Who: James Sawyer and James Potter What: Waking up in the Woods Where: The Woods, near the South Gate When: Day 19, Mid-Morning Warnings: Mild language from Sawyer is probable Status: Incomplete
James was the type to be intimately familiar with different types of sleep. There was sleeping after a hard day's work, sleeping because you had to, sleeping because of drugs (or booze), and of course sleeping because of a good hard thump to the head. The sleep James was waking up from right now, didn't quite feel like any of those. First and foremost, he hadn't passed out when coming out of the water. The swim had been tough, sure; but, not so tough that he'd have just passed out. So, then came the mental question of drugs or a thwack on the noggin - and from the best he could surmise, he didn't feel that strange gritty wooziness that came after a good high and none of the dull throb from a good whack.
What James did feel was an odd heaviness. He was still wet, covered in salt water and surprisingly chilled. The island never got this cold. The island never felt this dry. Hazel eyes fluttered open, looking around and taking in his disquietingly unfamiliar surroundings. This place didn't feel like the island. In fact, it felt decidedly not like the island.
It was unnerving to consider that he might not be where he was supposed to be.
Slowly, the brute of a man sat up, a journal had been set on his chest and he reached up to hold it in place as he moved. There was a big fucking wall right in front of him, and beyond it's gate he thought he saw something like a damned city.
"What the fuck kinda Dharma-ville is that?" He muttered, shifting in the dead leaves and underbrush. It was then he realize he wasn't alone.
Oh, Sawyer was intimately familiar with this game.
"Hey Champ," he'd say, finding a stick to poke the other man's side with. "Time to get up and have us a good talk."