon the chair writing the first thing that came to his mind.

'White'
'Dialysis'
'Procedure'
'Won't make it'
'959.'
'959...'
'C Harper'
'C Harper!'
'C HARPER'

"Goddamn it!" He exclaimed, chucking the writing tool across the room. His breathing was coming harsher, and he covered his mouth as it did. His eyes widened, staring at that paper. His shoulders heaved with rage. Anger poured from his being. The cool down was a slow, and silent process as the man sat there for what felt like an eternity staring upon the white. Sterile white. There it was again! He slammed his hand upon the table, walking out of his office before slamming the door. Deep breaths he reminded himself. Deep breaths calmed the body, and he needed calm. A doctor musn't let emotions get in the way of his procedures. But one thing was for certain: his destination was the Recorder; for against his will, Douglass himself had become infected. It was only a matter of time before he would fade just like countless other before him. Unlike them though, he was determined to survive; whatever the cost.

[OMNOMNOMALY]

J Bernard sat at the breakfast table of her home, coffee cup in one hand, her other hand resting under her chin, supporting her head. She took a sip absentmindedly, letting her mind wander for the time being.

A council of twelve stood before her.
“We require proof, Madam Bernard, for now, all the council can see is a plea to save ones own skin. Have you any proof at all?”

“I do, that young miss Summers was the culprit, I took the town Lawman to the crime scene and showed him this.”

“A doll? “ the speaker of the council was puzzled, and a quiet buzz trickled down the line.

“What you speak is the truth, but upon its foot reads the name of the young Miss, and the lawman that went with me will attest to overlooking it in his initial sweep.”

“Is what Madam Bernard says the truth?” the lawman nodded. “Be more careful next time, Mr. McCoy. Now bring Miss Summers to the stand."

A young girl still in shock approached the stand. She was afraid, so much so that she was trembling, but she did not speak. She only gazed at Bernard. Bernard had to look away from her fear, replacing the scared little girl with that of the brick walls of her island home.

J Bernard shook her head as the vision faded her memory. She scrunched up her eyes and scratched her head before draining her coffee cup before standing up abruptly and bringing the coffee cup to the sink. She rinsed it out with some water and placed it on the counter to dry.

Bernard went into her room to grab a light sweater and buttoned it up before pulling on her shoes, a pair of beat up flats. She grabbed her keys from a ring in the hallway and headed out the door, pulling the door shut behind her and turning the key, until the little click told her it was locked. She dropped the key into her sweater pocket and walked out onto South Road.

"The Recorder..." she mumbled to herself as she headed North, unsure of how she felt about her destination but wanting to get it over with. She walked deliberately, her arms wrapped around herself to keep her warm. She passed through the Market, through the sights sounds and textures that made it seem as if it was almost a normal village. She kept pace as she walked down the road, lost in thought that were more like flashes of memory than any concrete memory with specifics attached to them. She ached to remember sometimes but she buried herself in work to keep herself occupied. She sighed but her attention was rapt again when she spotted the building.

"The Recorder."