soso i'm writing a book. :0

[Rebecca]

...and of course I need a few opinions on it so see where I need to improve. I think Cloud's already read this on FoF, but I'm trying to see waht different people think of it so far.
I've also added quite a bit to it. I'm only posting the prolouge and the first chapter, since this book is insanely long. Anyways, tell me what you think about it. ^^

Prolouge
I had never really been exposed to this sort of thing. CNN, Fox News, and NBC all fed me their sugar-coated versions of war and tragedy, never bothering to sharpen the edges so the public could understand what was really going on overseas. And of course, I was just another citizen watching the television, feeling pity for the "poor soldiers" but in the back of my mind not really caring. It didn't effect me directly, after all.
I wasn’t really there, and after the television was shut off the abominations the newscasters had gently portrayed slipped to the back of my mind. But now as I look back on their "war stories", as dumbed down as they had been, I find that our world really hasn't changed very much over the years.

I.
As soon as all the blinking red lights flickered off, never to return, she could feel her heartbeat leave with them. The girl's emerald green eyes were large now, her fear obvious. She turned to look at the man sitting next to her, the pilot of the small two-man airplane. Dr. Benjamin Letely stared back, and Georgiana could see that his his chest was rising up and down too quickly to be considered a normal breathing pattern.

Hyperventilation.

The girl turned her attention to the fog that clouded their view of the stormy blue ocean. She gasped as the plane began to lunge down and a sickening crack sounded from behind them. Faster and faster it began to fall, and Georgiana's knuckles turned white from her hard grip on the armrests. She would not scream; if she screamed, she knew her father would start to scream as well. The last thing she wanted to do was die screaming her throat raw.

She had never been afraid of death itself, only how she would die and the events leading up to her death. .

But this... this really should never have happened.
Dr. Benjamin Letely, her father, was an experienced pilot. Heck, he had served in the Air Force for ten years and now worked as a commercial jet pilot. This should have never happened; it should have only been a momentary blink. But it hadn't been, and now they were going down faster and faster.

Georgiana was a tall sixteen year old red head with no freckles in sight. Her hair was a rare dark auburn, almost brown, and was twisted into a pleated French braid. She turned to look at Ben, who seemed to have been staring at her all this time. He had wiry brown locks and dark, hazel eyes. His skin was unusually pale for the summer months, and dark lids hung under his eyes.

Knowing that her father was (obviously) intelligent and that he knew what he was doing, Georgiana had reluctantly allowed herself to be talked in to going on the plane trip with him. Ben had apparently wanted to "sow his wild oats" by flying around the world, no autopilot, no breaks. Georgiana wasn't quite sure how flying a plane was "wild", but it was better than seeing her dad drive up to the house in a new Scuderia Ferrari.

They had been flying over the Bermuda triangle for a mere ten minutes, and in that small amount of time all hell had broke loose. The plane itself had seemed to have shut down. The monitors had flicked off, never to return. The radars were long gone, and there was no hope in connecting to a radio control tower. As if that wasn't enough, the engine was stalled. She bit her lip as she felt the plane plunge.
She looked up when there was a click of a seat belt. The man pulled himself up and stood, pulling at the stick in a last desperate attempt to soften the landing.

They didn't seem to have much time left, and Ben realized that. He stopped fiddling with the stick and somehow managed to crawl over to Georgiana side of the cockpit. He pushed himself in between Georgiana and the windshield.

"Dad, stop! Dad, just sit back down! Daaaddddd!"

"Georgi, don't laugh but I just fell. Don't-"
Ben's lie was cut off by the loud shriek of metal crashing and glass shattering. The world disappeared.

* * * * *
For awhile, the only thing she could think was: “I’m dead”. Yet while she waited to see a bright light or whatever was supposed to be at the end of the tunnel, she heard the beating of her own heart. It was so loud, and it reminded her of the drums of the local high school marching band that paraded through town every Fourth of July. Her father had made sure she had never missed one as a child.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump.

So she wasn’t dead? That was a surprise, as she knew something bad had happened to her. Georgiana just couldn’t remember what. Yes, what had happened to her? She tried to remember, but received nothing but a headache in return. Yet she knew she should be dead; she had to be. For a moment she realized she couldn’t feel her legs or arms… everything had gone numb. However she could hear heavy footsteps racing towards her.

“Dam, that’s horrible.”

“I dun think he could’a survived dat…”

He? Who were these people talking about? Was it her father?

“Still, we can’t just leave ‘im here. What if he’s still alive?”

Another strange voice added.

“You know what they will do to him, dead or alive.”

The cool voice of a woman cut in. Grunts of agreement followed.

“Hoist ‘im up then, 'oys!”

The man, whoever he was, had an accent Georgiana had never heard before. It had the drawl of a Southerner and the twang of a Southern Mountain dialect. Suddenly, she felt a weight being pulled off of her chest. She was faintly aware that she was still strapped into the squeaky leather seat. Georgiana desperately wanted to know what was going on, yet her body wouldn’t comply with her brain’s desperate pleas. Her eyes remained closed and her limbs still and she wasn’t sure if she had been unconscious for days or weeks.

“Oi Harold, we gotta live ‘un here! Da man musta’ died proctecin’ er!”
Another strangely accented voice yelled, almost from on top of her. She heard her seat buckle and felt her arms being pulled out from the straps.

“Trump, get ‘er outta here! Archie, put da man on da other seat. We dun know when dey’ll show up, so hurry!”

“Harold, what if he is still alive? We would be leaving him here to be-“
Another man was cut off by the other man known as Harold.

“Ee’s dead! She’s not! Got it? Now let’s get back ‘ome!”
The heavily accented man, Harold, snapped back. Georgiana felt herself being gently lifted up in the air, and being carried away to somewhere or something.

"I hardly doubt Kaleb would kill him on the spot and especially if he was this injured, Harold."

“You remember what dey did to da last un, dun you?”

“That was five years ago.”

“Dey dun change.”

* * * *

When Georgiana became aware of her surroundings and finally managed to open her emerald eyes, for the first moment she wished she hadn’t. The past few events had seemed more like a dream than reality, and she wished it was just another dream that she could forget. But somehow she knew she couldn’t. Georgiana felt an odd sensation in her limbs, as if they were dangling in mid-air. Aside from that, each arm and leg also felt like it had been bitten and scratched at by a ravenous badger. However she didn’t feel groggy.
Was that a good or normal thing though?
She managed to lift her head up a bit and then dropped it on her chest, now able to see in front of her. She was in a cabin of some sort; that’s all she could tell for now.

“So you are awake.”
Someone said in a startlingly clear voice. She felt something cold and sticky being rubbed onto one of her wounded arms. Curiosity outweighing the pain and stiffness in her neck, Georgiana forced the slender limb to move so that she could see who had spoken and where she was.

The room she was in was very dimly lit, and a woman was sitting next to Georgiana on a crudely made stool. Georgiana found that she was sprawled out on a hammock. The woman had white-blonde hair, so light that it looked it the tresses had been bleached. It was tied up into a messy bun. She wore a wrinkled dark brown sundress that had been lazily cut a little below the knee. Her skin was tanned to an extreme point, and her arms were made up of hardened muscle. Her blue eyes, sharp and narrowed into a fierce glare, stared at Georgiana.
Her face was dusted with dirt and she wore worn, hand-made leather thong sandals. Georgiana stared at the woman. Her expression portrayed a wild scavenger, similar to one of a woman you would only expect to see in a Tribes of the Amazon Jungle documentary. Frightened and distrustful, Georgiana needed to know what was going on.

“Who are you?”
Her cracked voice was barely over a whisper.

“I am Tara.”
The woman replied, and then turned back to grinding what looked like a dried herb on a small, flat stone. Georgiana waited for her to say a bit more, but that seemed to be all that this Tara was willing to give.

“Where am I?”
Georgiana asked, eyes now looking about the room. She seemed to be in some sort of log cabin; the walls were made of unshaven logs and the floor was dirt. There was a curtain of what looked like entwined vine, gorse, and lichen that served as a door. A large, unsealed rounded opening above this curtain was the only window and source of sunlight in the space. A small table was on the left side of the room, across from Tara. Herbs of all sorts, white cloths, towels, a basin, empty glass jars, and several glass jars filled with what Georgiana assumed to be poultices were arranged neatly upon it.

“The medicine cabin.”
Tara replied blankly.

“No… where am I? Am I in South America, the U.S….?”
Georgiana sighed, mentally groaning. This Tara was not very specific at all.

“The U.S.? No, you are far from there. You are on Trinova.”
Tara responded, not looking up from her herbal mixture. She poured the dusty powder in a small glass jar she had nearby.

“Trinova? I’ve never heard of that before.”
Georgiana commented, genuinely confused. She had been crashing down into the middle of the Bermuda Triangle and suddenly she was in… Trinova? Tara smiled wryly.

“They have made sure of that, I suppose.”

“They? Whose they?”

“You shall learn soon enough, undoubtedly.”
The blonde sighed, picking up the bottle and bringing it to the table. She dipped it into the clay basin, and the sound of bubbles filled the now quiet air. The sound reminded Georgiana of the sea. The sea… her father had come with her. Where was he? Why wasn’t he with her? Was he safe? Was he alive?

“Where’s Ben?”
Georgiana croaked, forcing her voice to rise in volume. Perhaps Tara knew who her father was; perhaps he was alright and he had introduced himself to Tara. Tara looked over her shoulder at Georgiana, a white eyebrow raised.

“Ben? Who is that supposed to be?”
She asked, facing Georgiana while she stirred the concoction with a small stick.

“He’s the man I came here with! Where is he?”
Georgiana snapped, feeling her throat go raw from her attempt at screaming. She started to shift her weight to the right in a drastic attempt to get out and look for her father. The hammock top sided in return. Tara slammed the bottle on the table and added a few more crushed poppy seeds before turning to attend to the fallen redhead. Georgiana groaned in pain.

“I would not have done that. Stay in the hammock; you are not strong enough to walk without falling flat on your face.”
The Amazon commanded without looking up from the basin. It seemed that she rarely said more than anyone bothered to ask. She presumed that she and Tara wouldn’t get along very well. Tara’s actions and formal manner bore too much a resemblance to Georgiana’s mother, and they didn’t have the… best relationship. Georgiana glanced up and tried to pull herself up into a sitting position, but couldn’t. Every time she tried to sit up, her sore limbs refused to move and screamed in protest.

It seemed that she was going to be lying that for quite a long time. Of course, she couldn’t do that. Her father was somewhere out there, perhaps lying in another bed or still in the plane. Georgiana couldn’t bear not knowing; she just couldn’t. What if he was alive but dying, wondering where his daughter was? He would die not only in physical but spiritual agony, as cheesy as the thought was.

“Is he here?”
Georgiana feebly whispered, eyes darting from the leaven ceiling to the monotonous healer.

“Who?”
Tara asked again, this time looking up but only to reach for a small white towel.
Georgiana sighed, shaking her head. She was too tired to deal with the bad attitude Tara had decided to take on.

“TARA. TEEAARR-UH. GET YER A** OVA HERE.”
A loud, obnoxious voice yelled from outside the cabin. Tara sighed, looking over her shoulder at the lichen curtain as if it were the culprit of the yowl.

"Harold, you will have to wait."
Tara said coolly, not even bothering to raise her voice.
Georgiana didn’t bother to look up; she had already passed out.

* * * * *
When she came to, the world around her was a blur and she couldn’t make out what was around her. The distortion of everything reminded her of the carnival fun-house mirrors that she had hated as a child. They had warped everything, including Georgiana; it was something that has scared her back then, and it was something she still didn’t like today. Eventually she regained her sight, unconsciously exhaling in relief. That was when she became aware of the stinging pain everywhere on her body. Georgiana groaned.

“Hmmm…”
She didn’t have to look up to know who the voice belonged to.
“Can you speak? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Three, elegant fingers where held up in Georgiana’s line of vision. She realized then that she had been set back in the hammock on her back, staring up at the dark colored ceiling.

“Th-three…”
Georgiana managed to choke out, her voice not even a whisper. The woman standing next to her mumbled something.

“By now you have probably realized the pain in … most of your limbs. I took the liberty of cleaning them, sanitizing them, and bandaging them. Your wounds were not severe and disabling; however you shall have to go through rehabilitation to get to the state of well-being that you were in prior to the accident. However as I sound before, your wounds are not crippling, so the rehabilitation should not take long.”
Tara could not have sounded more uninterested in this. Georgiana sighed quietly, wincing as she moved her sore neck to look down at herself. She looked like The Mummy’s bride. It seemed that almost every part of her had been bandaged in white cloth.

Suddenly a bright light penetrated the damp and dreary atmosphere of the cabin. Georgiana couldn’t help but sigh in relief. Again. Almost at once voices started to swarm around her, but she couldn’t force herself to listen or lift her head up. She was aware that they were speaking about her, but Georgiana was too tired to want to care at this point.

“How is she?”

“Questionable.”

“Well if ‘ees feelin’ better soon, ‘ee could join ya an Alice ta…”

“She would do nothing for us. She is weak. She knows nothing. We would gain nothing.”
Tara spat indignantly. Georgiana made a mental note to add Tara to her hate list.

“She ain from ‘ere, Tara.”

The voices started to fade, and Georgiana assumed they were walking outside.

“What is your point?”

“Da point is dat if we dun do anything she is gonna die.”

“How is that, Harold?”

“If we go an give ‘er to dem, dey gonna go an kill ‘er an you know dat!”

“They-“

“Yeah, Tara I think you do. ‘Sides, she might be useful. Whadda ya think, Trump?”

There was a brief pause.
“Oh really?”

“Yeah, we could use ‘er as a spy onea dese days. Dey wouldn’t recognize ‘er and she could say dat she ain from ‘Opewell.”

“And where else would she be from?”
Tara snapped.

“Well, we could go head and say that ‘ee’s from Netherfeld or Sienna Valley.”

“…or we could try to get them to mistake her for a scallywag or ragamuffin.”

“Ay, come on now. Where else could 'ee be from?”

“Hopewell, Abigail, or Carolina.”

“Fine, fine. Ya can have it your way, Tara, and have us and her both shot dead.”

Tara was quiet for a moment, but piped up again nevertheless.
“A woman would not-“

“Kaleb doesn’t care and would kill ya just for bein’ ’spected’ of sociating wid us! You know ‘ow strict he’s getting’.”

“Kaleb would not me kill me, Harold.”

“Tara shut yer yap an bring dat lass outta ‘ere.”