Title : Crash

Author : Helen C.

Rating : R

Summary : Galactica, Apollo, I've been hit. Repeat, I've been hit. (Set in S2, somewhere between Final Cut and Flight of the Phoenix).

Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Ronald D. Moore and Universal Television Studios to name but a few. No money is being made. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

AN. Many thanks to elzed, siljamus and joey51 for beta'ing this, and to the countless people on LiveJournal who held my hand while I whined and whined and whined about this fic.

AN2. Pure, unadulterated H/C. (If you don't like it, lie to me.)


Crash

Helen C.

Chapter 1

He was running.

His lungs and his throat burned as he gulped down cold air, forcing his legs to move even faster. The dry leaves on the ground crunched under his feet as they pounded on the ground, again and again and again, his legs screaming with the effort.

He had to—

run, run, run, run, run, run

—couldn't stop, couldn't rest, not now, he had to put as much distance as possible between him and—

and what?

The thought came out of nowhere, intruding on his building panic.

What was he running from? Was someone following him?

He shot a look over his shoulder but couldn't see any movement aside from the leaves blowing softly in the wind.

Did he outrun whoever he was running from?

Was he even running from anyone in the first place?

He realized he had slowed down and forced himself to pick up his pace again, disregarding the pain.

You're killing yourself, he thought, but he couldn't ignore the gut feeling that was screaming at him to keep going for as long as he was able.

His breath was coming out in ragged, rasping gasps—need to rest—each breath he took stopping high in his chest—need to stop—instead of providing much needed oxygen to his lungs—need to rest.

He groaned softly and closed his eyes against the pain, then snapped them open—the ground was uneven under his feet; he had to look where he was going if he didn't want to injure himself.

As if it had only been waiting for such a thought to cross his mind, his right foot caught on something under the leaves. He was going so fast that he didn't even have time to realize what was happening before his body slammed into the ground.

Breathless and dizzy, he scrambled to his hands and knees, looking around frantically. He remained in that position long enough to make sure that there was still no one around, then finally gave up and lay down on his side, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal.

After a short while, he grew more aware of the sounds around him—or rather, the lack of sounds. He could hear the wind in the trees, disturbing the foliage of the trees. The dry leaves covering the ground crunched under his weight every time he shifted.

He couldn't hear anything else—no birds, no insects, no sign of anyone or anything around.

Where was he and what was he doing here?

He struggled to a sitting position, his body protesting every movement he made, and groaned slightly as the pounding in his head increased.

Something else was eluding him—something important and fundamental, something that should be bothering him, something he couldn't put his finger on. For a brief moment he could feel it, just within his reach, then it frustratingly escaped again just as he was about to grab it.

He glanced around, his eyes carefully inspecting each tree, scrutinizing the shadows deeper into the forest before going back to his closer surroundings. Still no sign of danger, still no movement, still nothing.

His heartbeat was finally falling back into its normal rhythm, which lead him to wonder when was the last time he had run that long without a break.

He frowned, searching his memories and coming up with nothing—nothing about the last time he had exercised, nothing about what he had done earlier in the day, earlier in the week, no memory of talking to anyone, no familiar face, nothing.

He curled up on himself, feeling like he had been punched in the gut. "I don't know my name," he said, his voice getting higher with each word. "I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't—"

With an effort that took all the energy he had left, he stopped the hysterical chanting and took as deep a breath as he could.

Then, another.

And another.

He rubbed his eyes and shot another look around, in the hope it would jog his memory.

No such luck.

I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't know my name, I don't know my name—

Stubbornly, he brought his thoughts back to the present and studied his surroundings. It wasn't much help; it just looked like a frakking forest—trees and bushes, dirt and leaves on the ground, and no sign of animal life, no insects gathering around him, no sign that there were birds anywhere.

It matched his mental picture of what a forest was supposed to look like, but when he tried to recall spending time in one, he came up empty.

The trees seemed unusually high, as far as he could tell. He craned his neck up to try to spot the sky through the foliage and could barely make out a little square of almost gray sky. Was it the middle of a cloudy day, or the end of a sunny one? It was impossible to tell from the light or from what little he could see of the sky.

Thankfully, the foliage wasn't too dense at ground level but it got thicker near the top of the trees, which would make it impossible for anyone to spot him from the air. Assuming anyone was looking for him, of course.

There was very little color around, he noticed distantly. All shades of green and brown he could imagine, but no flowers. No sign of anything human around either—no shelter that he could see, no marks on the trees, nothing on the ground that would indicate anyone had ever been here before.

He mindlessly allowed his hand to dig under the dried leaves on the ground and gather a fistful of dirt. It felt different than he expected; heavier, thicker, almost like mud but drier than that. He couldn't quite pinpoint why it felt so foreign to him, but it disturbed him nonetheless.

He had to do something. He couldn't just sit here and wait for his memory to come back on its own or for someone to find him.

Moving didn't seem too appealing an option but staying put made him his stomach clench in dread—need to run, need to run, need to run, need to run. He decided to listen to his instincts.

It took him a while and a lot of effort to get to his feet, his stiff muscles protesting. It would be worse if he didn't keep moving, though. Besides, he should try to find shelter, or at least some cover if he wanted to rest.

Cover from whom? From what?

He shook off the questions, annoyed. All he had to go on was his intuition and if it was telling him that he needed to hide, so be it.

He took a step forward and let out a startled cry as he put weight on his right leg, his knee nearly giving out under him. He looked down at himself, noticing his clothing for the first time—Idiot, that should have been the first thing you checked, there might be clues there—and noticed the blood running down his lower leg.

How the hell didn't he feel that before?

For a long while he stayed frozen, mesmerized by the blood leaking through the thick material. A flight suit, he thought, and the words sounded right. He was wearing a flight suit. There was a gun strapped to his thigh and he filed away the information for later, just in case.

A flight suit must mean that he was a pilot and if he was a pilot, then maybe—

His hand flew to his collar and he hurriedly pushed the first two buttons open and prodded the base of his neck, his fingers closing on a chain.

Dog tags. He was wearing dog tags, which meant that he was military.

He brought the small metallic hexagon up to eye level, studying it.

L. Adama. 318742.

"Apollo," he whispered.

"Galactica, Apollo, I've been hit. Repeat, I've been hit."

He sat back down heavily, still clutching the dog tags between shaky fingers.

"Apollo, Galactica. Can you make it back?"

His Viper was shaking like it was going to come apart. A planet was looming on the horizon, blocking everything else from his view.

"Negative, Galactica."

"Damn it, Apollo. We need to—"

"I know. I know." A tense silence, filled with static. "I'm gonna try to make it to the planet."

A voice over the comm.. "Galactica, Starbuck. Permission to—"

Another voice, stern and definitive. "Denied, Starbuck."

"Frak!"

"Starbuck, Apollo. Shut up and obey orders."

Then, another voice, anchoring him to the rest of them for a few more moments. "Apollo, Actual. We'll come back for you, Lee."

Lee shivered and looked around, desperately hoping that this time, another pilot was going to emerge from the forest and walk up to him.

Of course, that wasn't the case.

"Not dead yet," he muttered between clenched teeth. Not going to die any time soon either.

He tried to dig into his memory for more information and eventually, bits and flashes of the struggle to land his bird in one piece came back to him—disconnected images, impressions, aborted thoughts and gestures.

He remembered pulling the ejection handle and being thrown into the sky, wind gushing in from every direction, slamming him into his seat, pushing down on him until he wanted to scream.

His parachute had deployed as it should have; he remembered staring at it, remembered hoping it would save his life, dreading the landing.

Then, nothing—a big black spot where the memories ought to be.

Head injury.

He let go of his dog tags and carefully prodded his forehead, the back of his head, his left temple, grimacing when his fingers hit a tender spot. There was something warm and sticky covering his hair and skin.

I'm bleeding.

How much blood had he lost? How bad was the head injury? He swallowed nervously; considering that he hadn't remembered his own name until he had seen it engraved in the metal of his dog tags, most likely bad.

While he was sitting, he should probably take inventory of his other injuries. He spared a brief moment to wonder if he had done so after the crash, and how many times he may have done so since then. As the thought did nothing but make his stomach twist with fear, he got down to business.

Head, check.

His back and spine were probably fine, considering how fast he had been running.

His arms didn't hurt aside from a general, dull soreness—the kind he'd suffer from after putting too much strain on his muscles.

He poked at his ribs through the flight suit. A few of them seemed tender, but nothing gave way under his fingers. Bruised, cracked at worst, then.

He pushed against his right side, but that didn't hurt any more than bruises would either.

Then, he went to his left side, and let out a muffled curse. Damn, definitely deep bruises, if not worse. There was nothing he could do about that. Hell, there was nothing he could do about any of his injuries; he didn't have a first aid kit, didn't have any drugs available right now. It seemed like a good idea to have a clear knowledge of how badly he was injured, though, so he went on.

His left leg was fine. The right one was still bleeding sluggishly. The flight suit was torn open and he peeled it away from his skin, widening the opening. It was hard to tell under the blood, but there were at least three deep lacerations there. Not enough to break an artery, thankfully, but deep enough to be a problem. For one thing, they were probably going to keep splitting open until they could be sewn shut. For another, open wounds on an alien planet meant that germs were probably gathering already. If it got infected, he'd be in even more trouble.

The only thing he could possibly do was wrap a makeshift bandage around it and hope for the best, so he struggled out of his flight suit, pushing the top down to his waist, and tore two large pieces of fabric from his tanks. They were covered with sweat but it would have to do.

He wrapped the fabric around the wounds as tightly as he dared, hoping it would be enough.

It was growing colder and Lee shivered and put his flight suit back. The fabric was clinging uncomfortably to his skin but it was better than catching a cold. He rubbed his hands together. Shouldn't I have gloves? He frowned, trying without success to remember what he had done with them. He should have had a helmet too, and he didn't remember how and when he had lost it—or left it behind.

Not remembering was frustrating as hell but he shook himself. It was getting darker and he needed to get moving if he wanted to find somewhere safe to spend the night.

Getting to his feet wasn't easier this time, but he struggled through, gritting his teeth and thinking about the Galactica. They were looking for him and they would find him.

His father would find him.

The memory came out of nowhere, as he was carefully putting his right leg on the ground, testing its behavior as he put weight on it.

"Galactica, Apollo, do you copy?"

He had tried to contact them.

Unfortunately, his Viper had been destroyed and his helmet comm. was either damaged or not powerful enough to reach them.

"Galactica, Apollo, do you copy?"

There had been no reply, no one to listen to him, no one to hear his voice as he called out to them over and over again.

He tried to disregard the fact that since the beginning of the war, they had left more pilots behind than they had managed to rescue. It didn't matter that jumping back for him would be nearly impossible; it didn't matter that the risk would probably be considered too great to take.

If he didn't want to go insane at the thought of dying alone on this rock, he had to cling to the hope that his father would find him.

He kept on walking, relieved that the pain in his leg seemed more manageable. His head still hurt but the pain was growing distant and he hoped that meant he was doing better.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't even know how far away from the crashed Viper he had landed; he didn't know how long he had run or in which direction, how long he had spent unconscious, how long it had been since the crash. He checked his watch, finding without surprise that it was broken. I've done this before, too. How many times?

Each step he took might make him more difficult to find and he wasn't even sure that it was necessary for him to hide.

Yes, it is. I just don't know why, but I know it is.

As if a switch had been flipped, it came back to him—a flash of metal in the distance, blinking red lights.

He stopped walking, heart beating wildly in his chest.

There were Cylons on the planet.

There are Cylons everywhere.

He fell to all fours when his stomach rebelled and retched, distantly noting that his stomach seemed mostly empty.

It happened before.

The dry heaves left him shaking, tears streaming down his face. His left side hurt from the exertion, like it was being repeatedly kicked, but at least he wasn't throwing up blood.

He tried to get up and things started to spin. He fell back to his knees, narrowly avoiding the puddle of vomit, then lay down on the ground. It felt like being in a spinning Viper; he didn't know which way was up and which way was down, didn't know anything except that he was spinning and falling, out of control.

He felt nausea rise in the back of his throat again and swallowed painfully, willing it to pass.

He shivered, covered in cold sweat, light headed and disoriented.

Do they know I'm here?

Do they know I'm alone?

Are they looking for me?

A wave of hopelessness washed over him.

Galactica will never be back. It would be too dangerous if there are Cylons around.

He felt almost ashamed for wishing that some of his fellow pilots would risk their lives for him. He didn't want anyone to die for him but damn it, he didn't want to die here or become a Cylon prisoner either.

Dad promised. It sounded childish in his own mind, and he had outgrown the certainty that his father was all-knowing and all-powerful long ago. Still, it was reassuring, and he knew he would hold on to the memory until the end—whatever form it took.

He rolled over to his side and pushed himself up on an elbow, everything starting to spin around him. It didn't look like he was going to stay conscious for much longer.

He looked around, hoping he'd see some way to hide in case the Cylons were looking for him. He couldn't see anything and his vision was starting to go dark. For lack of anything better, he crawled under branches, allowing the bushes to shield him from sight.

It would also prevent anyone friendly to spot him as well, but there was no helping that. He'd rather the Galactica crew missed him—assuming they came—than being caught by Cylons.

On that thought, he gave up the fight and allowed himself to pass out.


TBC...