Thirteen Days: On The Run

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Somewhere in Northern Australia, Scott and two cosmonauts try to stay ahead of a very angry Hungarian.


Scott really wished he had some idea of where they were. He knew enough to recognize their surroundings as a mangrove swamp, but that didn't particularly narrow things down, given how many places in the world had this kind of vegetation. Tropics. Somewhere in the tropics. It was hot and humid, which definitely suggested Southern Hemisphere, given the time of year.

One of the cosmonauts stumbled, doubling over and wheezing. Scott grimaced, not liking the older man's color. It had struck him hours back that he really didn't have any idea how long they'd been aboard that station, and he knew that people who'd spent a stretch of time in space often had trouble adapting when they were first back on Earth. Problems with bone density and the like. And here he was, driving them through some unknown swamp as if they were being chased.

It was just that he didn't want to assume they weren't. They hadn't been that far off the ground when he'd blasted Nimrod out of the capsule, and chances were good that the Hungarian had survived the fall. And if he did, he's probably pretty pissed at me. The other 'bad guy', the shapeshifter, had been knocked unconscious by the impact of the capsule with the ground; Scott had checked to make sure he still had a pulse, but then had urged the cosmonauts out of the capsule and left him there. Maybe not the most humanitarian thing to do, but he hadn't felt that he had a choice.

He wasn't in any shape for a fight. Letting the cosmonaut catch his breath, Scott took the opportunity to check behind them for signs of pursuit - nothing yet - and to check his bandages. They were starting to soak through with blood, and he grimaced again. Shit. He maybe shouldn't have removed the shrapnel, but he'd had to get the exterior suit off, to be able to run. The capsule had been equipped with rudimentary medical supplies, so he'd been able to do a quick patch job.

The younger cosmonaut noticed he was doing and asked him something in Russian, his tone sharp. Scott shook his head wearily. "I'm fine," he said, waving his good hand at the other man - the injured arm wasn't working quite the way it should be. "Nothing major."

The older cosmonaut finally managed to straighten. "No... help," he wheezed, gesturing at the swamp. He still looked gray, but Scott suspected it had as much to do with despair as with exertion. The capsule's electronic systems had already been scrambled, and the force of their impact had destroyed even the emergency beacon. They hadn't been able to call for help. His own com was useless, too - had been since the station.

Scott's jaw tightened. "Then we keep going until we find someone," he said. Despair was bad. He wasn't having any of it, so they weren't allowed either. The two Russians gave him nearly identical looks of incomprehension, and a rather alarming-sounding laugh slipped out before he could help himself. "We keep going," he said, gesturing in the direction they'd been running. The older Russian said something that sounded like a protest, and Scott gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. "No. We keep going."

He had no sense of Jean in his mind, but he hadn't felt the link break. So she was still out there somewhere, and Charles had to be looking for them. If they didn't find help, they could at least stay on the move and out of trouble until help found them.