[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/180407/59ebfd6236b5bc057788244514943c28.png[/img][/center]
[right][hr][color=gray][b]September 15, 1995 [/b]
Isla Nublar [/color][hr][/right]
[indent]Juliet grumbled, trying to focus her eyes following the [i]very[/i] rough landing.

She wasn’t sure how she and Daniel – and whoever else it was – survived such a violent landing, but they did. She supposed that was the important part, the part that she should’ve been fortunate about. But she didn’t feel very fortunate. Not at all. The blonde-haired photojournalist coughed, trying to clear her throat so she could properly breathe. They had made it to some outlying island; an island that the pilot had recognized as an able landing spot in a crisis. If she hadn’t been so scatterbrained at the moment she might’ve laughed. 

“I’ve been better.” She uttered to Daniel’s question if she was okay. She wasn’t completely sure herself, really, but she didn’t think anything was broken. Outside of the PTSD she was bound to have and the smoke she supposed she was fine.

“Where are we?”
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