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10 June 2007 @ 11:30 pm
 

Clovis has been busy. He's finished putting together his little stick-hut on the beach several paces away from the rest of the camp. It's about eight meters squared and has a palm frond roof. The musician doesn't seem to care much that it will likely blow over the first time they get a storm. He's sitting on a log that he dragged over to use as a seat in front of his own little fire. He's currently idly plucking away on his guitar.

Cipto has generally been content to stay in the main part of camp, using his less-elaborate shelter for little more than a sleeping space and choosing to spend other idle time outdoors. This is a relatively idle moment, which has been occupied by quietly sitting under a tree, eyes half-lidded and chin perched on folded hands. As Clovis's guitar playing starts up and carries through the humid air, Cipto's eyes open all the way and a smile plays at the corner of his lips. He slowly eases himself into a standing position and pads, barefoot, toward the other musician, quietly as he can manage.

Clovis is playing something soft and traditional-sounding rather than anything resembling the alternative rock he performs on stage. He hums lowly with his rich voice and stares off at the ocean. All around his little camp are notations in the sand. Some of it is music, some is lyrics, some are doodles. He doesn't notice Cipto's approach.

For all the music draws him in, Cipto is not one to break into a performance. He watches Clovis intently and curiously, head tipped upward and smile persisting as he approaches from the side. With all that attention on the performer, though, there's certainly no thought left for what feels like normal sand under his feet.

Clovis's fingers move deftly over the strings. He's barely paying attention to what his hands are doing, yet he's still making some rather complicated chord changes.

Eventually, he gets that sense that people get when someone is watching them. He turns and looks Cipto's way. He startles. "Jaysus man, you scared the shit out of me." He hasn't yet noticed that his visitor is ankle deep in musical notes.

Cipto startles right back at Clovis, though in this case, it's mainly discernible as a further widening of his eyes followed by two hard blinks and the stopping of his forward steps, sparing more musical notation from his unknowing bulldozery. "Oh, sorry, sorry!" The accented words come quickly. "I did not mean to make you stop!"

"It's all right, man. I'm just messing around," Clovis shifts the guitar over, then notices where Cipto has stepped. "Aw, shiiit." He pushes fingers through his hair and stares down at his feet. "...ah, ah well. It wasn't like it was gonna last till we're rescued anyway." Still, he frowns.

"It sounded nice." Cipto's speech is quiet and earnest, though, the pitch of the last word fades downward at Clovis' curses. The gamelan musician continues to look up a moment longer before following the rocker's gaze downward. There's enough unscattered scrawling around his feet that he can get the gist of what has happened, and his jaw catches with a click at the back of his throat. "Oh...no...were you making a piece? Did I...?" His voice quavers with still-quiet alarm.

"Nah. It's all right. Really. If I really wanted to keep it, I coulda dug up something to write with," Clovis rubs his forehead and digs his toes into the sand. "Wasn't much good anyway. Don't worry about it," he waves a hand towards Cipto.

Cipto shakes his head, a quick and stiff motion with a narrow radius, eyes and brows narrowing into a very concerned squint. "Can you think of it again? I have paper for music...from my bag, it was not ruined..."

"Honestly bro, it's not a big deal. I was only writing it to kill time anyway," Clovis seems pretty worn. The time spent on the island with conflicting personalities has taken all the fight out of him.

Cipto maintains his concerned expression for several seconds longer, then takes one more tentative step forward, focusing on the placement of his feet into /empty/ sand before looking back toward Clovis with intrigue again. "It is easy for you? You think things fast, not long and slow?"

“What, you mean the music?" Clovis glances down at his messed up notations, then up at Cipto. To be fair, his notes were a bit hard to read before the bulldozer manoever. It's awfully hard to write accurate musical notations in the sand. "I guess so."

"Yes." Cipto punctuates with a nod, then reaches one hand up to idly rub his chin. "It is with me slow sometimes, fast sometimes. Usually more slow."

“You're a musician too, aren't you?" Clovis squints over at Cipto, then reaches out for his cracked aviators. Hey, broken sunglasses are better than no sunglasses.

"Yes!" This time Cipto's affirmation is coupled with a much larger smile. "Not the same kind of music you make."

"I make more kinds of music than people think I do. I only get paid to make one type," Clovis grins his rock star grin, then stands. "I'm going to go catch us some fish for dinner. Back in a bit," he sets the guitar back into his hut, then collects up his pointy stick and cargo net.

"I would like to hear the other kinds," Cipto notes, his smile significantly broader than any expression he'd be wearing while in a gamelan performance. "If you would like to show them." He tips his head upward at this, a motion that continues into a nod as Clovis gets up to head after fish. "I can also help cook again."

"Hell, why not? We got nothin' but time, right?" Clovis grins, then starts to head off. "Back in about 45 minutes with dinner."

"Very much time." The agreement is solemn. As Clovis heads off, Cipto starts back toward his own shelter, this time watching his own careful steps intently, skirting the scrawlings in the sand.
Cipto catches Clovis in the act of guitar playing and the two talk music. Sand is not a good place for original manuscripts.




The camp is a much quieter place than usual this late afternoon, since four of the eight survivors of the crash have wandered off into the uncharted and unknown parts of the island to get some larger idea of the place where they've spent the last several weeks. Most of the makeshift shelters are currently unoccupied, with Jonah off minding his own business, Clovis fishing for the evening's meal, and Cipto seated with his back against a tree not far from the small but constant campfire. The young Javanese's backpack lies on the ground beside him, unzipped. A pad of stained but useable gridded paper is propped up against his knees, and he looks at it very thoughtfully, slowly writing in numbers in groups of four, some with dots or arcs above or below, some with circles around them.

Having kept largely to herself after her explosion over the burning of the bodies of those not lucky enough to live to be trapped on the island, Monet decides that Cipto needs to be treated to her presence. She wanders from somewhere up the beach and gives Cipto a look. "How is your english today?"

Cipto looks abruptly upward at the unexpected sound of speech, the back of his head now leaning against the tree as he considers Monet with an emphatic blink, the page of gridded numbers facing upward from its perch on his kneecaps. "Hello. It is better." The words are still accented, and he squints at the curiousness of the question. "How are you?"

"As well as can be expected in our disgusting little tropical paradise," Monet says with a roll of her eyes. Her hair is matted from salt water, a look that is not nearly up to the standards of beauty she usually follows. Someone else's shirt covers her, fitting loosely, but hiding the still healing wound across her back. "Are you writing your memoires?" she asks.

Cipto happens to be wearing a disgustingly bright shirt to fit in with the disgusting tropical paradise. It is, however, totally in line with his own standard of fashion. Monet's turn of phrase mostly gets a blink, but he picks up on the first part and wonders hopefully, "Your back has less pain now?" The question he's been asked receives a headshake in response.

"It has less, yes. It's healing. If we ever get off of this hell, it is going to take more plastic surgery than I want to imagine to remove the scar that is surely forming, however." She turns her nose up at this thought, and glances back out over the waves. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

Cipto's whole head remains tilted upward; since he's seated, he has even more height difference between him and Monet to accommodate for as he speaks. The look he gives her is a pretty long one, too, before his lips twitch a little and he comes up with words. "It has been very long. I..." His breath here is long and a little ragged. "I want to be in Jogja. Or New York. I try to not complain." Another long breath, and his words become faster again. "How do you take off a scar?"

With a shrug of her shoulders, Monet wanders over closer to Cipto so that she can take a seat in the sand. "I would rather be anywhere than here. I could even make myself stomach a day simply sitting in the subways in New York." She sighs and upturns her hands. "I have never had to have a scar dealt with, but it is rather certain that my back will scar, and it is even more clear that I have no intention to allow my body to remain marked so... garishly."

As Monet sits, Cipto shifts his own position so that his legs are crossed rather than bent upwards and the gridded notebook lies flat in his lap. "Anywhere else," he agrees, though his nose wrinkles obviously at the proposal of a free all day pass with the MTA. There is another silence, marked with a squint and the slight motion of his lips, before he continues. "But to cut off a scar, the new cut does not make a new scar? Does it work?"

"I believe, my uneducated friend, that there is slightly more to the procedure than simply taking a knife to a scar to remove it." Her patience is thin, but she has also had enough of isolation that she is making her best efforts to be sociable with (poor) Cipto. "What did you do in New York? I don't imagine it was your scholarly medical knowledge that helped fund your fashion sense."

Cipto is coming to be able to tell thinning patience by tone, even through only hazy understanding of individual words. He gives a very slight shrug, then opts to answer the question rather than pursue the discussion of surgery. "I study music." A smile crosses his face, though briefly, on the last word, and he gestures vaguely at the notebook in his lap.

"You study it?" Monet asks, slightly less than snippy. "Do you play it as well, or is it just a study?"

"Yes," Cipto accentuates with a nod, then rests both hands on his notebook. "I study and play and write."

"Mm," Monet accepts his answer. She ndos her head slowly, fingers trailing awkwardly through the sand. Talking about other people is not her strong suit. "Do you think, if we do not slowly starve to death here, that you will write a song about this?"

Cipto's lips press together, and his nostrils flare slightly as he lets out a long thoughtful hmmmm. He lifts the notebook from his lap and takes a long look at the numbers he's written there. "This one is not about..." He lowers the book and looks Monet in the eyes. "I think I should." He nods almost imperceptibly, then asks, "What do you do in New York?"

A light laugh makes it past Monet's lips. "I am supposed to be a college student, but I have this feeling that I may be dropped from my courses by the time I return. Something about people figuring I'm dead."

Cipto frowns, both sympathetic and alarmed, and shakes his head more prominently. "They should let you back to class when they learn you are not dead!"

"If that turns out to be true, I would hope so." Monet looks down into the sand once more, frowning. "I wonder if our fellow castaways will keep my mutation secret if we're rescued." She pulls her lips together tightly in a nasty little scowl. "Imagine the media if they latched onto the idea of a super-strong woman pulling survivors from the wreckage."

"I will not say," Cipto vows, looking Monet steadily in the eyes again. "Maybe the others who are will not say also. But...I think there will be much news for all of us when we are found."

Monet rolls her eyes at that thought. Not, though, at the man stating it. "Mm-hmm. I don't think any of us will ever hear the end of it, should we get back to civilization. I wonder how much coverage we have gotten already? Among our number are a doctor, a rock musician, a well-known mutant performer, an ambassador's daughter, yourself, and a... well, how /do/ you describe those two?"

"I am not sure," is Cipto's eventual assessment of Wanda and Pietro. He leans forward so that he can tilt his head further back, still against the tree. He peers up at the sky through the foliage, resting the tip of one index finger on his chin. "Much news already, probably. I...I hope they are still looking."

"I don't think they would call the search off until they've exhausted the reasonable area in which to look," Monet says, tilting her chin up slightly to show how confident she is in her own words. "And we are probably in a reasonable area." She does not meet Cipto's eyes while saying firmly, "They'll find us."

Cipto's chin remains tilted up, though more for height issues than certainty or vanity. "I hope soon." He takes a deep breath and begins to let it out slowly, but the stream of air suddenly becomes a rush as the ground beneath him, Monet, and indeed the entire island emits a peculiar low groaning and starts to shudder. The shudder begins as a rocking, then jolts violently for about two seconds before taking several more seconds to fade back into stillness. The trees continue to rustle and drop foliage. Creatures within make more noise than before. And parts of the camp are certainly worse for the wear, having been set up so quickly.

From calm and certain externally, to wide-eyed and clambering clumsily to her feet. Even before the shaking is done, Monet is on her feet and looking around frantially. "What was that?! An earthquake!?"

As the shaking ensues, Cipto does not leap up in panic. Rather, after a jerky look about the camp and an ascertainment that he's only near trees and not any of the cracking and wavering camp structures, he folds forward at the waist, forehead pressing over where his ankles cross, arms reaching up to cover his head and neck. It is not until several seconds after the quake finishes that he unfolds slowly, eyes wide and brows raised as high as they'll go, lower lip quivering as if in aftershock. "Yes." The response reeks of experience.

"Great. Just absolutely beautifully great. What else could possibly go wrong?" Monet yells in exhasperation, shocked well out of her comfort zone by the sudden geological event. The string of cursing in French that follows is a lot angrier than her English.

Cipto's eyes screw shut at Monet's cursing. When he opens them again, they're moist with tears and focused very intently on the now-stationary ground. "{Why, why this again also, I need to know the reason because it seems cruel otherwise}," he speaks in frantic Javanese that sounds on the verge of a cry. "{First Yogyakarta, then the crash, and now another earthquake? Let me know why.}"

Monet takes in a deep breath at hearing Cipto sounding even more upset and frantic than she is. "We need to calm down. We aren't hurt are we? Let's take a look around and make sure everything is okay."

When Monet speaks in calming English again, Cipto ceases his monologue and takes a swallow and several deep breaths, seeking composure with his eyes closed. Once he finds his voice again, it's softer than usual but steady again. "I am not hurt." He's just stiff as he pushes himself into a standing position, gridded notebook clutched tight.

With a tight-flipped frown on her face, Monet glances around. "It wasn't /that/ big, was it? The ground didn't crack and the Capitol Records building didn't collapse." She glances about, "It was probably nothing major."

The Capitol Records building may have been spared, but several of the makeshift structures devised by the survivors to make the camp slightly less outdoorsy have reverted to timber and leaves that might as well have just been found on the forest floor. Cipto's face tenses with worry at this sight far more than a pile of timber should really cause anyone to fret. "It...would have been worse if it had been a city..." Not that he's having flashbacks or anything. "I...hope there was nothing to fall on the others."

"The worst thing I can imagine would be a coconut to the head. So I don't think there is really a reason to be freaking out," Monet says. Her snark is toned down due to the worry she herself is feeling. It is much easier to tell someone else to be calm than to do it oneself. She sighs heavily and looks around at the fallen shelters. "Charming..."

Cipto continues to take slow and deep breaths, which do serve to calm him to some degree. "Should...we try to fix?"

“Unless Tarzan the Fisherman is likely to become upset as us for touching his creations," Monet snarks. When all else fails, insult someone.

"They were already touched," Cipto responds simply, still audibly displeased at the concept even if the pacing of his words and breaths is regular now.

With a resigned sigh, Monet sets to the nearest upended little structure and starts working at putting it back together into something remotely resembling it's previous shape. "God," she hisses, "If I get home, I will never lift a finger again."

Cipto carefully rests his notepad on top of his backpack, still sitting below the tree where he'd been working, then follows Monet's lead, setting to careful work on the structure beside it. It's clearly not the easiest job for someone his height, but that doesn't keep him from trying.
Monet and Cipto discuss their lives before the crash and what may become of those lives once they're rescued. And then there is seismic mayhem!
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