2022-06-26 - Escape From The Island

Rennie Island.

A grass-covered sandbank of about 225 acres (depending on the current and the tide), situated in North Bay where the Chehalis runs into the bay; once, it was a sand bank separating two arms of the river, but the bay has eaten a little further inland since, and now Rennie Island is a proper island. Or, well, sand bank surrounded by water on all sides, clearly visible from shore. A sandy spit on the north side is known to locals as Stanley Island when it is not submerged by the tides; duck hunters come ashore and sometimes set camp there. Apart from that, Rennie is unpopulated and unused; a small dirt road circles it once but nothing lives there but grass, ducks and gulls.

In some other time and place, Rennie Island might have been filled up with enough concrete to be safe to build anything on, and have been turned into a row of sea-front condominiums. Due to the island's past as a treatment pond for sulfite effluent waste from local paper mills and disposal site for dredging spoils, though, no one has made the investment. There's nothing here but a few wind-blown trees and shrubs, grass, and reeds finding nourishment in the brackish water. Nothing worth coming here for at all -- it's not even duck hunting season.

And yet there are four figures lying in the grass on the west side of the island, facing the Bay and hidden from sight from the towns of Hoquiam and Gray Harbor. They stay down because their bright orange prison jumpsuits stand out in sharp contrast to the lush green grass and shrugs; if they were to walk around, they'd be in plain sight from Hoquiam and Gray Harbor.

They look very confused. But then, that's a feeling probably mirrored by the four other people on the island.

Four other people are sitting around a small campfire, in one of those not so permanent shelters built by duck hunters and washed away by the next hard tide. They too look confused. None of these eight people -- four in orange jumpsuits over there, and four around the campfire over here -- remember getting to the island in the first place. They went to sleep -- and then they were here.

Voices drift across the narrow sand bank quite easily, from the prison gang to the people on the sandy spit.

"What are we doing here?" asks one orange jumpsuit. "Where the hell are we?"

"Just outside Gray Harbor and Hoquiam," supplies another, who must be more familiar with the area. "You heard the man, Rico. Sit tight, don't get seen, and shut up. Rescue'll be here when darkness falls."

"Well, they didn't say anything about being a sitting duck in plain sight of the whole damn coast," a third voice grumbles.

"Just sit down and shut up," number two reiterates. "Look, man, we all had the same dream, and now we're here. I don't fucking understand it either, but if it means I ain't doing ten more years in the slammer, I'm in."

There's a state prison facility out the 105, towards the coast, Stafford Correctional Centre. Those four must have managed to split, somehow -- and then, for reasons that seem to not even make sense to themselves either, have ended up here. It's anyone's guess how -- the narrow sound is too deep to wade, and the current from the Chehalis would sweep a swimmer out into the Bay.

But then, it's also anyone's guess why the four people around the campfire are here, or how. The Veil works in mysterious ways.

Mikaere opens his eyes-- and finds himself here. Sitting awkwardly on an old log, knees bent, and staring out over a landscape that is both familiar and very much not. He's a sailor; he knows Rennie Island, though not from this angle, not staring out at the mainland, and not when he was, not so long ago, safely aboard his boat, moored... well, just across the way, really, back at the marina.

He opens his mouth to say something, but ends up caught short by those voices, carried on the breeze. It furrows his brows, and refocuses his attention: each of his companions glanced at in turn, one by one. 'Shit', he mouths, though it may be anyone's guess whether that's easy to lip-read. Maybe the sentiment is clear, at least.

In bed, dreaming, Jules must sense just enough of a disturbance to come partially awake and roll over -- only to find herself tumbling off the log next to Mikaere. She can't help the yelp that escapes her, startling out of sleep like this and trying to catch herself before she winds up in the dirt nose-first. It's quiet, at least, though on the stillness of the island, who knows how much sound will carry.

In the mere dream of human sleep, he can't decide if he's swimming in a sea reflecting stars, or among the stars themselves. Surely the former, for he's not gasping for air or freezing. But then that's gone, and Joe's head is snapping up as if he'd nodded off gazing into the embers of the campfire. He makes an interrogative little grunt in confusion, peering around.

Sight doesn't clarify matters much, and he blinks owlishly at Jules and Mikaere. One's a face he's at least seen before, and he nods at Jules politely, before saying, softly, "Hey." Aware somehow that there are less friendly ears present.

It is sadly not the first time she's woke up fairly similar to this. Thankfully this time there is no leaf-bikini or cannibal woman. So far. An eye cracks up, gazing skyward. The other opens a second later. There's no immediate threats present, so Ava begins to tilt her head around to look around. Spotting the others, there's a brief breath of relief. Not alone is a good thing. There's no verbal greeting, but the woman does lift a hand to give a single wave in hello.

Well shit.

Across the narrow sound, the boardwalk of Gray Harbor glitters; it's early enough in the evening that the shop lights are creating a colourful display of advertising and temptation -- whether it's ice cream or gourmet coffee, a hot dog from the concession stand, the bloke swallowing fire for coins, or the rest of the town's entertainment. On the other side of the Chehalis, things are a bit more quiet -- the marina lies in between the town proper and the sound. A bit further north-west and the Hoquiam River adds another stretch of glittering coastline in the form of the smaller city and its little airport.

The latter is easy to notice in the half-dark; the red lights of a small sports plane coming in at an angle and descending until they move in a horisontal line along a runway not visible from here.

"There's our ticket out," says one of the voices from the shrubs -- as of yet unaware of the four 'duck hunters'. "If we can just get to that airport, I can fly a Cessna. I even have a license. My uncle owned a farm, I helped dust the crops."

"And how are you going to get over there, Marty? Swim?"

"There's got be enough wood on this island that we can build a raft or something." Marty is nothing if not determined.

"Or we sit the fuck down, shut up, and wait for rescue." One voice is gruffer than the rest; probably the leader of the four.

"If there is a rescue." That's the youngest voice; the one they called Rico earlier.

"Not much fucking point in magicking us out of the slammer and dumping us here if there isn't. Now shut the hell up. Voices carry over water."

Yes, leader type guy, they do. That's how the four people at the duck shelter happen to overhear a conversation that was definitely not meant for their ears. Here's to hoping the convicts don't notice that little campfire. Or that if they do, they're not going to make a fuss about it.

Marty. Rico. That's two out of the four, not that names are especially helpful. Mikaere straightens, squinting across the campfire at those opposite: at the faces he recognises, and the one he doesn't. He reaches to try and grab Jules before she falls, squeezing her arm in the process.

"Hey," he murmurs, beneath his breath. He juts his chin in the direction from which the voices are coming, and turns back, lifting his heavy brows: it's not hard to guess that he's asking a question, and that it's likely got something to do with what's going on.

Safe? Not safe? What next?

Jules winds up with one elbow dug into the ground, the other arm caught by Mikaere, and her legs in the air (no, she is not wearing a skirt. She's a duck hunter). "Mmmmph, ow, goddammit," she exhales just under her breath while struggling upright to sitting.

A quick glance around accounts for the other two, who she acknowledges with a little lift of her chin. Mikaere's tacit question has her raising her own eyebrows in response, matching question for question. Her shrug and the accompanying expression are almost comical in their exaggeration.

She's got no idea.

That same unspoken query gets passed on to the other two, as she looks to Joseph and Ava again, head tilted to the side like she's listening to the voices of the four escaped convicts and trying to make sense of it.

At best, theft. At worst, a would-be hijacking. Can fly a Cessna, eh? And four against four. Joe's grin isn't pleasant at all, more a baring of teeth.

"Sounds like we have company....and a set of problems," he opines. Now fully alert, Joe's peering around in search of weaponry. Too bad they aren't actual duck hunters, armed with shotguns and rifles. But then....some of them are armed innately, to a greater or lesser extent. His companions shine, after all. "What can y'all do offensively, power-wise?" he asks, as if that were a totally normal question to ask newly met comrades. "I've got a bit of telekinesis, and a little skill with electricity."

Silence falls on the island. The glittering lights of the boardwalk grow brighter as darkness begins to descend -- only to be outdone by the glittering lights of the Grand Olympic Hotel and Casino on its artificial island in the Bay. Did anyone consider building it here, on Rennie? Probably. But a sand bank does not provide for a very good foundation, and 'former toxic waste dump' does not look good in tourist brochures.

The 'duck hunters' assess the situation and communicate briefly. On the other side of the island, footfalls resound; somebody is walking in circles, probably in the fashion of someone impatient who thinks its safe to stand up now that it's getting darker.

Somebody has a name. "Lennie, sit down already."

"Yes, Marty." The voice is meek. Gentle, even. The thud of a heavy body landing in the grass.

"Yovanovick didn't get us out only to dump us here," Marty reiterates.

"That's Jovanović, you imbecile." The fourth, unnamed man with the gravel voice sounds tired. "There's going to be a boat, when it gets darker. We'll get on it, and we'll be out to sea before anyone knows we're even missing."

"I liked Marty's idea better." Rico sounds young -- the kind of young who's old enough to go to prison but not old enough to drink in some states. "Get on a plane, fly south to Mexico, disappear. Not owing shit to some foreign whack jobs with names no one can pronounce."

"Like Jimenéz is easy," grins Marty.

"Fuck you," says Rico.

Maybe it's because the people at the duck hunt shelter aren't spending their time arguing about names that they're the ones noticing a single, red light in the sky, out on the Bay -- slowly descending, and burning almost impossibly bright. At least two men present recognise it for what it is: A marine distress flare.

Ava arches a brow. Offensively? "A lot," she offers. "Power wise, anyway. Plants to keeps them pinned. Fire if they get out of control. Breaking bones is the worst case scenario. Enough plants all at once and I might be able to pin all and once so that you guys can attack as a group with muscle with muscle and mind to anyone I can't get? Or if I fail?" Which is always a possibility. Especially since her Glimmer is drained currently thanks to her donation to Ash.

She spots the flare and frown. She's not entirely sure what it is. But she knows that they have to move now. "Well, no time like the present."

"I really hope you guys liked that plan..."

Because that's what she's trying right now. If the earth is enough to hold a Dragon, maybe it'll work? Ava doesn't need to move from where she is. She doesn't need to betray their location. Her range is far enough to do this without moving anything but her hand.

"Electricity, and a lot of it," is Mikaere's murmur by way of reply to Joseph's question. "And emotions." He gets that said before he notices the flare, which is enough to turn his head and catch his full attention: full attention enough that he seems to not fully register what Ava's saying-- or doing-- until it's too late.

He glances back, those bushy brows lifted high, his mouth opening slightly. He's clearly trying very hard not to be horrified, but, well.

"They haven't done anything to us yet," he hisses, sharply. "What are you-- fuck. Did you see the flare? There's someone coming for them, I bet."

Bemused, he shakes his head, gesturing towards the flare, towards the island, towards... well. It's too late now, isn't it? Their course is, at least for the short, term, set. Who knows, maybe the guys are-- wait. "Jovanović," he says. "Is that Serbian?"

“Why would we want to attack them?” Jules asks instead of answering the question, looking affronted as she draws herself up straighter. She isn’t answering it, in fact. Instead, Joseph’s about to get an earful:

“You are aware that the criminal justice system is profoundly fucked up, right? And hugely racist? We have no idea what they did or didn’t do, and I’m not going on the offensive without cause—Ava!”

She isn’t trying to be as quiet as Mikaere is, the name slipping out in one sharp rush. “Bad idea! Checks and balances, man!”

The rocket's red glare diverts the older sailor for a moment. "'s a distress flare, bet it's a signal to-" Which is when he realizes what Ava's doing. "Whoa! Wait a second!" Joe hisses. He's not angry, he's more astounded. "Hold your horses there."

So much for waiting this out, or at least sussing out what's going on. He turns to meet Jules's commentary with a resigned expression. "I'm not attempting to judge them," he says, mildly. "You'll note I didn't wade in. I just wanted to know what y'all can do because I've found it a good thing to know when in a dangerous Dream." A nod for the direction of the other set of four voices. "Innocent or no, I bet you ten bucks those guys wouldn't'a been happy to see us even if she hadn't just gone all Wicked Witch of the West on 'em."

Four escaped convicts probably fear a lot of different things. They fear being spotted from the mainland -- in their bright orange jumpsuits they made an easy target at least until darkness began to blanket the island. They fear being rounded up and taken prisoner again, no doubt -- the police isn't likely to saunter up and ask them nicely to come along, considering that they broke out of a high security correctional facility. At least one of them is brown; Rico probably fears getting 'accidentally' shot while 'trying to escape', and the fear is not entirely irrational.

It's probably a safe bet that none of the four expected the very grass and reeds in which they are hiding to rise up against them, though. And yet that's exactly what happens. Strands of reedgrass and sweetgrass lash out and braid themselves into coils that twist and wind around ankles and wrists; tall reeds proper sway and weave themselves around legs and arms.

A skinny Hispanic -- Rico, no doubt -- manages to squirm and twist and free one hand at least. "¡Ayudar! ¡Estoy atrapado!"

Two white men, one of them of impressive stature, cry out in surprise as the very plants of the earth pin them down and renders them immobile. "The hell?" cries one. "Marty! Help me!" cries the other.

The last man, by luck or by chance, was sitting on the sand of the beach, rather than in the grass. He twists to the side and splashes into the shallow water, where he comes to sit on his knees, looking around frantically. He can hear voices, and he can see his companions flailing as if they'd been tasered or netted -- but there are no nets and no corrections officers with tasers. "Show yourselves!" he bellows.

"Not a bad idea. They are escaped convicts about to escape with help from whoever that is with the flare. Even if they are innocent, which now they aren't because they've actually committed a crime by breaking out of prison, Joe's right and they are likely to not take to kindly to use either way. I'm not hurting them, I'm restraining them. Safely. Before their company gets here and we're outnumbered."

"Especially since we don't know how many people they have coming." It's a quick explanation, quiet and thorough as Ava reaches out again to try to grab the guy that got away. That's alright. Water has plants too. She just has to make sure he's pulled into a sit so that he isn't accidentally drowned. Let's try this again, shall we?

This time, Mikaere forgets to keep his voice down. "What the FUCK, Ava? Stop. STOP. They didn't even know we were here. This-- for fuck's sake. Fuck. Now the whole thing is escalated, and we don't know what's coming. fuckfuckfuck." Don't mind Mikaere's loss of composure, or the fact that even the somewhat distracted and pinned down men are probably aware of the presence of the so-called duck hunters now; it may not even be impossible that the people out on the boat, too, are suddenly aware of the sound, if perhaps not the content of his yelling.

A smart, sensible, rational Mikaere might, at this point, try and infuse some calm in the situation. But...

Well.

Oops.

In another moment, Jules would appreciate Joseph’s rationality regarding preparedness. At another time when she wasn’t gaping at Ava, Ava who doubles down. Rising, Jules snaps, “I can throw shit at Ava’s goddamn head and try to knock some sense into her, that’s what I can do. What the fuck.”

She abruptly leaves the duck hunting shelter, striding out to go inspect the damage for herself. Jules is perfectly visible, though she pulls a curtain of power around herself as she goes, invisible to the non-Glimmering eye, as a buffer between herself and whatever she might find.

Yellow eyes watch her from the tall grass.

Joe's voice is still mild, bemused, as he says to Ava, "Mighta been we could'a just let 'em go away with their would-be rescuers and that woulda been that." Not that he really believes that. In the immortal words of Bucky Barnes, it always ends in a fight.

A sigh, and he adds, "But seriously, we gotta have a talk about your impulse control, if we get outta this." This is several centuries' worth of hypocrisy from him, considering how his courtship of Ruiz began. He offers an insouciant shrug to Jules and Mikaere, "Name's Joe, by the way."

He also gets up, but he does his best to be as invisible as he can. Since odds are excellent that whoever's coming to get these guys out of the Chateau D'If will be very well armed.

What's Rico going to do with the shiv he manages to get into his free hand from one trapped leg? Flail at the grass and vine tentacles, that's what. It's not very effective but give the kid points for making an enthusiastic attempt. The last man, the gravel voice, manages to roll into the sea -- and even run in the water for a few paces. Once he reaches waist deep though? Seaweeds and eelgrass shoot up and wind themselves around his legs and arms until he struggles to even keep his head out of the water.

None of those four are a threat to anyone at the moment. And all of them are definitely aware that they're not alone on the island -- because here's Mikaere yelling and here's Jules walking up in plain sight. And in the tall grass, yellow eyes glint and observe.

The sky is painted a crazy red haze by the flare that slowly descends; those things stay on the sky for at least fifteen minutes, and there is no doubt that the entire boardwalk has seen it too. In a minute, the Coastguard will have a chopper in the air, heading out toward Damon Point and the open sea beyond where some ship must be in trouble.

Closer to Rennie Island, though? The near-silent splashes of oars in water, and yet not a ship's lantern in sight. The boat or dinghy out there might be facing a massive fine for careless sailing for that alone.

And then, a muffled cry, through grass and vines, from the island: "Sail away! It's a trap!"

The gravel voiced man is helped to keep his head out of water by the plants themselves. Whatever powers are binding them all down doesn't appear to be trying to kill them. Ava isn't looking to drown the guy, just hold him in place.

"I wish things were ever that simple," Ava whispers to Joe with a sad look. "But, whenever I end up in shit like this, it never is. Go with your gut."

"You can yell and spit all you'd like, but with them having backup incoming, maybe you should sit your ass down and stop making yourself a target, first. Stones and glass houses, and all that. Also, you guys need to learn to stop yelling /names/ when there are convicts out there. They had no idea where we were until you started yelling," her eyes shoot to Mik, "and you got up," she looks at Jules.

Evidently Mikaere manages to reclaim some of his composure after his bout of yelling, because he doesn't renew it, even when Ava's return fire has him visibly scowling at her, utter disbelief written clearly across his face. "And they'd have no idea we were here at all, if you-- never mind. You're clearly not inclined to listen to anyone." He keeps that quiet, at least, for all the good it will do at this point, and instead, turns his attention towards Joe, who has evidently been appointed the official calm one.

"Mikaere," he murmurs. "And she's Jules. And he mentioned a Serbian name. Last time I dealt with Serbians-- look, it's not the convicts I'm worried about. They're the ones we need to rescue, I'm pretty sure, because the last time I dealt with Serbians? They were kidnapping people."

The name and the looks of the other sailor are enough to make Joe squint at Mikaere for a moment. "Aotearoa?" he wonders, and he manages not to mangle the name. "You think we need to keep these guys approaching from taking them? Like they're gonna sell them or something?" He's curiously unheated and unperturbed about the whole situation, tone on the soft end of conversational.

Then back to the sea, watching to see what those in the boat choose to do. Maybe they'll heed the warning and sheer off, and everyone can sit tight until the Coasties arrive. He shakes his head at Ava, but he doesn't seem to feel compelled to intervene one way or the other, for the moment. He's got nothing that can reach the guys in the boat, not at the moment.

Jules, already marching through the grass, either doesn’t hear Ava or doesn’t deign to respond to the comments aimed at her back. She heads towards the brown kid, careful to stay out of the way of his flailing with the shiv as she squats down to get to his level.

“Hey, hey,” she addresses him quietly. “You okay? Calm down, I’ll see if I can help you. Can you put that down first? How did you get out here?”

Marty and Lennie flail; no one comes to their rescue, and their flailing achieves nothing much in terms of freeing themselves. In the water, the man with the gravelly voice struggles to keep his head above the waves as kelp holds him down and prevents him from getting back on his feet.

The only one of the four who have any agency at all is the Hispanic kid whose name appears to be Rico. He has one arm free, and in his hand, he's clutching a sharpened piece of iron wrapped with rags -- a shiv, a primitive weapon made in some dark corner of a prison cell and slipped under the nose of the prison wardens. Now he's looking up at Jules with large, frightened eyes, covered in grass and reeds that restrain his other limbs and restrict his movements.

"Bruja, ¿estás haciendo esto?," he murmurs, in a voice one note short of breaking into teenage tears. He's not very old for a convict. He probably stole the wrong car and could not afford useful legal counsel. "I don't know. We were told to wait in the yard until we saw a red door, and then run through it. And then we were here. It makes no sense! I'm very scared, por favor, ayúdame."

"It's a trap!" Marty cries again, warning whoever is out there in a boat with no lanterns.

The characteristic ka-click of a shotgun being readied carries over the water, along with the sound of the oars. From the mainland, there's nothing to see unless you know what to look for, and where to look. The guys who do know? They're probably in that chopper that's heading out towards Damon Point and the Pacific beyond now, thanks to the red flare. There are fewer more efficient distractions than a distress flare, where the Coast Guard is concerned.

Then a voice calls out, from the water, "Show yourselves! Or I swear by God, I'm turning this fucking boat around and leaving you all to rot on this island until dawn, and the fucking police can pick you up!"

Kidnapping.

The word clicks something into place. "I have a pretty good idea whose been fishing in these parts for perfectly good bodies," Ava snarls. "Could be more bodies for Haggleford. Which means Jules really needs to get out of the middle of where everyone can see her. Probably shouldn't free the guys who will run right to the boat of kidnappers either."

"God I wish Itz were here. At least he'd understand."

There's annoyance in her tone. "I can stop the boat. Do I have everyone /permission/ to stop the possible kidnappers?"

Despite not being in the best of moods, Mikaere glances up to give Joe a surprised nod-- and the briefest of smiles. "Well picked," he murmurs. Now's not the time to continue that conversation further, though-- both because he's listening, and because he's hearing.

"Yes, Ava," he says, very quietly, with exaggerated calm that in no way hides exactly how irritated he actually is with her. "Thank you for catching up. Excuse me."

He's not going far: just to tuck himself around the edge of the shelter where he has some cover but can still see, though of course the early evening light (and lack thereof) makes true visibility more difficult. He seeks for Jules, first, but not with particular concern; he trusts her. Otherwise, he's looking for the boat, first with physical eyes and then, a moment later, with his mind-- and in turn, extends calm to as many minds as he can reach.

Peace

We're all friends here, right?

By his expression, Joe's impressed with Jules's bravery....and by his lack of action, not so shamed by the contrast between her response and his own that he feels compelled to do something. Still doing his best to remain out of sight. Neither the four escapees nor the men in the boat have spotted him, or so he hopes.

The sound of a shotgun is all too familiar, and it's enough to raise the hairs on his nape. So much for hanging back and waiting. Not that he gets up. No, he's reaching out with his own strength in Glimmer, the more physical aspect.He might not be Itz's equal, but how much power does he need to find the gun's safety and flick it on?

“I don’t speak Spanish,” Jules tells Rico as she crouches down beside him. “But I’m gonna try to help you, okay? Can you put down the knife for me? Who told you to go through the door?” Her tone stays gentle, though there’s an underlying firmness—a listen to me, kid kind of thing.

And then there’s the cocking of the shotgun echoing across the water with its telltale ka-chink. Now, when it comes to guns, Jules has little to no cool. She doesn’t think in this instance; she reacts. Joseph might reach for the safety, but she reaches for the gun itself. Her instinct’s telling her to yoink it out of the hands of whoever’s holding it and send it spiraling out into the waters of the bay. No guns, not today, not ever.

Several things happen quite simultaneously.

Rico screams and flails and seems very much inclined to not let go of his shiv; in fact, one could get the impression it's the only thing he has to cling to in a turbulent sea of everything happening far too fast and nothing making sense any more. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know how he got here. And he doesn't know the woman trying to talk to him, but she looks Spanish and doesn't speak Spanish, and Rico wants his goddamn mum. Rico is just nineteen, and there comes a point where a mind just can't contain any more weirdness.

A shotgun's safety mechanism quietly clicks back on. The owner of the shotgun in question fails to notice -- because it also goes flying away from them, in a tall arc that ends abruptly with a splash. Profound swearing ensues -- and most of it in a language that is neither English nor Spanish. Is it Serbian? Do you know what Serbian sounds like?

Then, the sound of a boat engine revving. So much for the stealthy approach; whoever was going to land here apparently changed his or her mind.

Mikaere absolutely couldn't tell you what Serbian sounds like-- though he can understand those curses, more or less. He gives a slow, thoughtful nod, the kind that is not yet willing to be satisfied, but is tentatively hopeful; for now, however, he's inclined to stay where he is, gaze slipping from the boat back towards the men, and to Jules too.

This time it's the convicts themselves who get his wave of calm, and Rico in particular.

Calm. So much calm. Everyone's better with calm, right?

“Kid, I can’t help you unless you calm down.” Jules doesn’t quite snap, but her patience is wearing thin, and she’s on edge from the near call with the boat and its shotgun bearing occupants. Her voice comes out stern and sharp, like that might break through Rico’s panic.

While she’s at it, Jules reaches out in the same way she did for the gun, this time aiming to flick the shiv out of Rico’s grasp with one forceful tug out of nowhere. “Be still. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” Or her. Jules would prefer neither.

"Está bien, estarás bien. Sólo respira." If Jules is going to insist on staying a target, Ava isn't going to let her be the only one. Plus, she speaks Spanish. "Sólo respira."

She walks over, glancing at the other men with a slight frown but focusing mostly on the kid. Poor thing. It's clear she feels badly for scaring him. "You're scared. It's okay. It's okay to be scared. Let's handle this a moment at a time. Can you tell me your name?" Give him something to focus on. A question to answer. Doctor tricks." Her eyes are back on the water, towards where that ship is taking off. Good, let them run.

The boat disappears into the dark; on the islands, the convicts calm. And the Dreamers? One by one they wake back up in their beds.