Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider, and I don't make any money from this. Would be too nice…

Summary: Alex is conned into a hiking vacation in the Brecon Beacons National Park. And for once, the trouble that finds him has nothing whatsoever to do with his secret occupation as Super Spy – merely a horrendous streak of bad luck.

A/N: I think it's a bit of a pity that whenever one mentions 'Brecon Beacons' in the AR fandom, everyone immediately thinks it's a synonym for 'SAS training camp'. In reality, the Brecon Beacons are a very nice National Park with plenty of hikers, an infantry training camp at Sennybridge, and plenty of wilderness to hold the SAS Selection (well, not now anymore, they migrated the Selection to the Scottish Highlands because there are fewer tourists to stumble across). Have fun enjoying the Brecon Beacons National Park…

Edit 26-05-11: General overhaul. Not plot or information, but writing style. Hopefully it's an improvement...

Hiking Vacation

Cursing like a sailor (well, not exactly like a sailor but like someone who had picked up a lot of colorful language from a variety of even more colorful locations), Alex Rider trudged through muddy grass and miserable weather in the heart of a certain infamous national park in southern Wales. The fog was so thick that he couldn't see more than four, five meters at the most; he was cold and damp and hungry; and he didn't know exactly where he was and where he was going. Yes, he did have a topographical map of the place, but he didn't have a compass or a GPS or anything else to help him identify his location and the direction he was going in – he couldn't even use the sun because of this damn bloody mist.

In short, he was thoroughly miserable.

Well, he would have had time to truly wallow in his misery if he hadn't been a driven man on a mission to find someone – anyone – to get help. He had left his friends three hours ago, and it really didn't look like he was making any headway in his search for civilization. Hell, he had known that the national park was big, but to be able to go for three hours straight and not even encounter any trail? He was using a stick to mark his passage in the ground every now and then, to make sure he wasn't walking in circles and that he'd find his way back again. But he hadn't yet caught sight of a landmark big and unique enough that he'd be able to find it on the map.

And for once in his recent life, MI6 had absolutely nothing to do with his current, miserable situation. He wasn't on a mission. He wasn't in an SAS training camp. He wasn't being chased by SCORPIA or any other terrorist organization. Hell, he wasn't even trying to run away from MI6 in some fit of teenage rebellion.

Nope, he was just bloody unlucky with his choice of vacation, friends to go on said vacation with, and just an all-out fantastic streak of ill fortune. And it had started out so innocently, too.

Tom Harris had invited him to go along on a backpacking / hiking trip with a group of other guys from the football team during summer break. At first, Alex hadn't really wanted to, simply out of principle (he had done enough 'enjoying nature' on his missions to last a life-time, thank you very much, and he wasn't very keen on spending a lot of time with immature brats who thought he was a druggy delinquent). But Tom had wheedled and whined that it would be a great occasion to make more friends, that it was always good to have someone with outdoor experience on the team, and that it might be a great opportunity to get away from his secret occupation.

The last argument had been the deciding factor. Alex had decided that it would serve MI6 right not to have him at their beck and call for a week, and Tom had been almost unnaturally happy to have his best friend along.

That should have been his first clue that something wasn't quite right with this 'holiday'. But no – Alex had agreed to come along, and come along he did even after Tom revealed the details he had been so frugal with before.

Apparently, the 'group of other guys from the football team' boiled down to exactly one, Darren their goalie. And Darren's older brother Mike, who was going to tag along as their adult supervision. Yes, Darren had invited the rest of the football team, too, but nobody except for Tom (and now Alex) had accepted. With the divorce going on at his home, Tom had practically jumped at the chance of getting out of the house for a couple days, and he had insisted that Alex come along so that he'd have someone to talk to. Darren wasn't the brightest or most likable of guys, and the only thing anyone knew about his brother was that he was 22 years old and enlisted in the infantry. Tom had apparently wanted some reinforcements so that he wasn't all on his own.

The second sign that should have clued Alex in was that, of all the British national parks they could have chosen, Darren and his brother had decided on the Brecon Beacons. At that moment, Alex would have gladly killed Tom if they hadn't been such good friends. It seemed that Darren's brother Mike wanted to see if they could get a glimpse of the first stage of SAS Selection, a series of grueling endurance tests to determine who was able to join the elite unit. And a large part of those tests were long marches (or 'tabs' as Alex had learned to call them) through the Brecon Beacons. Why couldn't Mike have been interested in the Royal Marines? Dartmoor was said to be very nice at this time of the year.

But Alex had promised, and so he had tagged along even if he really, really didn't want to have a run-in with any SAS members, in training or not. With his luck, they'd probably not only have a run-in but also stumble across their secret main encampment that he didn't ever want to see again in his life.

Darren, Tom and Alex had had to find their own way from London to the Brecon Beacons in Wales. Darren's brother Mike was stationed at the infantry training center in Sennybridge, practically in the heart of the Brecon Beacons. It was a small town nine miles west of Brecon, the town that the Brecon Beacons were named after. The four of them had met up at the Sennybridge train station, and then they had set off into the heart of the national park.

Two hours into their trip, Alex already regretted giving in to Tom. As the only adult of their group and a soldier on top ('Corporal Woodstock, please.'), Mike had managed to alienate Tom and Alex almost immediately with his haughty and commanding way. Yes, he had superior navigational equipment, a GPS and very detailed maps, and he had superior experience in the Brecon Beacons, having been stationed there for the last six months. And maybe he even had superior navigation skills, being a Bronze National Navigation Award holder; and command experience, being a non-commissioned officer and all. But did he have to rub it in that much?

The first day, they mainly stayed on the paths to get to the Black Mountain range, a less frequented range in the west of the park. According to Mike, that was the most likely location for the SAS selection; either that or the heart of the park around Pen y Fan. The Army rumor mill couldn't quite decide when and where the individual trials were held, so they'd have to have a bloody amount of luck to see anything.

They spent the night in a bunkhouse that had been designated their base of operations, from where they'd go on their daily hikes. It was a bit rustic but clean and quite comfortable, and it even came with breakfast. The next morning, Mike was a bit more hospitable, and at times downright amiable. He was still the self-declared Navigation King (Alex's compass and map just couldn't compete with a GPS system that had probably cost several hundred pounds), but as soon as he got to tell of his life in the Army, Mike's behavior got bearable.

Darren, who had the worst stamina of their group, hung on to his brother's every word. Apparently the goalie wanted to follow in his brother's footsteps and enlist as soon as he had his GCSE's, and he was using this vacation to train his fitness. His backpack weighed in at about forty pounds, and Alex could have sworn that he had seen Darren add a few rocks to whatever else he was lugging around in there. At the end of their second day, the poor guy looked ready to collapse and earned quite a bit of mockery from his brother (who was carrying a regulation ruck of 50 pounds). Tom and Alex wisely stayed out of their spat.

The third day, they left the paths for the first time. According to Mike, SAS soldiers were told to avoid roads and trails, so if they wanted to see one, they'd have to do the same. Tom and Alex rolled their eyes, but they went along. They hadn't really come for the popular sights anyway, and they doubted that Mike would have accommodated them if they had. That guy was absolutely fanatic in his hunt for a glimpse of SAS soldiers – Alex was starting to feel more and more like a biologist on the look-out for some rare breed of animal species. What would Mike do if Alex told him that he personally knew several full SAS members and had even trained with them?

But Alex remained quiet and only sometimes exchanged amused glances with Tom – when he wasn't pestering Mike to show them their route. He really didn't like it how the soldier kept his cards so close to his chest and didn't tell anyone where exactly they were heading. It seemed rather like the guy just went wherever he wanted to, choosing random directions and only checking their GPS coordinates sometimes that they didn't get too far away from their lodgings. Well, with a GPS that was fine. But for Alex, who had to rely on a combination of their current position, their average walking speed, surrounding landmarks, and his compass for directions, it was something of a nightmare. As uncoordinated as 'Corporal Woodstock' approached the situation, it was a miracle that he had got the Bronze Navigation Award at all.

The fourth day was when disaster struck. Despite a warning that the weather might turn, they had departed for another round of SAS-hunting. After all, it had been still sunny in the morning. Their luck held until noon, but then clouds quickly gathered and soon a bitingly cold rain caught them on their descent from one of the hills. It didn't take long for the grass to become very slippery, and since they had left the trails early in the morning, they had to see how they could make their own way back.

And then it happened. Mike slipped on an especially treacherous piece of vegetation and went tumbling down the steep hillside with a shout.

From afar, the Black Mountain range looked like it was covered with a carpet of closely-cropped grass – no trees or shrubs until one descended into the valleys between, and even then they grew very sparsely unless there was a source of water around. But from up close, the hill-sides lost their velvety grass quality and gained an interesting variety of rocks, brambles, thistles, and other assorted weather-hardened vegetation. To put it short, Mike's tumble wasn't as harmless as it looked.

Darren immediately went after his brother with a speed that Alex feared he'd hurt himself, too. Tom and Alex followed more cautiously, but no less hurried. It took almost a hundred meters until Mike came to a sickeningly limp stop, not reacting to any of their calls.

Being the first one to reach his brother, Darren immediately began to mindlessly shake him that he might wake up. Alex cursed and threw all caution to the wind. He slid down the last meters and wrenched Darren away from his brother. There was no knowing how badly Mike was injured, and the way Darren was handling the situation, it was almost certain that he'd aggravate things. Alex roughly commanded Tom, who had finally crossed the distance, to keep Darren out of his way as he checked on the man himself.

There was no way that Alex was a medical professional, but he'd gained quite a bit of experience throughout his missions. Mike's ABCs were alright – one immediate worry less – and his back didn't look broken, probably protected by his backpack. His right leg though definitely was, and he was bleeding quite heavily from his mouth. Alex hoped that it was just the lips and cheeks and the two teeth that had been knocked out, and not a sign of a pierced lung. The most worrying thing though was that Mike still hadn't regained consciousness. Had he hit his head hard enough that he had a concussion or, even worse, a skull fracture?

Silently apologizing to the man, Alex carefully unstrapped him from his backpack and rolled him onto his side as well as he could on the steep hillside. Alex tried to get him into a stable position where he wouldn't choke on his own blood. He couldn't really be considerate of the broken leg because survival came before pain.

Next, they needed to keep the guy as warm and dry as possible; hypothermia was their greatest enemy especially in this miserable weather. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but a dense fog was creeping up, and the temperature plummeted further.

With Tom's help, Alex raided all of their packs for warm and waterproof clothes while Darren's input was reduced to hovering anxiously above Mike. For once Alex was glad that his uncle had taught him to always be prepared for an emergency, because otherwise he wouldn't have packed the isolating heat-foil, a second set of dry clothes, a flash-light, and a small First Aid kit. Even Mike, who was supposed to know better due to his education in the Army, had foregone any additional weight beyond food and water.

But Alex's things came in handy now. He delegated the task of making Mike as warm and comfortable as possible to Tom and Darren, before looking for a way to alert a rescue team. Even if Mike woke up, there'd be no way for him to walk on his broken leg, and none of them were strong enough to carry a man who was almost a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than them.

And that was when the true problems started.

Alex had deliberately left his mobile at home so that MI6 couldn't contact him. He did wear his Smithers-enhanced iPod that had an emergency beacon, but it transmitted a distress signal directly into Blunt's office. If he activated it, half of MI6 would rush there with guns blazing, and he didn't think the situation was desperate enough yet to warrant such measures.

Tom's mobile had been short-circuited two days ago when he had first dropped it on a rock, and then into a small river. Darren's seemed to be ok, but Alex couldn't get it to turn on. When questioned, Darren guiltily admitted that he had used up his battery phoning his girlfriend. And Mike's? It was broken, just like the GPS and anything else not shock-proof that he had carried on his person during his fall.

No, it looked like someone would have to go and fetch help in person. And that 'someone' needed to be Alex because Darren was in no physical shape to do a forced march under these conditions, and he was in no mental shape be left alone with his brother, either. So the choice boiled down to either Tom or Alex making the trip, and Alex had more experience and more navigation skills and more stamina. It wasn't a real choice.

He had left most of his things with the group and only taken some food and water and a torch. Traveling as light as possible, he could cover the greatest distance. Thanks to Mike's reliance on his GPS and him not telling anyone where exactly they were going, Alex only had a vague idea where they were.

He had started out in a north-western direction, as his map told him that this was the closest way to civilization. And as soon as he found a trail, he'd be able to go a lot faster. But not even an hour into his journey, he managed to trip and damage his compass badly enough that it became unreliable. From then on, he was merely walking in as straight a line as possible, hoping he didn't veer off-course too much.

And that was how Alex Rider came to be trudging through the Welsh country side three hours later, with only a vague idea of where he was and where he was going.

He thought he should have hit a hill at least an hour ago, but he hadn't noticed any tell-tale incline in the terrain. If the weather hadn't been that bad, he could have tried and used the surrounding hillsides for orientation. However, with the fog that thick, he'd practically have to stumble over anything he was looking for.

To his quiet alarm, it was getting later and later. 18:00 had passed a while ago, and in less than two hours, it was going to become dark very, very quickly. He just hoped that Tom could handle the situation – Alex had left him a set of instructions what he was supposed to do in as many cases as he could think of (hypothermia, Mike waking up, Mike not waking up, Alex not returning before nightfall), but he couldn't plan for everything.

Digging another furrow into the ground, Alex once more marked his way. He had taken to using his heel to scratch the grass away to leave a clear line of bare earth. That kind of trail should remain visible for a few days at least. The marking slowed him down a lot, but that was better than the rescue team not knowing where to go. On the other hand, it might be faster for him to tell them where he last knew their location to be and then search from there. The more time passed, the more likely that option became.

And then, the luck that had left him quite some time ago, made a dubious reappearance: Just when he was debating on whether to start using his torch lamp, he more or less tripped over a heavily camouflaged tent.

"Hello?" he called, not sure whether the tent was abandoned or not. "Anyone in there? I need someone to call for help! My friend's broken his leg and I had to leave him behind to get help! Hello!"

Between exhausted panting, Alex realized that he was starting to sound slightly hysterical, so he shut up. Either there was someone in the tent and they had heard him, or there was nobody there and he'd have to continue his search.

To his great relief though, a gruff male voice answered back. "Hold your horses, I'm coming."

He heard some rustling from inside the tent, and half a minute later, the tent flap zipped open. A graying head of hair and stubble popped outside and looked around. When the man caught sight of Alex in his muddy and exhausted state, he frowned. "You're a bit early and a bit young to be one of mine. What the hell are you doing here, lad?"

"Sorry, Sir, need someone to call a rescue team. One of our group got injured, and we're not sure just how severe it is besides the broken leg. When I left them about…" Alex glanced at his watch, "… four hours ago, he was still unconscious. He took a bad fall down a hillside, and we didn't want to move him."

The man stared at him and then shook his head exasperatedly. "Alright, come in. You look knackered. I've got a radio in here."

He unzipped the rest of the tent flap and Alex gladly slipped inside. It had been getting colder by the minute, and his damp clothes didn't really help matters. Rubbing his fingers to produce some friction warmth, he looked around. The tent was tiny – it was only about waist-high, and there was barely enough space for a sleeping bag, a backpack and some other equipment, everything either army issue or army surplus. The man lighted his torch, and in the sudden brightness, the small tent looked even smaller.

From what Alex could see, the man was in his forties, a wiry build that was in top condition, several scars on his hands and face, and he looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight – probably ex-soldier or so. He didn't look very enthused about the interruption, but not like he'd want to throw Alex out, either.

The man offered Alex to sit down on the sleeping bag next to him and dug around in his pack for a bit. He tossed Alex something that turned out to be a ration bar, but continued searching. "Eat that, you look half starved. Now, tell me what's going on; I need to know as many details as possible before I can make the call. Oh, and I'm Sean."

"Alex." Alex didn't give a last name either. Instead, he continued with what had happened. "We got surprised by the weather on the Llyn y Fan ridge, and Mike slipped on our way down. He fell down a hillside some fifty to hundred meters or so, and managed to break his right leg, just below the knee area. He was also knocked out, and when I left them, he was still out. I don't think it's a skull fracture, but I'm no medic. His spine and breathing seemed ok, too, but he was bleeding from his mouth. I'm quite sure that all the blood came from the two teeth he managed to knock out, not any lung damage. At least none of his ribs moved in ways they shouldn't, and his breathing didn't sound wet.

"I think the worst danger he's in is hypothermia at the moment, unless he's woken up by now. We managed to dress him in dry clothes and wrap him in a heat foil, but we don't have any camping equipment. My two mates are staying with him. I'm not sure what their mental condition is though; Darren is Mike's brother, and he was almost hysterical. He had calmed down some when I left them, but I'm not sure how he's going to hold up all alone with Tom and his unconscious brother. Tom should be able to keep the situation under control, but he doesn't know very much about first aid. I told him the most important things to look out for though.

"Oh, and Tom and Darren are as old as I am, while Mike's 22 and an infantry corporal at Sennybridge. He's the one who did all the navigating with his GPS system and didn't much talk to us about where we were going, so I'm not really sure where exactly the accident happened. I think it was the south-western side of Llyn y Fan Fawr, but I can't be sure 'cause his system broke when he fell. I headed out north-west in hope of reaching Llanddeusant or Twynllanan, but an hour into my march my compass broke. I tried to keep in as straight a line as possible, but I couldn't see a thing in this damned fog. I think I either got turned around a bit or didn't quite start out where I thought we were, because I missed several landmarks that I should have hit. Then again, I could have walked straight by them in this weather.

"Where are we now, by the way?"

Alex had fished the map out of his backpack and had opened it to the relevant section, trying to trace his way through sheer stubborn will.

The man, Sean, unbent from searching through his pack. "Lemme see. Ah, that's a map with good detail. It's not a GPS map, this yours?"

"Yeah," Alex nodded, finally taking notice of the ration bar in his hands. "I didn't know what and if the others had brought any navigation equipment, so I brought my own. For all the good it did me."

The ration bar. Ah, yes. Well, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he unwrapped the bar and bit into it. Gah. Military issue, like the rest of the equipment in the tent. Nonetheless it was vital calories, and he realized only then just how hungry he was.

"Here, below Usk Reservoir." The man seemed to have found their location on Alex's map. Sadly, his finger was nowhere near where Alex thought he'd be.

With a gulp, he swallowed his current mouthful of chewy cardboard. "Crap. Either I got turned around worse than I thought, or I left them somewhere completely else. The last coordinates that I remember from noon are longitude .69-something, latitude .88-something, that should be here (2). From there on out, we stayed on the ridge, and when the weather turned bad at around 1400, we advanced downhill, south-west I thought. But to get to the Usk Reservoir, I should have had to cross the ridge again. And I definitely didn't go uphill that much. But I don't think we went down the other side, the north side, either; at least I didn't see this lake here anywhere on our way down. Don't tell me I actually managed to walk around half the Llyn y Fan massif without even once stumbling on a single trail or road…"

The man – Sean, he had to remind himself – shook his head. "Even on the most direct route, that would be 10 kilometers minimum, depending on where exactly you left them. And in weather like this, there's no telling how far you drifted off that minimum path. You said you left them four hours ago?"

Alex nodded, taking another bite of the ration bar. That was right, he would have had to average quite a bit more than 2.5 km an hour to manage that feat of walking around the mountain. And on uneven off-road terrain, with as many stops as he had made to mark his path, that would be quite a feat. On the other hand, that maybe explained his bloody sore feet. "Well, I feel like I did walk at least ten kilometers. And if that isn't what I did, I really have no bloody idea where they are. Damn it."

"Calm down, son," the grizzled veteran said. "You did well. They'll find them, especially with the coordinates you remembered. I'm going to call dispatch now, and they'll organize a rescue, starting with your last known location and go from there. Do your mates have anything to signal with? Torch, whistle, bright-colored clothing?"

"I left them a torch. Tom probably knows how to flash SOS, but I'm not sure how much help that'll be in this fog. Not sure if they'll remember to, either. And, if it helps, I marked my trail pretty regularly, every fifty to a hundred meters or so. Big capital T-shape scratched into the ground, T-bar at the end I was heading towards."

The ration bar was gone, and he crunched the sticky wrapper between his fingers. Wordlessly, the man threw him another one before finally liberating a full-blown signal radio from his pack. The sturdy design looked like it was intended for military operations – like everything else in that tent.

With a practiced motion, Sean adjusted the antenna and briefly checked the frequency. It started crackling, and the man nodded in satisfaction. Pressing the talking button, he spoke into it. "Home, this is Usk Reservoir. Come in, over."

Releasing the button, the two of them got to listen to low white-noise for a short period of time. Then a static-riddeled voice answered. "Usk Reservoir, this is Home. Go ahead."

"Home, Usk Reservoir, need forward to civilian Emergency Services, over."

"Usk Reservoir, Home, say again. Over."

"Home, Usk Reservoir, have civilian teenager here with injured friend in Llyn y Fan area. Need to alert civilian Emergency Services, over."

"Usk Reservoir, Home. Hold, over."

"Home, Usk Reservoir. Roger. Out" (3)

Alex had at first raised his eyebrows at so much strict voice protocol, but as soon as he heard the word 'civilian' leave Sean's mouth, he wanted to bang his head against something hard. Why was it always him?

He should have gotten suspicious when Sean had taken out the signal radio. Getting access to such a model wasn't easy. And most military nuts weren't fanatic enough to go that far. Camping out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but army-surplus, yes, but setting up a whole communications network with a home base and call-signs?

Well, the infamous Rider luck had struck once again, getting him to stumble on an active mission. And, if Alex knew his luck, this wasn't just any military mission but one of the tests of SAS Selection. Judging by what 'Sean' had said at the very beginning, he had to be manning one of the checkpoints for some kind of nighttime navigation exercise.

Eh, he really didn't envy those guys who had to traipse around the Black Mountains in this weather on a glorified paper chase.

"What's the matter, lad?" 'Sean' (Alex doubted that the man had given his real name) asked quietly so as to be able to listen to the radio at the same time, in case someone hailed him back.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Just admiring the ironies of life. You know why we were out there? 'Cause Mike wanted to get a glimpse of SAS Selection."

"Mike, the corporal? The one who's down?"

Alex nodded mutely, chewing slowly on his second ration bar.

Sean's answering bark of laughter was short and amused, but he didn't confirm or deny what Alex had hinted at. Not that Alex had expected him to. "Well, tell him that the next time, he should better look at ground instead of chasing after a dream. Your head seems to be screwed on a lot better than his."

Shrugging, Alex balled up the now empty wrapper and, after seeing no immediate place to throw it away, stuffed it into his pocket. "So, what'm I supposed to do after authorities are alerted? If you give me a compass, I can find my own way to Llanddeusant."

Someone there probably would be able to give him a lift to their bunkhouse or let him stay for the night. What he really wanted to do was join the rescue mission for his friends, but for that he'd have to meet up with the rescue team first and he doubted they would take a 15-year-old anywhere but a bed.

Sean inhaled as if to say something, but he was interrupted by the radio. "Usk Reservoir, this is Home. Come in, over."

He threw Alex a glance before he answered. "Home, Usk Reservoir, go ahead, over."

"Usk Reservoir, home. Situation? Over."

"Home, Usk Reservoir. Civilian, aged-" he looked at Alex in askance, and Alex mouthed 'fifteen', "aged fifteen, got lost looking for help, found my position on accident. He left three people at 15 hundred, two civilian teens and an infantry corporal from Sennybridge. The corporal is injured, broken leg and unconscious as of 1500. No camping equipment, but heat foil. Last known position 51.88, -3.69 at noon. Over."

"Usk Reservoir, Home, copy. Rescue has been alerted. Switch to 31.744 to give them details. Do not interrupt night exercise. We will send someone to get the boy. Over."

"Home, Usk Reservoir, 31.744, roger. Usk Reservoir out."

Apparently no more lonely night-time wanderings for one Alex Rider.

With practiced motions, the man switched frequencies and made the call to rescue dispatch. He stopped one or two times to get additional information from Alex, but otherwise he repeated what Alex had told him almost verbatim. Rescue dispatch commended Alex on his actions before they cut the connection with a promise to keep him updated via the command line.

"So, you heard them," the veteran commented. "You're going to be stuck with me for at least an hour. I need to cut the light soon because of the exercise, so you should get comfortable now. Here." He handed Alex a jacket and training pants that he had dug out of his pack, "get out of your wet clothes and wear this. Should be warmer. Any blisters or other injuries?"

"No, got good boots. Thanks."

Everything was the olive color of military camouflage and three sizes too big, but at least it was cozy. The man turned around, but a one-man-tent wasn't big enough for real privacy. If Sean noticed any of Alex's scars or found them unusual, he didn't say anything.

Wordlessly, Alex took the thermos cup with steaming hot tea that Sean handed him afterwards and sipped it carefully. Gradually, he might be feeling human again.

When he was done, Sean took it back and turned off the light. "You should lie down and get some sleep. You look knackered."

At first, Alex couldn't see anything, but slowly his eyes got used to the darkness. "Yeah, I know. Don't know if I can though."

"'s not like you can do anything at the moment, so you should save your energy for later." Sean sounded sympathetic.

"Never been one to rely on others." Mostly because there hadn't been any 'others' on his missions, and whenever he called for backup from MI6, they tended to arrive sorely too late. "More of a do-it-yourself man."

Nonetheless, he curled up on top of the sleeping bag he was sitting on and tried to take up as little space as possible. He still almost bumped against the veteran's legs since the tent was that small.

"You did good. Didn't lose your head, judged the situation clearly, did everything you could, and then went and got help."

"Mhm."

They lapsed into silence, not really an uncomfortable one. Alex listened to the sounds in the tent, from the man's almost inaudible breathing to his occasional shift in posture, to the rain drizzling on the canvas and other nature sounds that were barely muffled.

He didn't even realize when he drifted off to sleep.

(2) GPS systems give the exact latitude and longitude coordinates in degrees with decimals. One degree is a distance of a little bit more than a hundred kilometers, so Alex doesn't really have to include the degree itself, just the decimals. With two decimals, he has managed to narrow the area to a bit more than a square kilometer. And, yeah, I'm anal like that – I actually looked up those coordinates via Google. Latitude 51.88, longitude -3.69 (Llyn y fan fawr).

(3) I don't know anything about military radio protocol (at least nothing beyond watching the occasional movie), so I really have no clue if that's the way they do stuff like that. Heck, I don't know regular civilian voice protocol, either, so everything's just made up with help from trusty old Wikipedia.

A/N: Well, what do you think? Like it? Hate it? And no, there won't be any spy-business involved. It's a hiking vacation after all.