Origins in Realism (HermitCraft Fanfiction)

Chapter 4: Plain wreck

 The day so far had not gone well for Adam Sokar. He had woken up late, spilled boiling hot coffee onto his newly tailored suit, missed his flight and had to wait an hour for the first available flight to Honolulu. As he thought to himself about the events of earlier that day, the man next to him stood up to go talk to the pilots. Sokar was on a small plane, bound out of Sydney, with only two other passengers. One was a quiet American man with horridly bloodshot eyes, who, upon asking why he was headed for Hawaii, merely responded with "personal reasons." The other was a somewhat bug-eyed European named Keralis, who seemed to never shut up. He was quite friendly, though, and made it his business to meet with the other passengers and flight crew.

Sokar thought about why he was headed for the Westernmost US State: He was the CEO of a Danish-American film company, and his company was working on what may be the first successful blockbuster that they had produced in... about thirty years. He sat back, waiting for the flight to be over.

The plane, a small Boeing machine with propeller engines, was originally meant for carrying livestock, and it was not necessarily comfortable, but it was the cheapest available, and it would get the job done. The pilots, two Australian men named Shaun and Thomas, were good enough at their job, despite being a bit young and likely reckless. Sokar barely noticed when Shaun, the younger of the two, got out and walked around a bit.

The plane shook. Nothing to worry about, merely turbulence. It shook a bit more, harder this time. But it didn't stop. Sokar opened his eyes, and looked at the American man. He was about as confused as Sokar. He smelled smoke. He turned around to see that Shaun had toppled over onto the floor. A fain beeping emanated from the cockpit. Sokar became dizzy; his mind clouded, he looked around. Looking out the window, he saw smoke. Coming out of the engine, surrounding his field of vision. It was dark, almost peaceful. He lay back on his seat, letting the smoke overtake him, and passing out.

Pain. He felt nothing but pain. He opened his eyes, however briefly, to see a mess of metal, with smoke billowing out from inside. He closed them again. Opening them, he spotted a man (at least he thought so) in a green wetsuit and bizarre helmet. He closed them again. Opening them one last time, he saw more people. The bloodshot-eye American. The pilot that fell down. The man in the helmet and green wetsuit. Also, a man in a red wetsuit, a pale man in a blazer, a man in a black jacket and a frail old man, obscured by a piece of bloody sheet metal. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness consume him, falling into a deep sleep, never to wake again.

I tried something new here; please let me know thoughts on this style.