Work Text:
Dear Sergio,
It’s been ten weeks since our plane crashed on this godforsaken island, and I think I’m officially losing my mind. I suppose that’s why I’m writing a letter to a cat. As brilliant and purrfect as you are, I’m quite sure you never went to school and haven’t mastered the art of reading. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not like I could find a stamp or a postal service out here—believe me, I’ve looked. The bottles are too precious; we need them to collect water from trees and milk from the weird-looking ruminant we’ve adopted. So, literate or not, there’s zero chance you’ll ever get this letter, which is probably why I’m writing it in the first place. We’re not exactly expecting a rescue team, which means this letter is doomed to stay on this island forever, just like we are.
But it's okay. To be honest, we've pretty much come to term with that fact already. Morgan, Rossi, and I are so desperately horny we’re even planning to repopulate the place ourselves. Reid keeps pouring cold water on our dreams, though, saying it’s not viable because our descendants would all end up being related, potentially resulting in a mutant species. Or something like that. I tuned him out because, with his sunburns, he resembles a particularly skinny crayfish, and I don’t take advice from seafood. I hope he comes around, though, because if we pair him with Garcia and make sure she produces enough of his progeny, we could end up with a super-genius army. They might figure out how to rescue us, conquer the world, or build a futuristic super-genius society with the resources we super-genius-defficient normies haven’t been able to find yet.
Even Garcia and Reid have been about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine with that last bit, and no amount of scowling from Hotch will fix that, although his eyebrow game has been on point ever since he lost his toiletries in the ocean and stopped manscaping. It took him just two days without a razor to transform into a werewolf. Now, the island’s savage beasts are terrified of him, which is why Garcia has benched him from hunting. It’s unclear whether she’s afraid he’ll scare off the prey, is keeping him around to protect our rations from lazy predators, or if she just wants him as her personal bodyguard ever since she realized that even mosquitoes are frightened by his fuzzy frown. I, for one, think it’s the latter. I bet Rossi that soon Garcia will start cuddling our unit chief like he’s an overgrown teddy bear. If I win, I get three palm leaves and a coconut. Can’t wait!
Also, if I win, we might finally get some drama around here, as I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t take kindly to his Baby Girl using our boss as a furry pillow. Everything has gotten so dull that, two days ago, I found myself enthralled by one of Reid’s excruciatingly boring info-dumps about the sedimentation rates of deep-sea manganese nodules. And let me tell you, there shouldn’t be any situation where that tangent isn’t mind-numbingly dull. Even Reid must have found it tedious when he read about it, and he’s a nerd who thrives on reading the most unexciting stuff.
Being stuck on this island has become so uneventful that JJ—in a move straight out of Garcia’s playbook—has started befriending the trees around camp. She names them, gives them elaborate backstories, talks to them, and then shares juicy gossip about their scandals with us. It would be hilarious if she hadn’t decided to call a little sapling "Henry" and continuously comment on his milestones as if he were her own little boy rather than a completely unmoving and unspeaking plantling. I try to avoid this new version of JJ so I don’t exacerbate things with my own craziness, leaving her to the care of the genius shrimp. He’s unfortunately better equipped to deal with people hearing voices, and he has nothing else to do since he’s been prohibited from handling any kind of tools for obvious reasons. He almost died two hundred and forty-seven times—I made him tell me the exact number—since we arrived. How he survived an entire childhood caring for himself and his mother is beyond me. Now, he’s under close surveillance by Morgan, who looks ready to spoon-feed him if he so much as swallows in an unsatisfactory manner.
This constant watch is impressive given that Morgan is the most productive member of our camp. He’s built us huts, makeshift showers and toilets, an irrigation system, a stony chimney that doubles as an oven, a pantry, and even a chapel to keep Rossi happy. He’s also crafted a table and chairs, cutlery, dishes, tools, and hunting and fishing weapons—although we don’t fish anymore since we discovered that the smell of cooked sea creatures gives Reid intense flashbacks from his time with Hankel, a detail he conveniently omitted. I even asked Morgan if he could carve me a dildo, but Reid chimed in with an elaborate lecture on the health risks of wooden sex toys. Apparently—and I think I’m transcribing this faithfully and without too much paraphrasing—‘Wood, by its very nature, is a porous material, which means that in its untreated form, it would be virtually impossible to sanitize effectively. It would absorb moisture, creating an ideal environment for microbial growth, and over time, it would likely degrade, potentially leading to infections. Additionally, certain types of wood, especially some tropical hardwoods, contain naturally occurring toxins that could pose a risk. And, of course, without a proper varnish or sealant, you’d also run the risk of splinters—tiny fragments of wood that could easily embed themselves in your vaginal or anal mucosa, causing irritation or even more serious complications.’ Since then, I haven’t been able to look at him the same way because, really, why does he even know that? I mean, it’s Reid… He shouldn’t have felt compelled to research a single thing about sex toys! He’s still a baby!
So, as you can see, I’m learning a lot about the team during this never-ending vacation. Mostly, though, I’ve learned that you should never be stranded on an island with Rossi. He has an uncanny ability to avoid doing anything and to convince himself he’s alone on a tropical beach, pretending that the semi-coconut full of water he’s holding is an expensive cocktail. He’s also hoarding the palm leaves and coconuts, having declared them our new form of payment. Even on a deserted island with no preexisting economy, the man somehow manages to be loaded. It’s so unfair.
Anyway, I hope you find a nice alley where you can live and make a lot of friends because Mommy isn’t coming home anytime soon. So good luck to you, Sergio. And above all, good luck to me.
With love,
Emily.