Chapter Text
Darkness.
Then light.
Woozy and discombobulated, the world swam into focus for the sweaty young schoolboy lying amongst the ruins of the broken aircraft.
He squinted, checking his body from toes to head, scanning for any injuries like one does when one has faced a most egregious tackle in rugby in PE. Not that Jack ever got tackled.
He was usually the one doing the tackling.
This gleeful thought seemed to summon his consciousness, and he felt the need to discover where he was and what devastating event had occurred immediately. Or, as his father would say, taking charge.
Ah, his father. Jack's heart always swelled with a complicated mix of emotions when he thought of the proud man. He desired nothing more than his approval, and when he gained it, he needed nothing more. His father punished him hard, and he had the marks to prove it, but how else does one become a man? Without his father, he would be nothing close to the successful leader he is today.
To his dismay, he noticed he was surrounded by trees, a deep saturated green far stronger in essence than any tree back in England. The humidity was nothing he had ever encountered, and his woollen Choir cloak was wet with sweat. But a man never removed his cloak; he was sure of it. He would bear through the suffering. It could only make him stronger after all.
Wreckage marred the wilderness, creating large blackened craters in the foliage and damaging some of the trees. Jack deduced that that was due to an engine fire.
He was a bright boy indeed, always getting top marks in Latin and arithmetic. Yes, he was destined for big things indeed. Small flies nipped savagely at his face, practically the only skin he was showing. In irritation, he ground one to death in his fingers, the starchy smell so animalistic and raw that he was sure of it.
This was not England.
And he was not alone. Other teenage boys emerged from the wreckage like rats caught under mugs in the dining hall. Jack was relieved that he wasn’t alone- but of course he wasn’t. It was all coming back to him now- the Choir trip, the terrifying plane crash where he was resigned to his fate. He had thought it was over for him. Obviously, the Lord had other plans.
Roger's blonde hair caught his eye, the solid boy with hard blue eyes pushing his way out from a particularly cluttered pile of machinery.
“Roger,” Jack said with a grin, pulling his friend to his feet. Roger grinned back in his usual menacing way.
“Hey, guys! We’re alive!” Maurice bounded over, an extroverted lad with dark hair and endless energy. Jack was unable to suppress how pleased he was to see him. Perhaps they were going to be alright after all. This could be a glorious adventure. Three best friends on an island together (and the rest of the Choir, of course). It was Coral Island! The ripping adventure novel that his father had read to him as a boy.
The rest of the Choir were all scuttling out of the ruins (like cockroaches, Jack thought disdainfully) and, of course, were looking to him for guidance.
As the leader of the Choir, it was his rightful place. In the centre… or was it the head? Or the top? ...of the pyramid or the ship or the table or the council…whatever it was, Jack was it (possibly all in one, but he never enjoyed bragging).
He cleared his throat, and the Choir numbly assembled themselves in a horseshoe around him. If a Catholic boarding school had taught the boys one thing, it was obedience.
He smirked at how they flocked to him, like sheep to a shepherd. And no, that godly reference was not by accident. He was, in their small minds, probably akin to their Saviour, the Good Shepard himself. It wasn’t blasphemous if it was true.
“Choir,” he began imperiously, drawing himself up, “It seems our plane has crashed on a mysterious place. Our pilot must be dead or missing, and it is up to us to set ourselves to rights. I say we head downwards, as my father told me to head downwards to find a water source. If we find a river, we can follow it to civilisation. If we find the ocean, we can assemble ourselves… Follow me, quickly.”
As his eyes scanned the pack, he inwardly flinched as his own watery blue ones met with a pair of dark brown ones. Eyes so brown they were almost black. Simon. The name was sour in his mind. He didn’t know why the boy got under his skin so much, but that feeling must be common, because to say that Simon was at the bottom of the pecking order would be an understatement. The boy was an outcast. A freak.
And Jack hated weirdos in his Choir.
There was something off about him. It had always been so since the first year, and Jack let him know it. It was probably his garish freckles and skinniness. Yes- what man was so slender and passive? A sign of weakness indeed.
He gave Simon a glare to assert dominance, and was met with his usual aggravatingly calm expression. His lack of reaction grated on Jack like the vicious bites of the flies, but no matter. Simon was nothing anyway. No friends, no future (probably). There was no need to waste his precious energy on him.
He turned away decisively, and, followed by Maurice and Roger, took his place in the lead of the sullen shuffle downhill.
It was terrain the boys had never encountered in the soft fields of England, and though travelling downhill, the undergrowth and vines were so thick and difficult to trek through that it was slow, tedious going. Salty sweat dripped into Jack's eyes and made his vision blurry. Sometimes boys would slide down for metres on rotten leaves and mud that just appeared out of nowhere. They were a sad sight indeed, their heavy Choir robes clinging to the dirt and dragging in the long, grassy foliage.
But there were no complaints, because they knew what would happen to them if they complained. Jack smiled to himself. It wasn’t an easy job creating troops so obedient and maintaining discipline and order. It was evidently his calling and vocation in life.
He strode ahead in athletic superiority (as usual), Roger close behind, and Simon straggling at the back (as usual).
Eventually, the ground levelled out, and his mind thought of Coral Island again as the scene in front of him emerged... This beach was probably the same one as in the novel! It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He proudly placed his leather-clad foot onto the flawless sand and dreamed about being the first to discover a lost continent. Then he realised he didn’t need to dream about it, he was doing it right now. He was the first to discover this paradise, the leader. The first one. The best.
How could things possibly get more exciting?
Something out of Coral Island indeed.
Delicious white sand lined bright blue water, water with hardly any waves and with a colour he had never known water was possible to have. The water in England was grey and tussled, and this one was like a silky blue elixir, begging him to slip into it. Smooth wet shells lined the shores of all colours and sizes, and the sky was a deep warm blue. Strange fruits decayed prettily on the sand, fallen from the fruit trees nearby. Flat stones pleaded with him to skip them into the water, like his father had taught him. It was paradise.
“Imagine the bathing!” exclaimed Maurice excitedly, but he knew better than to remove his Choir robe. Honestly, however, Jack was forgetting why wearing it was so important… he would love to dive in the water and swim like a fish with no worries or cares under the warm, bright sun…
His reverie was interrupted by the thudding of a body onto the sand. He turned sharply to see who had interrupted the Choirs' well-drilled discipline (two lines at all times, with him in his own unique line) and saw Simon sprawled out on the ground. Of course he had fainted. Typical.
His usually brown skin had a paleness, making his freckles contrast even more, and Jack thought he looked like some sort of… ugly bird, with his coat sprawled out beneath him. He watched silently as Simon gained his wits and staggered to his feet. It took him a while to notice Jack’s furious gaze, and he mumbled a sullen apology, his eyes still a little unfocused.
“Sorry. It’s just that this robe is too hot.” Simon started to remove it (even his hands had freckles), and Jack sneered furiously.
“How dare you even think of removing the robe?” he spat.
Simon's fingers faltered, and he stared at Jack with a muted expression. Jack's own face melted into one of amused disdain. He didn’t know why he was getting so riled up, but it became evident that it was because Simon kept testing his authority. Who did he think he was?
“And besides. It isn’t the robes’ fault. You always throw a faint, Simon. You’re weak.” He drawled.
Simon’s gaze was still calmly meeting his own, and his brown eyes were burning him. Embarrassed for some reason at the intensity of his gaze, he looked down, primly adjusting his Choir leader badge.
The other boys grinned, taking this as a cue to join in on the fun.
“It’s true,” Harold snorted, “you’ve fainted at least three times this semester alone.”
The laughter increased.
To Jack, it wasn’t funny. He didn’t detest Simon for passing out, though the boy seemed to do it excessively. That part, he could pity vaguely as someone less superior with poor health. And every time he fainted, he received bruises and sometimes hurt himself quite badly. No- it wasn’t the fainting. It was just something in his essence… his blank yet curious expression… the way Jack couldn’t exactly figure out who he was.
Maurice did a pantomime of a lady fainting, fanning himself vigorously on the floor, writhing on the ground mockingly, his voice a high-pitched squeak. “Oh, I’m Simon! I faint so that everyone looks at me!”
Jack let them jeer for half a minute, but it wasn’t pleasing him. Simon just seemed to be miles away from them, buried pleasantly in his own thoughts. This enraged Jack. His hands curled into fists. He wanted silence from everyone else. He wanted to really get a reaction out of Simon, one that he would relish. But he pushed down his rage. It was not productive. It was better to be mildly scornful.
“Choir. To attention,” he commanded, setting his sights further down the beach.
The choir immediately went silent and settled into their lines, Simon falling into his place at the back. He was debating what path to take, whether they should keep exploring, hunker down for the night or even.. swim, when a deep soulful call emanated through the island, throaty and foreign to anything he had ever heard. It was like a vicious music note, but not any flat or sharp he had ever sung, or played on the piano. When the call stopped, it echoed hauntingly around the bay.
“What could it be, Jack?” asked Roger with a malicious curiosity.
Jack spurred his thoughts to move faster.
“People… it sounds like some sort of trumpet.” He announced, finally, “It can’t be an animal. It must be a noise made by-”
A second call, longer than the first, cut him off. He usually didn’t let anyone interrupt him, but he let it slide.
“Come on, Choir.” He ordered, “The noise is coming from the other end of the beach. I’m sure of it. Let’s march.”
The group quickly melted into their formation, and like a flock of disciplined birds, followed Jack down the beach at a brisk march, towards the mysterious sound.