lesamisdodw | Finally... Punching Africa!

Finally... Punching Africa!

Who: The Rescue Party (Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, and Jehan)
What: Embarking across the Atlantic to find their lost brethren
Summary: Plane rides, lions, supernatural encounters, and other African adventure shenanigans
Warnings: Language and Violence, very probable
General posting order will be determined by initial posts. (Intended as a loose guideline to prevent 5-person mayhem, and may change depending on who/how many are actively posting at a time.)
Status: Ongoing

Bahorel hummed absently to himself, lounging against a wall of the airport lobby. He checked his watch, ruffled through the stack of tickets in his hand, and tapped a foot against the backpack beside him. He was never very good at waiting.
Resisting the urge to wander around, he held his place impatiently, and waited for the others to arrive.

The pack at his feet was as small as he could manage, crammed with carefully planned supplies. It would be taken and stowed with the other baggage once they checked in, and he hadn't really brought anything in the way of carry-on luggage. Why burden himself more than he had to?
On the other hand, his lack of carry-on bags or frivolous objects meant that he was really, really not looking forward to this plane ride.

He hated planes.
Not because of the height, or the possibility of crashing and burning and death, but because they kept him trapped. Trapped in a tiny little excuse for a seat, crammed like a sardine next to other people (often strangers), with nothing to do. He hated being unable to move, to occupy himself with something physical.
Unless he was drunk, chatting with friends, or watching a movie, he was never one to sit still (and often didn't even during those activities). Plane rides were hell.
He desperately hoped he'd be able to just sleep through it. But he knew it was likely a lost cause. There was too much adrenaline pumping through his system already for sleep to be much of an option.
If only teleportation was real. Then he could just zap himself over there, and get started on the important stuff, without all the tedious waiting and sitting and stifling mind-numbing boredom in between.

He realized he was pacing, and made himself stop. The others would be here soon. It's not even that they were late, his impatience had driven him to arrive even earlier than they had planned. And once the others were here, he'd at least have conversation to occupy himself with, and maybe the plane would serve alcohol...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Courfeyrac carefully maneuvers his way through the rapidly filling airport, looking for the others, his bag held close to his body. His arm's still sore from where he was vaccinated yesterday, a fact he notices when someone runs into him.

He doesn't mean to give the person a glare. He's fairly certain he's not even very good at glaring--glaring tended to be more Bahorel or Combeferre's strength than his. But the man who ran into him still starts away, muttering a string of apologies, and no one else comes near him.

All right. Time to take a deep breath. The plane ride's going to be difficult enough without making it so no one wants to talk to him. None of these people are responsible for Enjolras and Grantaire being missing. None of them are responsible for the possibility of supernatural... whatever being involved. None of them have any control over whether or not the plane with him, Bahorel, Combeferre and the rest crashes, and some or all of them may die if it does.

And that's the problem. He really hopes that the plane crash that caused all this was mundane, that it's nothing that's going to happen again. What are the odds, right? But it frightens him, the thought of people dying pointlessly, helplessly, because of something that he and his friends did.

Though the Amis didn't cause the first crash, and there's nothing to say that there'll be another crash. Letting out his breath in a slow sigh, Courfeyrac scans the area again and spots Bahorel, pacing a hole in the floor. Smiling at the sight of his friend, he changes his path and raises his arm in greeting. "Hey there! You're looking a little too energetic for a seventeen hour plane ride."

"Don't remind me." Bahorel scowls at the thought of the coming trip.
"I'm glad you're finally here!" He claps 'Fey on the shoulder, ignorant of his vaccination soreness, but he finds out quickly as Courfeyrac reacts to the gesture. "Whoa. Sorry, man."

As 'Fey regains his composure, Bahorel digs through his pocket and pulls out his packet of tickets. "Now that you're finally here. Shall we get a move on?" He seems very eager to get going.

Courfeyrac rubs at his shoulder, but his scowl of pain quickly turns to a grin as he watches Bahorel. It's strange how easily simply being around other people can raise his mood. "We can get a move on. Though you know that we're just going to have to go sit some more and wait for the plane to board, and then sit some more while we wait for the plane to take off, and then sit for seventeen hours. There's going to be an awful lot of sitting in our future."

"You're doing this on purpose." Bahorel grimaces, and shoves Courfeyrac in his other shoulder. "Torture me all you want, but you're going to be the one who has to put up with me when I'm going out of my skull on this damn plane."

He picks up his bag, and slings it easily over one shoulder. Heading off to the check-in desk, he mutters, "The fucking gods and monsters and shit are going to be such a relief after this is done."

"I may be doing a bit of purposeful teasing." Courfeyrac grins. "I don't mind putting up with you on the plane ride, though. I'm sure I can be all sorts of distracting. And if all else fails, there's always buying a drink or two. Though we probably don't want to get drunk before getting to Africa. Actually, we might not want to get drunk with each other in the near future after last time."

Courfeyrac smiles at the woman who glances at their tickets and directs them to the proper line for security. She smiles back, a flicker of white teeth, and he feels himself relaxing even more. He's going to be traveling with friends, seeing new people, and the ultimate goal is saving other friends. Even if there's a lot of unknowns between now and that end, he's going to try to enjoy every minute of it. "Now, try not to get us pulled out of line as potential terrorists, all right? Today's one of those days I'm actually not up for a full-body pat-down, mainly because my arm's still sore from those ridiculous vaccines."

Bahorel shoots Courfeyrac a suspicious glance. "Depends on what kind of distraction you're talking about..."
Personally, getting to Africa while drunk doesn't sound to bad to him. Hell, it might make things easier.

But, would be hours (and hours and hours) in the future. For now, Bahorel is happy to be moving again, even if forward progress means standing in line. Despite 'Fey's misgivings, their trip through security goes smoothly. For Bahorel's part, with his only luggage already given over to the airline employees, and the walk and the company improving his mood, there is little trouble to be had as he passes through the scanner.
Slipping back into his shoes, he waits for Courfeyrac to catch up before heading off down the long halls to their boarding area.

"So, what's the plan once we reach the other side?" He asks. He had helped plan for their packing and survival gear, and had shelled out for the tickets, but beyond that he had left the strategy of this rescue up to the others. Meaning Combeferre. And whoever he had talked with about it.
All in all, 'Fey was a good bet for more information.

"Depends on how smoothly our trip to the other side goes." Courfeyrac bends down, getting his shoes and socks and pants back in the proper alignment. "Hopefully we're going to land, find a local guide, and head toward where they might have washed ashore. We're partially betting on Enjolras tending to be noticeable--and all this supernatural stuff making him more noticeable. We'll ask for information, we'll get a heading, and we'll find them. Then we'll head for home."

Courfeyrac rubs at the back of his neck as some of the tension from the morning returns. "The other possibility is that whatever brought down their plane brings down ours, in which case we swim like crazy for shore and then try to find any trail they might have left while keeping ourselves and everyone else alive for as long as we can. And not bleeding on the ground."

Combeferre is glad to get through security without being interrogated over his bag's contents. His checked bag, he was assured, followed all the rules and would reach its destination. Now to find Bahorel and Courfeyrac and the others.

He reached in his pocket for his cell phone and sent a message to each of the others.

"Just got through security -- sorry I'm late. Where are you?"

He bought a bottle of water -- then a second one, upon further thought, just in case things went wrong later -- and shoved them both in his cargo pants as he waited for a reply.

"Simple enough," Bahorel grins, "I like it."
He snaps his fingers and claps his hands together, fidgeting now that his baggage is gone. "Wanna get a beer?" He suggests, defaulting to the first time-waster that springs to mind.

They stop at one of the over-priced cafes that line up like dominoes in between the boarding gates, and Bahorel gets himself a drink and a sandwich. After which, he lounges around in the hard plastic chairs at the boarding gate. They aren't there for too long before his phone beeps. A few seconds later, 'Fey's phone twitters as well, and Bahorel sets his food down with a raised eyebrow at his friend. "Someone we know."

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he taps it awake to read the message. He refrains from commenting more out loud, as he assumes Fey is busy checking it for himself, and quickly types out a reply.
"Boarding gate. See you in a few."

He watches people go by for a while, chats with the others, gets up and paces around, browses nearby stores, sits back down and lays back (taking up 3 seats in a row), and has just finally slipped into a light snooze, when the first call to board finally sounds.

"Combeferre!" Courfeyrac throws his arms around his friend, heedless to his sore muscles. "I see that you're ready to go. Are those water bottles in your pants, or are you just thrilled to see me?"

It's good to have Combeferre here. It's good to be moving forward, getting things done, and he's grinning widely as he releases his friend. Let whatever monsters there are come at them, human or otherwise. They're ready.

The others gather, and Courfeyrac greets each of them with a grin and hug. By the time the call to start boarding the plane comes he's moved on to chatting with people outside the group, including a young couple sitting behind where Bahorel sprawls across a bank of chairs.

Combeferre returns Courfeyrac's hug with a smile. "Water bottles. You never know. But I am also happy to see you." Combeferre waggles one eyebrow at him, trying to pretend he's as lighthearted as Courfeyrac looks.

He's more than anxious to get going by now. After the mysterious and severely unsettling messages that came from Enjolras earlier, he had little faith his friends were really safe anymore. Added to his own (and growing) personal sense of foreboding, he was more than ready to find Enjolras and Grantaire and safely get them home.

Nudging Bahorel's foot aside, Combeferre sprawls out on the chair immediately next to the door they'll be boarding the plane through while Courfeyrac chats up half the other passengers. He glances at the board blinking their destination and sighs. Even when they reach Africa (after a very long flight across the Atlantic), they'll still have to undertake a second leg of the journey on some smaller plane or even overland, to get to the Niger River region where Enjolras and Grantaire and the rest of the party seemingly ended up. It was going to be a long day of travel. He was very, very glad his friends would be doing it with him.

Suddenly feeling restless in addition to the underlying anxiety and worry, he gets up and starts pacing around until they're finally called to board.

It's been 4 hours. He thinks...

4 hours and.... 74 minuts. Yep. Only tht lonnng into the ride.

Itwasnt to bad at first. The chair wasss... not bd.Not grate . b ut not bad. Annd he hda no luggagage to crwd hjis feet. Foot. Feet.,

But thenitwas jsut sittni and waeting. Lots. He treed to getup, to wakl raound. Btu atfer 10, 34, no 53! .... 45? mintes, there was trneblen. too mchi bumppness. Airlady toll d him to sit. He agruud,. btu she inisissted. Fey an Ferrre agreed. With lady. not Bahorl. So, he sat an put on teh fucknig stupid belt.

He ordred some berr. Then mroe bere. He tried wahcting teh movie thye had. It wsa bad, bbut it got bettter with mrroe beeer.
Thne it was dnoe. He talkde. Alot. Fey and Ferrer did too, sswas actully knid of funnnn.

And now itsts 5 hours an some in to fliying. Toooo long. don like beeing here. beeers gone too. leggss arre tapping. ache. too long sitting inn crammmmmmmmmped spot. stupid seat.
No beltsign noww. He wants to get jup. Walkk a bit. Btu Ferre isn the way. Hwo mucch longger ws plane goingn tbe?

"Um, Bahorel..." Courfeyrac tugs on his friend's arm to get his attention. Bahorel's been jittery the whole trip, a fact that Courfeyrac had thought a drink or two might help settle down. It didn't. If anything, it made it worse, especially as it turned from a drink or two to many and Bahorel became less coherent but no less insistent that he didn't want to sit still and he didn't like plane rides. "If you want to get into the aisle, standing up first would probably be a good idea. Crawling over Combeferre is just going to make things awkward. I'm not sure you walking around right now is the best idea, though. At least, not on your own."

Courfeyrac looks over at Combeferre, sitting on Bahorel's other side. "Do you want to take him for a walk, or shall I?"

He likes the idea of moving around, actually. He's not usually one to feel claustrophobic, but there's a growing sense of unease as they slowly, slowly approach the continent that devoured their friends so easily. It's not a sensation he can pin down, and it's not there all the time, but it's there right now, and he doesn't like it.

"I have to make a visit to the loo anyway," Combeferre sighs and stands up. "Come on, Bahorel, keep me company."

Combeferre doesn't particularly like walking on the plane while it's actually in the air. Logically, he's aware that his movement within the plane isn't going to affect the plane's forward motion (or anything else), he just dislikes the odd feeling he gets with the plane's subtle movements beneath his feet that remind him only a few bare inches of metal separate him from sky.

Their seats are towards the back of the plane, which means the toilet cubicle is at least a decent walk away. The flight attendants are in the other aisle, so at least there's a clear path.

"After all that alcohol, Bahorel, I'm surprised you didn't suggest this walk first."

"sTried." Bahorel prtests.s
"Btu you were ni theway." Reching forward he jabs Cobfeere with a figner..

Peeeong soiunds like good idea Hee realiszes his blatter his really full. H e treis to get nito the bahtoon, btu Ferer wont let mhim throgh the dor. He troes to go n aGAin. At Ferrre' s insitsence that he s tay out. he gets annnouyed. "I. Need. To. Peee!" He yells a t Cobmmerre, who fnially sems to get it an ltes him in. Whic was gud, becouse he was gonna peeee in the otuside othewifes.
Afetr hes done, , hen feels beter. He hsa too wiat for a fwe mninites thoguh becaise aparently Feer needd btahroom to. He wiats ncie an patient for Fere to pe, and smoe of the poeple near loko at him fuuny. He smlies at thm. Hes gto no prbloms now. Hes standng an mving an d blader is nto so fulll.

Afert Ferree is dne thy wakl a bit. An wen Ferrr dosn"t want to aniimore, fEy comes to wlak wjith him,
Tehn theysit. and talk smoemore. Wahct nothes movei. Itts funny, and eh lauhgs a liot. Myabe hell buy it when thy get home.
The ohters dont lte hmi drnki anymroe and the attenedents afgree. Its annoynig btu whit the fnnuy movie an his frends, its no so bad. He mabye sleps a bit.

Then,. sudenly, everyhitng is louud. Loude an d shakkying. Ther are screms. He wnts to actbut his disorentated. He loks to Ferrr and Fey''s rections to hlp him take stok of teh situaution,. Somthings vrry wrong. Neds to fgure it otu and act.

Courfeyrac keeps Bahorel from buying another drink and from starting a fistfight over not getting to buy another drink, earning a look of appreciation from the stewardess. Distracting Bahorel with a movie proves to be a valid strategy, and he smiles as his friend gives a running commentary in half-comprehensible sentences. Hopefully Bahorel will sober up by the time they actually land.

Thinking about their destination makes the vague sense of unease that's been dogging him return with a vengeance, and he straightens in his chair, frowning out the window. They're getting close, finally. There's actually land visible outside the window, small strips of hazy green in the distance. Another hour or two and hopefully they'll be at their destination.

Except... it feels like someone's watching him, though he knows that no one is. It feels like something's *waiting* for him, eagerly, waiting for them to just get a little closer, a little nearer, the disciples pulled down with their leader, power enough to do anything, to burn everything if needed or desired. There is a roaring in his ears, a flash of blood and scales in front of his eyes--

Courfeyrac pulls away from the window with a low cry, his hand immediately reaching back for Bahorel or Combeferre's touch. He's shaking, though he doesn't sense or see anything else, not even the vague unease from before. Was that just a nightmare of some sort, brought on by too much tension, too many strange things happening too close together? Turning to Combeferre, he tries to sort his thoughts into something that won't sound half-mad. "Combeferre, have you--"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence as a wave of turbulence slams into the plane, oxygen masks drop, and alarms start going off.

The sudden drop was, perhaps, one of the most terrifying feelings he had experienced in this current lifetime. He makes sure to get his own mask secured, as per safety protocol, before wrestling with Bahorel, who is still rather drunk it seems, to help him with his.

This is not good. Very not good. Combeferre feels an old, half-formed thought return to him as the plane lurches and drops toward the earth: that some force is drawing them -- Enjolras, Grantaire, and now them -- to Africa, but violently. How else to explain both planes crashing in the same region of western Africa, as soon as their plane comes within sight of the land? How else to explain the odd and unsettling feelings deep within his psyche, that they both belong here and shouldn't be within a million miles of here? He couldn't disapprove of Bahorel's method of dealing with his unease and restlessness: at least Bahorel didn't have to think about the problems as much while drunk.

Combeferre was suddenly very glad he wasn't alone, and he reaches blindly for both Bahorel and Courfeyrac, unwilling to let them go. He was also very, very glad his carryon bag was at his feet.

Hesstruggles as arms sudddnly wrestle wth him. Depsite his resistance, they shove smething down ovver his face.

A few breaths inn and out, and the world abruptly has more clarty. The cabin is shaking. White-faced attenddants try to reassure the passengers, while only marginally hiding their own terrorr.

More arms reach across himm. Clasping onto him, and onto each other in front of him.
Ferre and Fey. They each have an air mask of there own. Each breathing hard, eyyes constantly scanning, hands linked for comfort.
He adds a hand to theirs, as a second rush of adrenaline spikes through his blood, sharpening his mind even further.

He begins to look around for real, leaning past Fey to get a view out the window. He tries to sight land, or at least the water surface, whatever he can see to tell him something of their elevation and orientation. When they hit, which he felt with no small certainty that they would, where would be the safest?

"In Enjolras and R's flight," he asks the other two, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be overheard, "Which part of the plane survived?" He glances around meaningfully at the passengers, "If the same thing is happening, this plane might take similar damage. If you remember which part of the last plane survived, we could try to get as many people as we can into that section."

His thoughts were cut off abruptly, the rumbling and clamor of the doomed cabin replaced with the booms and cries of other times, other people. Flashes of sight and sound and sensation: riots in the street, desperate battle across the deck of a tall ship, duels and crashes and executions, all scenes of death and violence, flickered briefly through his mind. Just the ghosts of each memory, barely touching his consciousness, but the whole parade sparking with a familiarity beyond simple deja vu. He had seen them all before many times, in dreams and in similar fits of vision.

They were what he had reclaimed first. Of all of the memories of his past lives, it was always his death that he remembered first. But usually, they blossomed within his mind as something of a welcoming ceremony, to admit a newly remembered memory to the fold. In moments of danger, of adrenaline, they came spiraling up from somewhere within him, bringing a new death from an old life riding in. But this time was different. Nothing new assailed him, simply the ghosts of old fights and old sacrifices. And somehow, that absence unsettled him. It left a hanging emptiness in his mind, as of something missing from it's proper place. A hanging thread left undone...

Shaking his head, pushing himself back into the moment, he growls in frustration. No time for this. They need to act, and act fast.

"The rear part of the plane was the part that survived. The part they were sitting in." Courfeyrac tightens his hold on Bahorel's hand as Bahorel's eyes go unfocused for a moment. "Bahorel? You all right?"

Bahorel shakes his head, growling low in what's probably frustration, and his eyes refocus.

There's no time to worry about Bahorel as the plane lurches again, metal screaming loud enough to drown out the terror of the passengers. And it is terror in the air, a thick, sour, horrible smell and feel that seems to beat physically against Courfeyrac with each pounding of his heart. "The back of the plane! Get to the back of the plane!"

He doesn't know how many hear him. Some, apparently, because a few passengers drive further back, attendants shoving them into seats and securing oxygen masks on them before belting themselves in.

Then there isn't time to act anymore, and Courfeyrac loses all sense of what's real and what isn't as a dragon tears apart the metal griffin they're riding within, dropping everyone into the cold sea. He barely manages to keep his hand locked on Combeferre's arm as the world seems to shift and swerve in nonsensical ways before they come to a bone-jarring stop amidst a deluge of water and personal effects as carry-on bags slide from the overhead compartments.

Combeferre tries to ignore the cold seawater and latches onto one of Bahorel's arms. The shore isn't too far away, and he shouts, "Come on, to shore."

There is no time to think about the terrible sense of dread and foreboding knotting up his innards. More important not to drown or be killed by the wreckage of the plane bearing down on them before they get clear of the debris. A part of him registers the bag hanging off the crook of his elbow, but it's too hard to swim for shore while clinging to his friends and trying to get free, and think about his stuff. In the back of his mind is a tiny alarm bell about the stowed luggage, but he ignores it.

The shore is a narrow beach that quickly turns to brush and jungle and wild land. No wild animals or other people in sight, so hopefully they can regroup once they get onto dry land and make sure as many people as possible don't drown or otherwise become victims.

"Courfeyrac?!" he calls over his shoulder, suddenly panicking when he can't see his friend.

"We're here." Bahorel calls back, as he and Courfeyrac tread water amidst the floating wreckage, coming into view from behind a few larger pieces of torn-up seating. He voice croaks as he does so, and he coughs, makes a face, and spits out some salt-water.

"Lets get to land!" He suggests, though he assumes they're all thinking it already, and swims along parallel to the others as they navigate past floating bits of plane and the more buoyant pieces of luggage. Hopeful, he keeps an eye out for his own backpack, but curses softly as they begin to clear the cluttered stretch of water without any sign of it. He suspects that there were not too many items within it that would've kept it afloat, anyway.

The shore is farther away than it looks. It takes a decent stretch of swimming, and numerous mouthfuls of brackish water) before he feels his feet hit the shallows. It is an unpleasant journey, but he is in optimal shape (his routines at the local gym have seen to that), and he slogs up onto the beach without undo effort. His body seems more tired from the adrenaline and shock of the crash than from any strain from the swim. He carefully checks himself over, looking for injuries, feeling for sore points. Judging by the response he gets back from his nerves, he's going to be a nice shade of dappled plum by this evening. On the positive side, he doesn't feel anything seriously wrong, nor are they any open wounds.

He turns to the others, "Are you two all right?" He looks them up and down, performing the same assessment he had just finished on himself. "Remember the rule about bleeding."

"Right. No bleeding. I'm not bleeding, I don't think. Everyone else not bleeding?" Courfeyrac checks himself over quickly, pleased to find that he feels relatively all right. He's sore, the stiffness of bruises that are too new to even show from their rough landing, and if he never tastes salt again it will be too soon, but he's alive and breathing and so are the others. That's the important thing. He even has his backpack with him, having grabbed it from underneath his seat in the mad exodus from the plane.

He reaches out to touch Combeferre's shoulder briefly, reassuring himself that the other man is really there and present, before turning back to the water. Raising his voice, he calls out a command to those straggling up onto the beach with them. "Get everyone out of the water! If you've got the strength, help those around you get onto shore."

He claps Bahorel on the shoulder and grins at Combeferre as he drops his bag on the beach and then heads back into the waves. His body may be shaking, but it's the same type of shakiness he remembers from 1832, a combination of adrenaline and determination that he can use if he applies himself to a task.

Once everyone who survived the crash is on land and not in danger of immediately dying, he can ask Combeferre if visions of dragon-creatures and blood and a sense of being a valued specimen in a jar mean anything to him. As well as whether or not Combeferre thinks they should stay with this group of people or, given what happened to Enjolras' small collection of survivors, if the other crash victims would be better off if the Amis took off on their own as soon as possible.

Because even though the sense of unease and observation has faded again, he doesn't trust this continent as far as he can throw it. And given that it's a continent and he's a rather waterlogged and bedraggled human, he's not throwing it very far.

Combeferre had seen a very familiar box bobbing in the waves as he made his way to shore. He would not allow it to sink, and didn't even allow himself to get to shore before turning back around to fetch it. He tosses his soaked backpack -- it wasn't waterproof and therefore his laptop and phone were probably worthless by now, but at least the underwear in it would come in handy later -- towards Bahorel and Courfeyrac before swimming back out.

The box he had checked for stowage in the plane's baggage compartment had been the best he could find at the time. He knew what the box contained: a few more clothes, some supplies for the outdoors, and most importantly his pair of pistols. After this, he would absolutely not be trekking into the unknown unarmed. It may well be that forces beyond their understanding were operating here, but the supernatural did not erase the natural, and he had no wish to be gored by a rhinoceros or eaten by lions or chased by cheetah or indeed deal with any other of the usual wildlife, if he didn't have to. The unease lessened slightly the instant he had a firm grip upon the box's handle.

Nearby were a few more of the plane's passengers, and with his other hand Combeferre waves at them while treading water. He could see, even from the distance of thirty or so feet, that they're hysterical. His belongings are heavy and hard to move, but he manages to get them moving towards shore. Thankfully, one of the group understands that the seats, torn out of the innards of the plane, are meant to be buoyant, and soon four more people are heading to the safety of shore.

Finally, Combeferre gets himself to shore, and once he's clear of the surf, he all but collapses to a sitting position near Courfeyrac and Bahorel. "Not bleeding," he answers the question belatedly, after a quick pass over his face and shoulders. "Perhaps quite bruised. I couldn't leave my pistols behind," he says with a grim smile, as he pulls them out of his box.

"I'm sorry I don't know what your things looked like," he apologises. "Otherwise I'd have looked for you."

His backpack was wet, but he figured he could discard the useless things and carry the useful within it, even if his friends' belongings could not be salvaged.

"Don't worry about it," he says in response to Combeferre's apology. "Serves me right for not bringing a carry-on." He smiles wryly, "Guess I wasn't fully prepared for the plane crash scenario."

He sobers, and thinks on this, as he helps the other two guide the survivors toward them. It takes a while, and a few trips back and forth into the brine, to help those unable to get themselves to shore, but eventually all those they had managed to spot in the water and remains of the wreck were led or hauled onto the sand.

Grabbing his friends' attention for a quick moment, he speaks in a quiet but urgent voice. "I know these people need what medical attention and guidance we can give them. But once we've provided that, we need to separate from them." He darts a look somewhere between an uneasy glance and a challenging glare at the plane wreck, and then at the trees further upshore. "It really happened. Two wrecks in a row is no fluke. We're a danger to these people if we stay with them."

"I was thinking the same thing." Courfeyrac speaks quietly, for only Combeferre and Bahorel's ears. "This wasn't a fluke. Even aside from the statistical unlikelihood, there was... something. I *felt* something, right before we crashed, like there was something, a... a force watching us. Waiting for us. Grabbing for us. Blood and fire and scales."

Rubbing at his head, Courfeyrac frowns, trying to make sense of the scattered images and impressions that have survived the crash.

Giving up on getting anything more useful from the memories, at least for now, Courfeyrac scans his eyes over the scattered survivors. They're now starting to from groups of their own, mainly based on who was traveling together. Some are crying; some are comforting their companions; some are checking water-logged cell phones and computers. "I hate the idea of leaving them. We're going to have to do some fast talking to make sure no one follows or challenges us about it. But I also don't want to lead a death-march through the jungle if whatever caused this decides to go at us again. Opinions, Combeferre?"

"Well, I agree we shouldn't draw undue attention to ourselves." Combeferre pulled the two water bottles from the airport out of his cargo pants. "I tried to think ahead. I don't know how much of our things sank, but since I rescued some of mine at least we have some water and--" he double checked the box "--a knife and a first aid kit."

He chewed his bottom lip for a minute, thoughtful. "Normally I wouldn't advocate leaving behind people in need," he began slowly, "but if we stay and help them, they will look at us like we know what to do. Like leaders or--or mentors. And if they think of us as "leaders" or even have an inkling they know we know what to do, they won't leave us alone. We wouldn't be able to avoid the death march through the jungle with a group of crash survivors in tow."

Combeferre had felt the evil spirits too, that Courfeyrac described, and shuddered a little. They were the most malevolent presence he could ever remember. He knew it could only get worse, and the idea of dragging innocent bystanders into a possible spiritual hell was not an option for him.

"It's an awful thing to suggest, leaving people stranded here. But if we just go quietly, without attracting attention ... that might be better anyway." He gave Bahorel and Courfeyrac a grim smile. "We need to find Enjolras and Grantaire fast. I don't know if they need to be rescued or what, but I can feel it. The foreboding and dread and sense that there are Enemies" he pronounced the word to make the capital letter evident "hunting us. I don't think they're dead. I can feel our friends' spirits, somehow. It's nothing tangible. Just--a feeling. You know that white noise when you leave the tv on after taking out a movie? It's sort of like that. That's how I know they can't be dead. And so we should find them. I wish I had a compass," he said, suddenly frustrated with what he didn't have. Sure, the pistols were reassuring, but he could never find his way without signs, maps, or best of all a GPS, and he was a little worried that in this great big jungle in this great big continent it might take far too long to find their friends.

"Whatever's out there, we'll take it down." Bahorel replies with a grin, cracking his knuckles.

He is angry at this whole scenario. Angry that Enjolras and R got stranded and attacked here. Angry that two, now, planeloads full of people had been injured, traumatized or killed.
Angry that their best choice was to leave a blatantly hurt and scared group of people to fend for themselves.
Angry that something, something beyond what they could easily see or name, was targeting them.

And like he always does when angry, he longs for action. Something to punch, something to confront, something to beat to all hell until things are put right again.

"They'll be safer without us," he repeats quietly, as much to himself as to the others, looking back briefly at their fellow survivors. "Whatever crashed the damn plane won't be after them, for one thing." He mutters. He hopes, fiercely, that once the three of them have left, that help will find these people all the more quickly.

He grits his teeth, then abruptly shifts to a wry half-smile, and carefully slips away into the jungle brush.

"I agree. They're not dead." Courfeyrac closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the sense of Enjolras and Grantaire being out there, just beyond his reach, alive and fighting, and he desperately wants to be with them. It's a sense he's been having since he first heard of the plane crash. It's one of the reasons he believed so happily, so readily when strange messages began appearing on Enjolras' journal. His connection to his two friends hasn't been broken. They're still out there.

And he and the others are going to find them and bring them home.

The fact that they have to start by abandoning people they could help stings, but forcing himself to remember what Eddie had said about the others dying helps him to come to terms with it. Hopefully rescue will find these people. If it doesn't, at least they won't get eaten by carnivorous trees. "We're currently walking targets. And even though I share your faith, Bahorel, that anything targeting us--or Enjolras--has bitten off more than it can chew, we'll be sparing these people that trauma, at least."

Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, he unzips it and pokes through the water-logged contents, eventually pulling out a compass. A towel and some ibuprofen and a set of dry clothes that didn't have sand in them would be appreciated--especially a set of dry shoes, the squelch every time he shifts his weight is going to drive him insane--would also be appreciated, but the compass will do. Holding it out to Combeferre, he smiles. "Here. I think I packed about a half-dozen of these, all in different parts of my luggage, and now I feel less paranoid and more prepared. At least we can know what direction we're walking in."

Bahorel says something quietly, and Courfeyrac turns to ask him to repeat it only to see Bahorel slipping off into the jungle. Turning back to Combeferre, he grins widely, pushing his sea-drenched hair away from his face with one hand and gesturing toward the jungle with the other. "After you?"

Edited 2013-04-24 21:15 (UTC)

Combeferre's backpack was sodden but it still carried the things he deemed necessary: the clothes would dry; the pistols were safe; the first-aid kit and the knife would help them in case of... jungle mishaps. He hopes.

Following Bahorel into the dense jungle, he feels all the hairs rising on the back of his neck. There are entities here that aren't friendly, and he shudders despite the heat and humidity. Glancing back, behind Courfeyrac, Combeferre can see some of the survivors forming into a group near the beach. None of the survivors seem to have taken any notice of the three of them, which he counted a small relief. Some were still floating in the waves, perhaps looking for more people or whatever other baggage floated to the surface, but he wasn't going back again. No. It's time for them all to start the search for real.

Combeferre's shoes made squelching noises with each step, and he hoped he would dry out a bit as he walked, though the muggy air was oppressive in the jungle.

"It doesn't feel right here," he mutters, turning toward Courfeyrac. "I feel as though someone is stalking us."

Bahorel hears 'Ferre's comment and frowns.
As they hike, he keeps as hyper-alert as his plane-crash-rattled brain will allow.

The going is slow and uncomfortable. The undergrowth and lower-story vegetation is terribly dense. It's difficult to make clear headway in any one direction without endless rerouting to get past obstacles, or a lot of hacking with a knife and generally getting tangled. Bahorel is in good shape, but the muggy cloying air and the rough going quickly soaks his clothes with sweat. Finally, with a muffled curse, he gives up and pulls his shirt off over his head. With the high canopy above offering protection, sunburn is less important to him that heatstroke.

He doesn't see or hear anything definitive during this first leg of the walk. But he feels what 'Ferre spoke of: a sense of presence and intent, of something bearing down on them. Getting closer....

"I wish it would fucking show itself." He growls finally, as they stop to take a short breather. "We're here. It made sure of that. What more does it want?" He kicks at some offending vines, punctuating his sentences. "It better. show itself soon. I hate. feeling like. something is. hunting me." He reigns his temper in, and stops kicking in order to catch his breath again. This walk was counter-productive enough without wasting his energy.

"I think you have thoroughly defeated that particular vine." Courfeyrac sets down his bag and stretches aching muscles. "Unfortunately it has about seven thousand avenging relatives that are now going to make our lives miserable."

Swatting at the nearest mosquito, Courfeyrac frowns in annoyance. He can understand why Bahorel decided to attack the tree, just like he can feel the same unease that Combeferre had given voice to. There's something out there. There's something following them... or drawing them. He doesn't like either option. Today has pretty much been a day of dislikes, actually. Plane crashes are just as unpleasant in person as in imagination. Abandoning people is one of the hardest decisions he can remember having to make, and he remembers enough flashes of battlefields to have plenty of instances to draw from.

Snippets of memory rise up again, disorienting. Fighting with a sword. Screaming with a gun in his hand. Huddling in the sand while something explodes nearby, deafening him with a whine.

Shaking his head, Courfeyrac pushes the memories away. Strong emotion has always been his connection point to his memories, but they aren't helpful now.

He's just about to suggest that they begin walking again when there's the sound of rustling in the underbrush, and he tenses, gesturing toward the area. He doesn't know if they need to prepare for a wild boar or for something less mundane, but preparing is a good idea either way.

He's not sure there's anything that could prepare him for a naked human child to stumble into their little clearing. The girl's small, perhaps three feet tall, her skin the same brown color as the tree she leans against. The child tilts her head, staring between the three of them, and a tiny bell woven into her hair chimes, the sound beautiful and out of place amidst the droning of insects.

All of Combeferre hurts. His head and shoulders ache with all the residual bruises from the plane crash. His ankle hurts where he tripped over a particularly large tree branch low to the ground. His legs ache from trudging over hostile terrain. And he was sweating like a pig in the muggy jungle air.

"At least none of the other plane survivors followed us," he said as he stretched out on a pile of leaves. Combeferre didn't expect to see poison ivy here, per se, but he was still glad for the long cargo pants. He declined to follow Bahorel's example, despite how hot and sweaty he's become, because he's sure there's nasty jungle insects waiting to bite his bare skin. Having a shirt stuck to hot and sweaty skin may be uncomfortable but Combeferre is firmly certain that it's better than bug bites and rashes from poisonous plants.

Hauling out the water bottles from his pants pockets, he offers them to his friends. The water isn't even slightly cool anymore, what with the humidity and the proximity to his skin, but water is water. But as soon as he does so, Combeferre catches sight of the child.

"Who are you?" he calls out, uncertain if this is a lost child or a manifestation of the spirits, a mirage designed to drive them mad or at least astray. Combeferre wouldn't doubt that perhaps some native tribes lived here, but still the child shouldn't be wandering out here alone even if she did live here.

"And what?" Bahorel chips in. "Because unfortunately, we need to ask that of everything from here on."

He raises an eyebrow at the girl, who stares back at him in bewilderment. "... Add 'Do you speak English?' to that list." He amends with a shake of his head.

bite

"Ow! Sunnofa-" He slaps at himself, but misses the offender. He is about to put his shirt back on, but pauses. He looks between the shirt, and the girl, a few times.

And then wordlessly holds it out to her.

The girl takes a step back from them, grimacing at the shirt that Bahorel holds out to her, staring at it in obvious distaste. She doesn't reply to either Combeferre or Bahorel, but she doesn't run, either.

"Hi there." Courfeyrac smiles at the child, taking a step toward her. He tries switching into Spanish, hoping that maybe she'll understand that. "Are you from around here? Who are you?"

Tossing her head, setting the tiny silver bell in her hair to chiming again, the girl stares at him, mouth pursed as though she's bitten into something bitter. She spits out a string of words in a language that Courfeyrac definitely doesn't understand, her voice deeper than he expected but also strangely melodic. The wind picks up, stirring the trees around them, and there's something of that sound in her voice, too, a gentle undercurrent that mimics the quiet rustling of the forest.

"Sorry." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I don't speak that language."

The girl rolls her eyes, turning away in frustration.

Something bites at Courfeyrac's neck, a sharp, stinging pain, and he swats at the offending insect.

He doesn't know if he gets the mosquito, but a tiny firefly drifts away from him and toward the child. It lands on her arm, and she turns to look at it, her expression changing to one of amusement and, eventually, serenity. The firefly takes off, and she turns back to them, smiling widely, displaying small, perfect white teeth. Tilting her head to the side, causing the bell to ring once more, she takes a small step toward Courfeyrac and speaks in quiet, stilted French. "Where are you going?"

Ah, French. Something familiar. Combeferre brushes away some bugs hovering around his head.

"We're looking for our friends. Have you seen anyone else come this way?"

Was it possible that this child had seen Enjolras and Grantaire? knew where they were going? Was it possible that she wasn't, in fact, a child at all? From what they knew from the beginning of this trek, anything at all could be possible.

Combeferre focuses on the child's face and features. Her hair, and the bell within it. Her lack of clothes. Something about her just doesn't seem to fit. Her voice sounds too old; her expression belies far more years than a child of that size should have. Though nothing in her expression or body language indicates hostility, Combeferre feels wary.

"You look for friends?" The girl's French seems to improve as she continues to speak. "The angel with hair like the sun and eyes like the sky, and his dark shadow?"

She takes a step closer to the group, smiling now.

Bahorel withdraws the shirt with a bark of laughter, pauses to pull it on, and remarks. "Sounds just like them. Where'd you see them, kid?"

Muffling a curse he swats at a few more bugs, and stiffens. Distracted from the conversation for a few seconds, he looks around, and even glances up.

"Okay, this is a fucking weird question. But did anyone else hear geese? Are there geese in Africa?"

"Geese?" Courfeyrac frowns, tilting his head and listening. Perhaps he hears something, but there are so many strange bird sounds that it's probably just one of them.

Probably, but not necessarily, given that they know supernatural things are occurring. "I don't hear any geese, but I'm not the best at recognizing bird calls. You hear any geese, Combeferre?"

Turning his attention back to the girl, he considers her answer. He could see Enjolras and Grantaire being described like that, and there's a part of him that jumps at the possibility of having found a guide to them. On the other hand, what are the chances that this girl has not only seen their missing companions, but knows where they are and isn't planning something dangerous? "When did you see our friends? Do you know where they are now? Ow."

Courfeyrac slaps at another biting insect, frowning. At least some of the bugs are pretty, fireflies dancing amidst the others, blinking around Combeferre and Bahorel as well as him.

The girl laughs, the bell in her hair tinkling wildly. "There are only so many people like you here. How could we miss you or your friends? I would very much like to see you reunited with your companions, too. So please."

Holding out a hand to Combeferre and to Courfeyrac, the child smiles widely. "Follow me."

"Geese?" Combeferre tilts his head: and there, a faint honking. "I'm not sure. They exist in many places around the world, perhaps not impossible to imagine them here." He pauses. "As I can't see them, and only heard them for a moment, I can't really be certain that they are geese and not, in fact, some other native bird species."

The insects around them are becoming insufferable, Combeferre decides. Even with a shirt on they are alighting (and biting) on all available bits of exposed skin. He wishes he had insect repellent, or citronella, or something on him. And as brightly coloured as some of the insects are, Combeferre well knows that many times, the vivid colouring is nothing more than a warning to larger, predatory beasts to stay away or be poisoned. He hopes that they're no worse than the mosquitoes and biting flies back home; and he hopes doubly that the many immunizations and preventive medications taken before the trip worked their magic the way they were supposed to. Sighing, he looks at the girl.

"Well, if you know where our friends are, then you know more than we do, so why not."

He glances first at Courfeyrac, then Bahorel. "I don't know if it's a trap or not, but it's worth seeing this through, just on the chance that we find Enjolras and Grantaire at the end of this trail." He spoke softly, intending only his friends should hear. Not that he was sure the girl understood the language he spoke. Combeferre does feel the apprehension that seems to hide behind his friends' expressions, but they are, after all, in very unfamiliar and dangerous territory.

"Fine." Bahorel agreed, swatting ineffectively at the hovering cloud of insects. He scowled at them, then faced their guide with only a marginally nicer expression.

"Lead on." He urged her gruffly, and resumed the trek through the muggy, tangled jungle, just behind his two friends and the girl. After a few moments of wary silence he spoke up again.

"This better not be a trap." He flashed his teeth, as she glanced back at his words. "If you're trying to fool us, you'll regret it." He growled, loud enough to be understandable, quiet enough to bring the point home. "And you better tell us what you know. Everything you know about what's happened to our friends. I want answers."

He had a brief thought that intimidating this small girl was not exactly fair. But, given the circumstances, her odd amount of knowledge and poise regarding them, and the general tension of the situation...
Fuck it, one way or another, she's trouble, he decided. He eyed her unhappily from the back, and slapped with irritation at his neck. Maybe he should be even more worried that the first person, or being, they encountered looked so small and weak. It practically reeked of storybook treachery.

She set a good pace at least. With her as a guide, the three travelers finally started making progress through the dense, greenery-choked, environment.

"All that I know of your friends? I do not think you know what you ask." The girl smiles back at Bahorel, and the bell in her hair tinkles brightly, a mimic of laughter. Then the girl stops, still, completely quiet, and eyes the three travelers coldly. "This is what I know, what all of us know. I know that they came this way. I know that they bring great things with them--great change, great danger. I think I know where they are going, and I will guide you toward that destination."

"How?" Courfeyrac leans down so that he's on eye-level with the child again, debating between reaching out to touch her and keeping his hands at his side. The paranoia that the others feel isn't something he's immune to. "Why do you know them, and why are you guiding us?"

"Where they walk things wake and blood flows." The child turns away from him, heading into the jungle. Her voice is cold. "Do you know how much death has already come to those in their shadow? No, of course you don't. You are still sleeping, yourselves. No matter. Follow me. I will guide you."

The child doesn't respond to further questions, shaking her head as though she doesn't understand, and Courfeyrac shrugs before traipsing along behind her. They've no better leads, and she seems to be leading them westward, in the vaguest idea he has of the proper direction.

The insects continue to harass and bother them, biting repeatedly, and Courfeyrac swats at them, hoping that crushing a little blood-filled body against a tree or into the dirt won't count as bleeding on the ground. It's only after an hour or so, when he absently scratches at his arm and realizes that it doesn't itch terribly like he normally would after mosquito bites, that he realizes how different this is from normal. Suppressing a little shiver, he studies his unmarred skin, telling himself that having a healing factor is a good thing. Really.

They finally stop for the night as it's getting dark, in a small clearing near a swift-flowing stream. The girl turns to them, and her eyes gleam bright in the fading light. "We'll stay here for the night. Sleep. Eat."

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Finally... Punching Africa!

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