"What's happened to him?" Jimmy cried, and, again, "what's happened?"

The crew was, as carefully as they could, carrying Chris into the main floor, where they could at least see him in consistent and usable light. They lay him along the corner of the center console, where Jimmy had been several hours earlier, when he was unconscious.

"I think his lung's collapsed." Said Aviva, trembling.

"Oh, god." Said Jimmy. "What do we do?"

"I don't know!"

"There has to be something!"

"I don't know!" She snapped. "We don't have the medical equipment to deal with this kind of injury, we don't have power, we don't have Martin, we're laying on our side, in the cold, here all alone. I don't know what we're gonna do!"

Jimmy flinched, and stared in stunned silence.

Koki stepped in. "Well, in a weird way then I'm glad Martin went to get help."

"But we don't know," Aviva continued, maintaining her paroxysm, "if Martin made it anywhere without dying! We have nothing to do, now, but wait around for Chris to die too!"

By this point, everyone had tears.

"You can't say that!" Koki said. "What about the feather? Martin must have left it behind! We can use it to-"

"To do what? Carry Chris somewhere? Do you know how long that would take? Too long, it would take too long."

"We can't give up!" Said Koki, as firmly as she could.

"I don't want to!" Aviva sobbed. "I just don't know what we can do!"

Koki knew. She grabbed Aviva, and hugged her. Jimmy joined in as well. Maybe it wasn't the most productive thing, but everyone, standing all together, felt ready, at peace, even if it was for the end.

But you know as well as I, this cannot be the end.

Jimmy was the first to pull away from the hug, drawn out by a strange anomaly, summoning him like the hypnotic tune of a piper.

"Do you guys hear that?" He asked.

It was a heavy droning, an industrial sound, marked by occasional metallic clunks but enveloped in a constant baritone rumble. It was increasing in volume, obviously coming from an approaching source, or, two, as became more evident the closer the noise became.

"Who is that?" Aviva said, quietly. They all looked at each other, uncertain if the new arrival was friend or foe. Everyone's heart skipped a beat when, one closely after the other, the noises stopped. No one dared move towards the sunroof, and instead, stiffly and silently, moved into a protective circle around the still gasping Chris.

They could hear car doors and snow crunches. They could hear clear voices, all of them male, however, the words themselves could not be distinguished at that distance. But these people were clearly walking at the Tortuga, and sooner or later, the nature of the new arrivals had to come out.

"как нам попасть внутрь?" Were the first clear words that came through.

Aviva's face lit up. Koki sighed deeply. Jimmy leapt in the air, cheering, "It's the Russians! It's the Russians, we're saved!"

While Aviva rested her head on Koki's shoulder in relief, Jimmy sprinted up to the sunroof and out through it, whooping and waving his hands in the air. There were ten or so of them, all covered head to toe in snow gear, and they had come in two large, orange, continuously-tracked trucks. They too waved their arms upon spotting Jimmy. One sprinted ahead, and spoke in English, but with a heavy Russian accent.

"Hello! We got your comrade's message! Are there injured?"

"We've got a guy with a collapsed lung!" Jimmy shouted back. The Russian man turned and shouted towards everyone else.

"получить носилки!"

One of the people just poking out of the truck's door gave a thumbs up, and disappeared back into the truck, only to exit back out completely, and begin running, dragging a stretcher behind them.

"How do we get inside, my friend?" Asked the Russian man.

"Through here's the best option!" Jimmy hollered back.

"Hmmm. That may be difficult for your friend. Can you lower him to us?"

"Probably!" Jimmy said, "give me a second!" He hopped back inside, and practically slid down to the others, in such rushed excitement that he barely even noticed various shards of glass as he was approaching and after he got them lodged in his hands. "We gotta lower Chris down to them. They've got a stretcher for him."

"Let's grab a tarp." Koki said. She and Aviva ran off to the hangar, to pull one out of the pile they'd slept in. Jimmy went up to Chris.

"Hey, Chris! We're gonna be okay! Martin did it! The Russians are here!"

Chris said nothing, only continuing to wheeze. He did actually stir a bit, and shakily looked at Jimmy, though his expression did not connote that he had any understanding of what was going on. He looked as pained and frightened as ever.

The girls emerged with a tarp, and spread it out in the air. Jimmy, after skirting around a bit to try and find the right angle, lifted Chris, grimacing as his friend let out one massive, empty, startled gasp. He placed Chris on the tarp, continuing to clutch the underside as the girls maintained the corners. The group carefully edged their way down the slope.

Getting Chris up to the loft and out the sunroof was a different matter, and required a lot of frustrating rearrangement, awkward positions, and strained, choking sounds that had to be ignored. Finally, they got up to the sunroof, and lowered him carefully down to the people below, who placed him on their stretcher. The man said, "посадите его в грузовик и отправляйтесь на аванпост." And they ran off to the truck.

The rest of the crew, with great elation, leapt down out of the Tortuga. Aviva hugged the nearest Russian; he was caught a bit off guard, and didn't reciprocate, but just let it happen, not really knowing what else to do.

"I am Pyotr, I am in charge." Said the man who could speak English. "Your friend will be okay. He is with Snezhana, she is a good doctor."

"That's a relief." Aviva said.

"We must go to the outpost. The drive is long, and here is cold."

"Wait, what about Martin?" Aviva asked. "He's with you guys, right?"

Pyotr frowned. "I... don't think he is alright."

"What?" Aviva cried. "Why not?"

"We received his call, but he was scared. He said the guys who attacked you were there, then there was screaming, and it cut off."

A black cloud of fear covered the brief spot of sun that was their rescue, and they stood horrified, unable to say anything in response. They sank right back into that miserable hopelessness, even as the first truck pulled away, carrying Chris to safety.

"Do you know who it was?" Pyotr continued. "This... Nora and Axel?"

"The... who?" Aviva asked.

"The people who attacked. Those were names he gave himself, he said they did it."

She shook her head sadly. "No, no, I have no idea who those are. I've never heard those names."

Pyotr let out a thoughtful hum. "I've sent armed men to that outpost, they will report when we meet." He reached out his hand, "for now, Госпожа, we must leave."

Reluctantly, Aviva took it, and was lead to the remaining truck, the rest of the crew following behind sadly.

They were safe, but what had become of Martin? What would they tell Chris? What could they do?

As everyone else boarded the vehicle, Aviva turned to get one last look at the Tortuga.

There was her life's work, dead in the snow, sitting like a tombstone, a ruin, a corpse all at once. Its windows were dark, its head was limp, its belly exposed to the biting winds. They could come back for it. They could rebuild it.

But she remembered how excited the brothers were when it was first finished. When it reached its final weeks of development she had hidden it away from them, so it would be a surprise. That reveal to them, their reactions, when the Tortuga was unveiled, was priceless. The two just broke into ecstatic laughter, clinging to each other and jumping around giddily, with the biggest smiles on their faces and brightest sparkles in their eyes. They were like children in a playground, running up and down the floors, chattering endlessly about all the possibilities, of course getting an introduction from the girls about what they could and couldn't touch. At the end of it all, Martin had picked Aviva up off her feet in an enormous embrace and twirled her around. When she was set down she asked him if he liked it. Continuing to hug her, he had said, "It's perfect. I love it." And then, after a few more seconds of hugging, sighed, and whispered, "Thank you, so much."

She had never met someone quite like Martin. His drive, passion, energy for the world, for life, for other lives of all kinds, was unparalleled, and downright inspiring. She had wanted to make a difference in the world too, just as he did, but she never quite knew how until she met him. He was a goofball, maybe irresponsible, oftentimes a pain in the ass, but if it weren't for him, or his brother, there would be no Wild Kratts. There would be no Tortuga.

And now, there wasn't. The Tortuga was dead, and both of the brothers were out of commission, one from a terribly injury, and the other in order to save the rest.

They could come back to the Tortuga. They could rebuild it. But without Martin, without the brothers, was there a reason to?

Aviva turned away.

She climbed into the truck, and it pulled off, leaving the Tortuga to sit in the snow.

.

.

.

Martin woke. His head was spinning, and he could barely move. His ears had bad barotrauma, so he popped them. He was lying on his back, on something, that felt like a dentist's chair. He tried to look around, but couldn't see much, it was all very dark. He could only make out the faint outline of walls, a door, a counter, and -

His eyes came upon something unsettling, unsettling enough that Martin thought he might be in a dream. There, standing in the corner, was a person, engulfed in shadows. Martin didn't know what to say or do, so paralyzed was he, by fear, by actual paralysis, that he just lay there, staring at the figure. A few shadowy minutes passed, then Martin coughed, and the figure jumped in place, as if it had been surprised.

"You've woken." It said. Its voice was of a nature Martin had never heard before; it was muffled, gargling, but echoey all at the same time. "Hello, Martin Kratt."

"Who... are you?" Martin asked.

"You wouldn't know me." It said. "But I know you." The shadow began to move out of its corner. As it approached, Martin could make out that it was small, wiry, and rather unbalanced. It slinked and stumbled, circling around Martin. It looked like something Martin could easily overtake, that is, if Martin could ever move, except for one thing. There was something just wrong about the way its head was shaped, but it was all too dark for him to make out what it was.

"Do you know how long I've been down here?" It asked.

"Nope." Martin said, trying to produce some levity in this frightful situation.

"This existence is a punishment for me," it continued, "for something that happened five years ago. I've been trapped, Kratt, in this pit, because of her."

"Her who?"

"Her..." he stopped circling, ending up just beyond the right side of Martin's feet. "Her, my goddess, my devil. The perfect combination of madness and intellect, of barbarism and civility, of blessing and cruelty! Her, who has unlocked the powers of life itself, at the expense of her own humanity! Her, the gift to the world who only wants to destroy!"

"Very well put." Said Martin, having a bit of nervous amusement, as he thought, oh boy, this guy is completely nuts!

"Thoughts of her haunt my every waking moment, words on her I know by heart." Martin saw through the dark that it put its hand on its forehead. "She did this to me... because of you. Because of what you've cost me!"

"I don't know you!" Martin insisted.

"You passed right behind me." He said. "You were right there behind me, weren't you? Slinking around like the insect you are."

"Look, whatever you think I did-"

"Don't lecture me!" He tried to shout, though his strange muffled voice did not allow for volumes higher than a regular speaking tone.

"I'm sure this is a mistake! I don't... I don't do stuff to people, okay? I'm not that kind of guy! So, whatever it is you think I did, I'm sorry!" Martin figured this plea probably wouldn't work, but it was worth a try anyways.

"'Not that kind of guy?' Then what are you doing, running around, foiling the plots of businessmen, entrepreneurs, visionaries, like me?"

"Oh." Said Martin. "Oh yeah, I do that. Only, I don't really call them those things. I call them poachers." Martin furrowed his brow. "Is that what you are?"

"Ha! By your crude simplification of things, yes, that's what I was."

"Well, then, I'm not sorry." He said. "So what was your scheme? Fur industry? Logging? Hunting for fun? I've tangoed with the lot of them, so you're probably right. I won't remember you. You're just one in a million jerks who come and go."

"Leopards." He said. "My scheme was leopards."

"Oh. Oh." Martin got a sudden uncomfortable chill as he realized that this had to do with his very first expedition into the field, when he was all alone and pretty inexperienced, so the whole deal blew up in his face. He began running through his head for all the people who were involved, who this could be - the secretive man he had worked with, who had vanished afterwards with his daughter? The loud, vile villain who was supposedly dead?

"My name is Tyler Wilfred." He continued. "I was the lead scientist on that Leopard-gathering assignment lead by... the insufferable Vincent Bruce."

"Y-you were the scientist guy? I... kinda remember you?"

"It was a fine operation, going smoothly, until you showed up and ruined everything! And I was made to suffer for it."

"I'm... sorry, but, you shouldn't have been an evil scientist?" Martin tried to shrug, but really only twitched at the shoulders. "I don't know what to say, really. This is kinda... anti climactic."

"C-climactic? Climactic?" He lunged forwards, grabbing Martin by the ankles and leaping up onto the chair he was in to hover over him. "Climactic? Like my suffering is some movie? Like this is entertainment for you?"

Martin let out a strangled gasp. The figure who had been stalking around him came more clearly into view, and went from a strange circling lunatic to the most horrific and disturbing sight he'd ever seen, topping this recent increasingly awful succession in traumatic experiences. From neck down this was an average man, of less-average build, just as Martin had predicted. But also as Martin had predicted, there was indeed something horribly, horribly wrong with his head.

Because it wasn't a human head at all.

There was a long straight muzzle with a drooling, foaming mouth at the end, and a flat, running nose. Two pointed ears sprouted from the side, with jagged cut marks on the edges. His eyes were on either side of his snout, with horizontally slanted pupils, and old mucus crusting the edges and running down like old tears. His skin was mostly hairless, red and blistered, covered in old scratch marks clearly done by his own hands. Most prominently of all, sprouting from his forehead, were two, sickle-like horns.

This man had the head of a goat.

Martin retched a few times at the appalling sight.

"You see what she's done to me? You see what she can do? She's the greatest mind among us, not lacking in the vilest of imaginations! My own face is my prison; what she has devised for me, I could never match with what I may do to you." He leaned in, his horrid, quite odorous visage coming mere inches away from Martin's trembling own. "What? Have you no clever comeback this time, whelp? Five years have I been locked here with this torture, and I have the rest of my lifetime to go. But at least now, I have you here to serve the sentence with me. You caused my punishment. Now, I shall be your's."

.

.

.

Why here? Why do I keep coming back here?

Chris was in the bunk bed again. He always, always kept returning to that bunk bed, always with those changes that threw him off, that made him upset. The first time it was all wrapped in calamity and confusion, the second was hellish and dark, and this time, this time around was the worst of all.

All this change involved was a shift in perspective, but that shift alone stirred in him emotions he could not quite pin down - intense, instinctual, deeply-seeded nostalgia, coated in layers of infancy, comfort, absence, loneliness and dread. It was just that little change in angle. The window was above him instead of below. The floor was within touching distance, instead of the ceiling. That's all that did it, just the fact that he was not on the top bunk, but the bottom, just the fact that he was not in his bed, but Martin's.

There were quite a few times when Chris would be on Martin's half of the bunk. Obviously, he was there himself before he could climb the ladder to the top, but after that, he would continue to make frequent visits. Martin and Chris would sometimes turn the bottom bunk into a little plush fortress, by tucking blankets in between the frame and mattress of the bunk above so that they'd hang down like curtains, and then by throwing every stuffed animal and pillows they could fit inside, and there they'd eat popcorn and watch movies. Other times that was just the place where they'd hang out and talk, Martin would even help Chris there with his homework from time to time, if the kitchen table was "too boring to wanna do anything," as Martin put it. Other times, especially but not exclusively when he was quite young, Chris, during one of those particularly harsh thunderstorms, or after a terrible nightmare, would climb down the ladder and seek refuge next to his brother. At first he, as a child does, would stand there several minutes, clutching whatever was his plush animal of the night, unsure as to whether or not waking Martin would anger him - then of course there would go the loud, grinding clap of thunder or the shadow on the wall that looked like the monster he'd dreamt of, and he would, weeping, shake Martin awake, who always welcomed Chris in with open arms. Eventually Chris came to know his brother would never turn him down, and so if he was frightened in the night, he wouldn't hesitate to climb in there. As he got older that would more happen due to some fit of anxiety, especially as the time for Martin's college-bound departure approached.

But then, it arrived. The bottom was left empty. Chris never slept in it, but sometimes, after a particularly miserable day at school, he'd come in, sit on Martin's bed, and just stare at the floor, sometimes for an hour or two.

Martin wasn't here this time too, but clearly this was different. Chris wasn't sitting, or staring, he was lying down, slowly waking up, which just shouldn't be happening without Martin there. Worst of all, there wasn't even a space where Martin should be. Chris was not a child anymore who could fit next to someone in a space like this, he was fully-grown, and taking up the entire bed. It almost looked like Martin never existed in the first place.

That unspoken feeling, combined with all those happy memories and scary memories and memories too early to prescribe emotions to was why this was the worst so far. In the face of it all, Chris just felt nauseous.

This dream is really getting to me. Chris thought. Then he realized something. Wait, I don't get lucid dreams.

The morning light was filtering softly through the window, catching and crowning the dust in her rays. He could smell that old maple wood smell from the frame. The decorations, which ones were out, which ones were absent, complied perfectly with what had and hadn't been packed away in the brother's various movings about. The sheets rubbed softly against his skin, as they always had.

This was not a dream. Chris was actually here, in New Jersey, in he and his brother's room, in his brother's bed.

So where was his brother?

Chris sat up. There was a slight pain in his chest, no worse than a needle prick. He put his hand there. I was in Antarctica. I was in the Tortuga. This hurt, really badly, it was broken! So what -

Was that the dream? It couldn't be, right? Sure, the memories coming through of what was seen and said then were hazy, but the pain felt so real, as did the fear. But Chris was beginning to second guess himself.

Chris leapt out of Martin's bed and made his way down the hallway, not really bothering to look into another change of clothes, as if this were a typical Saturday morning from his childhood days. He turned down and around the house towards where he could hear noises - shuffling, cabinets, a spoon stirring in a porcelain cup - the kitchen.

And there was his mother.

She was a wonderful woman, straightforward, sturdy, but nonetheless so caring, always armed with steadfast kindness and gentle sternness. Her powers to explain things were mystifying; she always knew what to say to put things in perspective, either when it came to freeing a child from a spell of distress or teaching that child something important. She was honest, but never in a frightening way, like she always carried a shining light with her that showed the paths hidden away.

But today, that light seemed to be flickering. Her eyes looked tired, and worn, her hair was more ratty that usual, and she hadn't put on any makeup, which normally wouldn't have bothered Chris, but now it seemed like she had been robbed of a bit of her control. Her face was red, a bit puffy, and there were some wrinkles he hadn't noticed before.

She saw Chris and smiled that sort of soft, motherly smile, though this time it quivered a bit.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." She said, drifting towards him, arms extended for a hug. Chris was by now taller than his mother, but he still always felt so small and weak in her arms, because she was just so strong next to him.

"Your father's out on an errand," she said, pulling slightly away from him, but still maintaining her grasp, running her fingers through his hair. "He didn't think you would wake up today, he swore you would be out at least two more days. That's how you always were with anesthesia."

Anesthesia. Was I in surgery? Was it for my broken - oh.

"Where's Martin?" Chris asked.

His mother stepped back more. The hand that was on his head dropped to his shoulder; she sighed shakily, and looked down briefly with glassy eyes, before returning her gaze to her son, and saying, "Let's sit down, okay?" She gestured towards the breakfast table.

Chris nodded as he felt a knot grow in his stomach. He moved to one of the chairs, but she power-walked over to the stovetop. "I just made myself some tea, it's french vanilla, from that tea shop Kathy recommended me - you remember Kathy, right? Oh, uh, would you like a cup?" She continued.

Chris shook his head, saying "no" very quietly, which she of course heard, because she heard everything.

"Are you sure?" She asked, turning to look at Chris, carrying a white teacup in her hands.

"Yeah." He said, folding his hands together on the table. She nodded, and moved to join him, her cardigan flowing behind her like the trails of a wandering spirit. She sat next to him without saying a word, staring into her tea, not taking a sip of it.

"So where is he?" Chris asked again. She reached over and put her hand on his nearest arm.

"We... still don't know." She said.

"Oh." Said Chris. They sat in silence, listening to about seven ticks from the nearby wall clock.

"They said... he went to this abandoned outpost to get help after you crashed. He radioed in but the call was..." she sniffled, clearly holding back a newly approaching wave of tears. "And when the people got there, he was gone, and they're still looking but... they have no idea where he is." Her voice was wavering greatly. She took a moment to bend her head and let out a sob, gripping Chris' arm tightly. With gritted teeth, she gathered herself and raised her head again.

"How long has it been?" Chris asked, he himself trying not to break down and weep, both at the news and the sight of his mother in pieces.

"Let's see..." His mother said, reaching for a tissue box on the table, blowing her nose then wiping her eyes, then tossing it to the trashcan, which was right next to them instead of in the alcove where it normally was. Chris noticed that it was filled almost completely with those tissues. She recited the course of events almost as if they were a mnemonic device she was using to calm herself, "you got some urgent care for a first day in the Russian outpost, but were then helicoptered to a hospital in Chile. You were there for about five days, I think, and then when you weren't in critical condition anymore you and the crew flew back to the states - you were dropped off at the hospital just on the other side of the 287, just to make sure everything was alright, and then, well, you were brought here." She smiled again, clearly grateful that Chris had made it home safely. "It's been about a week and a day."

Chris felt a pit grow in him. It had been that long? Martin had been gone for that long? It seemed unreal, like only a few minutes ago he was sitting on the floor of the Tortuga, telling himself all he had to do to be helpful was get up and soldier through the pain, and instead all that got him was a week and a day of being no help to anybody, lying, sleeping, practically in a vegetative state.

So Chris had to make up for it. He had to.

"Where's Aviva and the others?" He asked, his brain switching into don't sit, just keep moving mode.

"They're in New Mexico, in that warehouse of hers in Las Cruces, fixing the... the ship."

"I've got to go to them." Chris said, standing up.

"Are you sure?" She asked, rising too. "You just woke up, don't you think -"

"No." He said. "I've got to get there." Then Chris stopped. His mother obviously had been going through hell. It couldn't be fair of him to just leave her like this, so frightened and miserable; but at the same time, Chris would go mad if he stayed in this house, not knowing what happened to Martin, not knowing what to do about it. But Chris wasn't about to say that to his grieving mother. "No, I'm sorry. I can stay."

She shook her head. "Chris, I get it. You need to go to them."

"No, really, I can stay!"

"Chris, don't try to fool your mother. I know you need this, I can't keep you here. Besides, one thing that's keeping me going in this world," she placed a hand on Chris' cheek, "is knowing my wonderful sons are out there, making it a better place." She put down her hand and chuckled. "And if you're worried about me being all by myself, don't. Obviously your father is with me, and your sisters finally got a leave of absence, and are driving up here." She winked. "They might not be so understanding, so you might wanna hurry up and head out."

Chris hugged her again, and ran off to his room to pack. He didn't know how long he'd be gone, or where eventually he'd end up, but it didn't matter. He planned for everything, and grabbed for everything, even having to sit back and and cross out contingency plans just to fit everything in his suitcase. It took a lot of thorough searching to feel confident he was prepared for anything, anything at all, anything that the world would throw at him.

Because one way or another, he was going to find Martin.