Oscar would always remember the crash as a series of horrible sensations – no thoughts, just screeching caustic sounds of metal folding, crumpling and ripping, the scrambling of every sense, the violent pains as his body was hurled into walls, floor, ceiling - fragile flesh pitted against steel and momentum.

Then, the weird silence. Hissing from the wreck. The rise into consciousness… sudden panic, bright red pulp and tattered clothing where a human being once was, nausea, sickening claustrophobia…Jaime pinned…hurt…possibly dead. Intense fear – fear transforming into brain shattering anger. Then … out of the helicopter…some semblance of a return to a conscious, planning mind – dragging Jaime's limp body across the forest floor. A return to the helicopter … stumbling in the wreckage… flinging a first aid kit and blanket out onto the forest floor. Hands strangely reluctant. Blood all over the place…

Back to Jaime… his face close to hers, her sweet breath soft on his cheek – tears of relief blurring his sight, quickly on to the next sickening fear… a desperate groping of her bionic limbs…power packs intact - relief. Just a crushed foot, a smoking circuit exposed. The slow realization that he could hear his thoughts, the pounding and rushing in his brain subsiding.

Now to the next exploration…more fear…he couldn't make himself touch her head…he was too bloody. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his filthy sleeve and paused to look at his hands. The source of that river of blood was shockingly deep, ragged cuts - down to the bone on both palms. Slowly, clumsily, he opened the first aid kit, and pulled out gauze bandages. The pain…his arms…everywhere… was beginning to register. Using his teeth and whatever dexterous powers he had left, he raveled the gauze around his left, then his right hand, as tightly as he could, tearing it off with his teeth. The flow stemmed, he returned to Jaime, and with shaking and uncooperative fingertips he carefully examined her head, and the ugly gash at her hairline. Her skull seemed to be in one piece. He gently checked her eyes – pupils were equally dilated, the irises that beautiful iridescent green… and absolutely vacant. Still – if his limited diagnostic skills were correct, perhaps there was no serious head injury. She was just unconscious, that was all. He covered her with the dirty wool emergency blanket he found in the helicopter, and he kissed her forehead.

He sat hunched over her for a few minutes, allowing himself to absorb the fact that they had just survived a horrible crash – and that the pilot had not been so fortunate. He tried to push the images of the body from his mind, and remember instead the man at the controls – but found he could not recall his face. This made him feel horribly, unreasonably guilty.

With some difficulty he opened a disinfectant wipe and cleaned the cut on Jaime's forehead. He hoped the sting might wake her – but she remained unconscious - remote and unreachable in some dark place. He couldn't shake the sickening conviction that she was seriously hurt. More gauze. Carefully winding the bandage around her head, he was disgusted by his own clumsiness. By the time he'd finished with her, she looked much worse - disheveled and broken.

On shaking legs he collected bits of wood and built a small fire using matches from the kit. Everything took ten times more effort than usual. Striking the match was almost impossible. It suddenly occurred to him that he was horribly cold, and the minor shiver running through him became a major quake. Wilderness survival lore would suggest that he and Jaime should snuggle, taking advantage of each other's body heat - and as he was desperate to hold her anyway this was clearly his best course of action. The gun he had shoved in the waistband of his trousers was long lost but he still had Prochazka's pistol in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and threw it on the ground. With a lot of pain and grimacing he lifted Jaime's limp body as carefully as he could and held her against him. He leaned against the nearest tree and slid, wrapping her legs around him as he inched downward. By the time he reached sitting position they were bundled in an intimate embrace. He reached for the blanket and threw it over her back.

Her head lolled on his shoulder, and he kissed her cheek fretfully. How he wished she were awake to wrap her arms around him, so that they could cling to each other. He couldn't help but be disturbed by her unconsciousness, and he had to resist the urge to shake her and call her name. To have her there in body but not in mind made him desperately lonely. At least he was able to look after her a little bit – that brought him some solace. For an instant he allowed himself to think about how much he wanted to look after her – every minute of every day, forever. He pushed the thought away.

As the adrenaline drained from his system and he responded to the warmth of Jaime's body, his eyelids grew heavy, even as his brain was still wildly trying to process what had happened. Unconsciousness grasped at him, despite the added worry that Prochazka's people might just get to them before the OSI did. He checked to make sure the gun was in reaching distance, and he forced his eyes open half a dozen times before he finally succumbed to the blackness.

Jaime awoke in the grips of anxiety – twitching sharply and choking in fear. Her last memory was of the crazy spinning, seeing Oscar hurled across the helicopter carriage – and now here she was in perfect quiet and absolute darkness. Was she dead? Before she could truly panic, she registered the arms around her.

"Babe?"

Oscar's voice – rough and real - the sound of warmth and safety. Tears sprung to her eyes.

"Babe? Talk to me."

"Oscar…" she gasped, "Oh Oscar, where are we? What happened?" She would have burrowed into him if she could. Nestling close as possible, she pressed her face to his neck and closed her eyes tight. Though her memory gave her no clue as to what had happened, she could tell by the acid in her stomach and the pains all over her body that it had been something terrible.

He sighed and squeezed her gratefully – his fears for her relieved by the sharpness and clarity of her voice. He kissed her face and rocked her soothingly. "Oh Babe…" he murmured, "you're awake…thank God. How do you feel?"

Jaime registered fragile edge in his voice. It contradicted the substance and warmth of his big body and strong arms. She was quiet for a moment as she assessed the state of her body. Her head hurt. Actually, everything hurt – but none of it seemed dire. "Like I've been in in a wrestling match with Joe Frazier." she said, compelled as always, to make a joke in the darkest moment possible.

That illicited a pained and muted chuckle, and they both knew what he would say next. "Joe's a boxer, Jaime."

"Are you hurt, Oscar?" She cupped her hand around the back of his neck, the cool, smooth skin a tangible comfort.

"Nothing irreparable."

Quietly and calmly, he did his best to explain what had happened through the patchwork of his own memory gaps. His voice shook noticeably when he told her that the pilot was dead and the helicopter was nothing more than tangled debris. It was the middle of the night, and they were in a forest in Colorado… somewhere. They would not be able to walk, as she had sustained damage to her bionics, so they had to hope for rescue.

"Thanks for…pulling me out of there." she said quietly.

"Just evening up the scorecard a bit."

As much as Jaime felt she should stay awake and figure out what they were going to do, her more compelling need was to escape her splitting headache. The only defense was sleep, and she gave into it quickly. Oscar, relieved of his worst fears for her, followed close behind.