Every minute is a fresh, new agony.
It's an intensity of pain Brock has never felt before in his life. He's never been stabbed, but he knows this is what it would feel like. Except it keeps happening again and again – with every step and every breath he takes – like he's stuck in some kind of awful loop. It's a never-ending assault that won't let up, and the knowledge that it's only going to get worse is enough to make him feel like he's drowning.
So he refuses to let himself think about it. He's determined to do what he's trained to do - he pushes it away as best he can, and he keeps walking. He forces himself to zone out, letting the pain slowly drift to the background.
In its place, he fills his mind with memories – idyllic summers from his childhood, meeting his brothers for the first time, Cerberus as a puppy, all the adventures downrange doing what he loves.
Time seems to warp. It's an indefinite thing that just goes on, and he has no concept of how much of it has passed. It could be five minutes or it could be five hours. But the light forcing its way through the trees is dimming when Jason calls for a break.
As soon as he stops moving, the pain slams back into him full force. Brock hunches over next to a tree, bent protectively over his middle with his hands on his knees as he works to catch his breath. He's aware of movement around him, but his heartbeat is pounding like a drum in his temples, blood whooshing through his ears. All he can focus on is breathing and keeping his feet under him, grounding himself to the earth below.
Trent appears in his line of sight, crouched down in the dirt next to him. The medic's face is carefully controlled, but Brock knows him well enough to see the worry in his eyes that he can't fully conceal.
"Think you can eat something?" he asks quietly.
The very idea makes a lump climb into Brock's throat, and he's afraid he's going to be sick again just thinking about it.
He shakes his head, not able to put the effort into talking yet.
"Can you try?" Trent asks again, and he sounds a little desperate now.
Brock wants to. He does. He's always been a pleaser; a rule follower. If Trent is asking him to do something, that means it's important. And he knows he needs to keep his energy up. They have a long way to go, and things are likely to get worse.
But the thought of even trying to eat something seems like a mountain he's incapable of climbing.
The inner turmoil must show on his face, because Trent gives him a pat on the shoulder and says, "Okay, that's okay for now."
"I'm sorry," he says miserably as he forces himself to straighten back up to lean against the tree, only now noticing that everyone is gathered around him. "I don't -"
"No reason to be sorry," Trent interrupts with a soft smile. "We'll figure this out together."
"Would it be better to keep him still?" Ray asks. "Should he be moving like this? Couldn't that just make it worse?"
"I don't know," Trent answers bluntly, and Brock can hear the current of frustration in his voice. He gets the feeling his friend has already spent a lot of time pondering the same thing. And he can't remember a time he's ever heard Trent sound so unsure.
But he trusts the man with his life. He does every time they go out on a mission. They all do.
Even if he doesn't have the answers, Brock trusts Trent's instincts. And he knows he'll always make the call he thinks is best for his men.
And that means Brock will follow his lead without question.
"No," Trent finally says, with more conviction this time. "I think we just need to keep moving. It's gonna happen anyway. Even if the movement speeds it up, I think it's a worthy trade off. Carrying him would slow us down so much it would at least double our time. And that's too dangerous."
Brock looks down self-consciously, embarrassed that they're talking about him like he isn't right in front of them. Even through the pain, he still can't shake the guilt of the failed mission. Or the burden he's now putting on his team. And on Trent.
"Once we reach a clearer area we'll call in," Jason says. "See what medical suggests. Until then, we keep moving."
They have a satellite phone for emergencies, but here under the thick, dense covering of the jungle, their opportunities to use it are pretty slim.
Not much can be done anyway. They all know the only way out is on foot. They knew that coming in. They aren't near enough to a major river to have the advantage of a waterway, and there's no hope of a vehicle getting to them through the dense wilderness.
That leaves the air. But even if they were able to get a bird in somehow to pull him out, they can't. It would break the rules of engagement they agreed to for the op – no activity that can be spotted and no communications that may potentially be overheard or intercepted.
They're on their own.
And now, even surrounded by his brothers, Brock feels like he's completely alone.
Truthfully, that's kind of how it's been his whole life.
Brock's always been a little bit of an outsider, though outsider might not really be the right word. He's always just done what he enjoys, without the need to conform to what everyone else is doing, or what everyone else thinks he should do.
In high school, while all of his friends were playing football and soccer, Brock stuck to cross country and swimming. And despite the relentless teasing, he made it all the way to Eagle Scout when the rest of his peer group dropped out of scouting, distracted by girls and parties and high school drama.
But that independent streak makes it hard to connect to people sometimes; to let others in.
And as much as he loves his brothers on Bravo – and he knows they love him – sometimes Brock still feels like that kid who didn't quite fit in with the group. The one who's having a different experience than everyone else.
It makes him wonder what they're really thinking now. Whether he's more trouble than he's worth.
His relationships with these five men are the tightest he's ever had with anyone, possibly even his own family.
More than anything, he doesn't want to let them down.
"I can keep going," he says once he finally catches his breath, moving gingerly to sit on the rough bark of a fallen tree.
"Yeah, yeah, we all know you're faster than us, man," Sonny says dramatically, swatting at a fly buzzing past his ear. "No need to show off. We aren't all built like a gazelle."
His tone is annoyed, but Brock can see the gentleness in his gaze.
"Really, Trent," he insists. "I'm good. I can keep going."
"I know you can. We're counting on it. But I want you to have some more water first."
Brock tries to school his face to hide his grimace, because drinking is getting harder and harder. He forces a few sips down, and Trent looks satisfied, but it feels like he's swallowing past a boulder in his throat.
Everyone spreads out to quickly eat something and hydrate, and Brock leans back and closes his eyes. He breathes deeply while he focuses on the sounds around him – the light wind rustling through the leaves, the faint creaking of wood, the symphony of insects, birds and creatures all around them. And he takes in the smell – a mix of earthy, musty and fragrant.
Spending time in nature has always grounded Brock. It's where he feels the most alive. Like even though he's just one small, tiny speck, he's a vital part of an expansive, vast ecosystem. And being in the jungle is the pinnacle of that.
"You're gonna have a hell of a story to tell," Clay pulls him from his thoughts as he settles down on the log beside him.
"Oh, yeah," Brock scoffs, and the movement makes his breath catch. "Big, tough SEAL ruins an op because he gets sick. Quite the story."
"Stop that. You didn't ruin anything. Completely out of your control. Besides, it kind of fits you perfectly, right? Brock Reynolds - incapable of just getting a normal injury like anyone else. Had to come up with something original."
"Think I'd rather…get shot." He says through clenched teeth. "This sucks."
"Eh, getting shot's not all it's cracked up to be," Clay says with a laugh. "You'll probably end up with a cool scar anyway."
They sit in comfortable silence for a minute and Brock watches as Clay shreds a leaf between his fingers.
"You do know we don't care, right? About the op?" the younger man finally says quietly. "We just want you to be okay. Whatever we need to do to make that happen is worth it."
Brock's taken aback by the emotion evident in Clay's voice, and the fact that he isn't hiding it. Clay isn't exactly known for a bleeding heart – none of them are – and Brock isn't sure how to respond.
The silence lasts a beat too long, and Clay clears his throat before continuing.
"So stop worrying about it. Don't waste energy on any of that angst that's swirling around in your head. Just focus on walking, and doing whatever Trent tells you to do."
Brock nods.
"Hey," Clay nudges his shoulder, waiting until Brock looks at him to continue. "When you can't do it anymore, tell us. It isn't weakness, Brock. We all know you're a complete badass. You don't need to prove that to us."
Brock looks away, feeling his face flush. Clay sounds completely genuine, and it sends a flood of warmth through his chest.
Sitting around isn't giving him enough of a distraction from the growing pain, so Brock's grateful when they start moving again.
Night falls quickly, and it slows their progress. They continue to carefully follow the path they made on their way in, but even with their night vision they have to backtrack twice because they lose the trail.
Brock also knows it isn't safe. Without a fire for protection, he knows the darkness is exposing them to the threat of wildlife. The jungle is a very different place at night than it is during the day, and they're vulnerable in the dark. He wants to suggest they stop and set up camp until morning, but he can't bring himself to do it. No one complains, and remarkably, Sonny doesn't say a word.
Trent stays much closer to him now. Brock isn't sure whether it's because of the darkness or because he's afraid Brock will topple over at any second, but he's hyper-aware of the breathing and footsteps just behind him. It gives him a bit more confidence to push on, and he's more grateful than he could have imagined for the constant, steady presence.
Sonny launches into a rambling story somewhere behind him. It's not his usual complaining; this is something about his grandninny and Christmas and spiking the eggnog with his sisters. Brock isn't actually paying attention – too overwhelmed by the pain and his ongoing battle to block it out – but hearing the familiar drawl is comforting somehow.
They haven't been moving for very long – an hour, maybe two – when Brock realizes he isn't going to be able to regain the focus he had previously. It's like their break pulled him too far out of his head, and he can't fade out anymore. Or maybe the pain has just increased to a point where it's too all-consuming, demanding his complete attention. Either way, everything becomes harder – every step, every movement and every breath.
Before he even realizes what's happening, he's retching into the bushes again, losing what little water he was able to get down during their break. He hears a curse from Trent, followed by gentle words he can't clearly comprehend. A hand lands on his forehead while another gently grasps the pulse point in his wrist. He feels a firm grip steadying his elbow on the other side, and he's thankful for it as his head spins. He doesn't know if it's from the pain or just general weakness, but he has to take a minute to regain his equilibrium.
"Shouldn't…stop?" Ray's worried voice penetrates the fog that's rooted itself in his brain.
He hears the murmur of voices, but he isn't able to make out the words.
"I'm good," he forces out, and his own voice sounds too loud in his head. He ignores whatever conversation is being had around him and shakes loose from the hands that hold him tight. He starts walking and trusts Trent to fall back into place behind him.
He loses sense of time again.
The darkness is suffocating.
The sounds and smells that once brought him joy now only remind him of where he is – how much farther he has to go.
This place that he loves is starting to feel like a prison.
He's trapped, and he desperately wants to get out.
His entire existence becomes about the pain and fighting it so he can continue on. Every step gets him closer to a reprieve from the torment, and 100% of his energy is required to continue putting one foot in front of the other. To not give up and collapse where he stands.
Brock has always been blessed with athleticism. He can't really explain it, but his body just works. It does what he needs it to do, and it does it effortlessly. He has an innate ability to use his muscles and tendons and bones in complete sync to accomplish whatever he sets out to do. It's a big part of why he chose the career path he did.
Now it feels like his body is betraying him. Like this valuable tool has not only been taken away from him when he needs it most, but it's actively attacking him.
His mind if waging war with his body.
And his broken body is winning.