Disclaimer: Don't own it, will never make money from it. Sigh...
The Return
You stumble, taking that first step back through the gate, and you fall to your knees. Your left leg gives first and the right one follows, far too fast for your mind and body to catch up.
So you fall, failing to wince at the crunch you hear as your right knee hits the metallic surface.
Yet there is no shame in this. You breathe in deeply, ignoring the enquiring looks shooting in your direction as you kneel there, your arms folding across your torso, almost greedily drawing in deep breaths, feeling your lungs absorb the fresh air, even though it isn't fresh, because you are halfway under a mountain, so it can't be so.
Yet it is. Here you have respite. You can breathe easily. You do not have to run here. You do not have to rely on hastily indrawn gulps of whatever that atmosphere, on that planet, had to share with you as you ran. Here, you are free.
And then it hits you. Where are they?
You flick your head backwards, taking in the sight of two of your team-mates on the ramp, one supporting the other in their own slumped state as they too attempt to regain control of themselves.
Yet one is still missing.
The one.
You ignore the panicking wail that starts up in a corner of your mind as you shift yourself awkwardly around, waving the medics away even as they move towards you, gesturing in the direction of the gate.
It is still open.
He will need your help.
He will need theirs.
You wave them away again (they are so insistent), and wait.
He is coming.
You know it to be so.
He's just a few moments behind.
But nervous seconds pass before you let yourself realise that it has been too long. Surely he was just behind you?
Another nurse tries to reach for you, but you are having none of it. As you bat her caring hand away, your focus is only on that one thing. The blue, rippling surface. He will be here, very soon. He has to be.
He is coming.
He really is.
He has to be.
You hold your breath, suddenly, involuntarily, waiting for him.
It is only as this becomes uncomfortable that his form breaks through the surface, his body rolling, crashing into the ramp, as he tries to take the sting out of his ungainly landing.
You already know that he is still alive, from that alone, but then his head moves uncomfortably around. He, too, sees your team-mates in the first instance. His own breath is rasping. But then he looks at you.
Your eyes lock and you know he is OK. Better than OK.
He is smiling.
You send him the look, the one that only the two of you know.
That wasn't great. It was way past far from it.
But you both returned.
You are both alive.
This counts for a lot in the list of reasons to be cheerful.
And that's the thing, isn't it?