Sydney groaned as her eyes flickered open, flooding her eyes with unwanted light. She blinked several times, raising her hand up to shade her eyes. The sun shone brightly down on her as her other hand curled around something - grainy? Sand? She frowned and glanced down - sure enough, she'd grabbed a fistful of sand. She was laying on a stretch of beach. Somewhere farther off she could hear screams and shouts, and feel the heat of flames somewhere near her left, but she hardly registered it.
For a moment, she found, she couldn't move. It was then she realized Ian was half laying across her, pinning her down to the sand. She nudged him.
"Ian get off. I think... I think we crashed." She managed to murmur, reaching up to her forehead. When she pulled her hand back, it was covered with blood. That was obviously not good. She nudged her friend again.
It probably had something to do with the fact she was hanging upside down, and all the blood was rushing to her head. Her heart was still pounding in her chest - unfortunatley, she had not blacked out during the entire crash, and had seen it all from her seat. She'd merely closed her eyes and felt a sudden jolt - She was still strapped in her seat, hanging upside from a tree near the edge of a beach.
She reached down, fumbling with the belt for a moment, but it refused to come loose. Glancing around, her chances for help were slim - everyone down below was running and screaming around like a swarm of idiots, still near the flaming plane wreckage she'd just been flung from.
He was dying. He had to be. Nothing in life could hurt this bad. He felt like somebody had stuck a pair of pruning shears into his chest and just started snapping away at things. Felt like they'd done a pretty good job of it, too. He took a deep breath, and was slightly relieved to find that while it was extremely painful, it didn't sound or feel like he had any fluid in his lungs. Well, that was good, anyhow, but he felt like he was lying on top of something somewhat soft, but unyielding. He forced his eyes open, and discovered that the thing he was lying half on top of was Sydney.
He rolled over, quite painfully, and stared up at the blue sky, obscured by hazy smoke, wondering where the hell he was. Sydney's voice was the only thing he seemed to be able to focus on, and he tried to sit up, letting out a loud groan at the pain that wracked his chest. She thought they'd crashed? Yes, he figured that was a pretty safe bet.
"I'm...I'm okay." he managed, wheezing a little. "I'm...alive anyway. Syd...shit, Syd, you're bleeding."
Apparently Ian had been laying on her, cutting off the blood flow to her leg and numbing it, because when he rolled off, the blood began pumping again and pain shot through it. Coughing, Sydney pushed herself up - the world spun, and she nearly fell back over.
"You sound in worse shape than me." She whispered with a crooked grin. At least she could talk without wheezing. Hopefully he hadn't broken any ribs - bruised would be better, because they would heal faster. She looked down at her leg - her jeans were ripped open, revealing the long bleeding gash down her leg. She winced slightly. "Well, that doesn't look good."
Sydney glanced at Ian. "Come here." She stated and pressed a hand against his side. "Sorry if this hurts." She murmured, trying to tell if he'd broken any ribs.
Ray didn't really remember much. There was some shaking and some flickering of cabin lights and some dropping down of those disturbing little masks that he never listened to the demonstrations for. Luggage was falling from the overheads and people were screaming. Then there was a sound like metal tearing as though it was so much crepe paper, a lot of windyness ... and that was the point at which he'd passed out.
All had been peaceful after that. Except for just right now. A sharp pain was running up one of his arms, and instead of a fluffy pillow or something, he was face-down in something unpleasantly warm and grainy.
Pushing himself up -- and wincing as his bad arm screamed at him -- Ray brushed the sand off his face and opened his eyes. He was on a beach. Lots of people were on a beach. With lots of airplane debris. And his arm was bleeding pretty heavy and felt distinctly broken.
That was great. That was fucking greatness. "Fuck," he said, quite loudly to hear himself over the panicky din. For good measure, he added another one. "Fuck."
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