No.
His eyes flew open, but it was too late. She was gone. Thirteen let his head sink back against the floor and brought a hand up to his eyes, the swollen fingers stinging as they brushed the burning skin. He was always just a little too late.
On the night the prisoner escaped, he'd been on his way to relieve Zero in the hangar. Their lieutenant had caught him on the way. All he'd asked was if the altitude sickness tablets were helping. Thirteen had been a minute, two minutes late. That was all. But that was all it took. Zero took a blast full to the chest. He died on the spot.
There were times when Thirteen was grateful for the helmets they were required to wear. Sometimes you needed a mask. You could fall to pieces behind it and no one would be any the wiser. And you could get on with helping the wounded and the deck crews and a hundred other things.
All the same, it was a relief when anger took over. Anger was easier. Anger was safer. They had no outlet for grief, but anger was another matter. All Thirteen could think of was finding the two fugitives and emptying his blaster clip into the pair of them.
Well, he'd got his chance. Thirteen could feel the thin, unsteady laughter rising in his throat. This wasn't exactly how he'd seen things ending. Takodana should have been a milk run. An easy in-and-out. But everything had gone wrong.
Thirteen tried to sit up, only to fall back with a whimper at the tearing pain in his stomach. It felt as though he'd swallowed shrapnel and it was only getting worse. He dragged in a weak, shaky breath and shut his eyes.
The blow came out of nowhere, a jab, sharp and hard to his stomach. Thirteen cried out, his eyes flying open - he didn't want to remember, didn't want to go back to that room - but he could see only the dark folds of the cloth pulled over his face.
Why protect the bastards who had left him to die? a voice somewhere in the darkness wanted to know. Thirteen felt a sob rise in his throat. Not again. Please not again.
Why protect people who didn't give a shit about him? They were all dead. There was no one left. He was alone. He had nothing to lose. They had left him behind. Dead weight. Useless. Soft. Just give up. It could all be over if he would just give up.
Thirteen tried to cover his ears. It wasn't real. It wasn't happening. But he could feel the cloth pressing over his face, suffocating and coarse, and the voice only grew louder, closer, more insistent, and with it the threat, the constant threat and anticipation of pain. Thirteen was shaking. His insides felt as though someone were shredding them with a knife. They had left him behind. They had left him to die. Alone. No one was coming back. They were gone. There was no one left.
Something between a sob and a scream tore itself from his throat, drowning out even the voice in his head. He was aware of the cell, of where he was. Reality slipped back into focus.
He was crying, his chest heaving painfully with each breath. He tried to curl onto his side, his hands still covering his ears and his eyes tightly shut - though there was nothing to hear and nothing to see - and let the tears slide down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt so much.
He wanted to go home.
It was a child's cry, buried beneath so many years of determination and brainwashing that he no longer remembered what or where home had been. But the sense of loss and of longing was the same, and he clung to the sentiment with the same grasping urgency as he had as a child, holding it tight to his chest as his senses faltered and the pain gnawed at his insides. Home. He wanted to go home.