It's been a while. I lost steam with this a little due to other things going on IRL, but now I'm free to get it finished. Thank you for your patience.

It was a peaceful flight; there were no sounds but the hum of the aircraft and the static of the radio. Around and below him a vista of clouds stretched to the horizon, tinged pink and honey-gold by the sinking sun. He checked his compass and adjusted his heading slightly; a headwind was picking up. The radio began to crackle as a transmission came through. He registered the identity of the caller before switching it off, cutting the message short.

The wind was strengthening now and he felt some resistance as he further adjusted his course, gusts driving at the wing slats. The plane juddered, rattling the control panel and dislodging a piece of paper tucked between the columns of dials; he tucked it into the pocket inside his jacket and settled more firmly into his seat, altering the display, adjusting settings.

The sky was darkening.

There were storm clouds up ahead.

Now he was in the dark corridors of his prison, running for the exit. The lawyers were close behind him – he could hear them calling him, telling him to stop. There were more ahead of him, blocking the way out, but he fought his way through because there was something he had to do – someone was in danger? Someone important… He wasn't certain. He felt confused, as though this had already happened but not quite the same. The voices were back, louder than ever, whispering to him – he should ignore them, but they were so insistent… the lawyers were closing in…then the voices stopped, everything stopped, and his vision went black.

The darkness was oppressive but for a time he could hear things. There were more voices, only two of them now, low, serious. He felt a dull, steady pain at the back of his head which burst into a violent crescendo at the touch of a hand; the voices faded away again and he knew nothing.

He could not have said how much time passed before he woke. The shadows slanting across the room could have been those of dawn or dusk. He turned his head and felt a twinge behind his ear; when he reached up to investigate a hand caught his and pulled it firmly away.

"Oh no you don't," said a voice, tinged with a Russian accent.

Pilot twisted his head the other way to locate the speaker. "Engie?"

"Welcome back." The engineer was seated on an overturned crate beside the couch, a scorched book in his hand.

Pilot tried to remember what had happened and where he was. One thing was uppermost on his mind.

"My head hurts."

The engineer closed his book. "I know. You came into rather sudden contact with a brick wall. You needed stitches."

"Stitches?" Pilot was intrigued. "Like Mr Kittyhawk has?"

The engineer contemplated denying any likeness between medical sutures and a soft toy before giving in with a heavy sigh. "Sure. Like Mr Kittyhawk. Why not."

"OK," said Pilot happily. He reached up to examine his new needlework but the engineer stopped him again.

"Don't touch them," he said irritably.

"Why not?"

"You might break them, you half-wit."

"I won't break them. Anyway, if they get broken you can sew them up again. Like with Mr Kittyhawk."

The engineer stared at him, incredulous. What could you say to that?

"Pilot," he said eventually, in a sombre tone. "If you break your stitches, your skull will fall out."

Pilot didn't like the sound of that.

"And unlike that bird" he continued, "I can't just fix you by stuffing some cotton wool into your head." He paused to reflect on this. "Actually, come to think of it, I doubt anyone would notice a difference if I did. But I've sewn you up once and I never want to have to do it again. So -" he leant forward, moving his mask close to Pilot's face "Don't. Touch. The чертовский. Stitches."

Pilot nodded fervently. He winced as the pain returned, the wound protesting at his sudden movement.

"Don't do that either," Engie said with annoyance. "Just lie still."

Moving tentatively, Pilot sank back onto the couch. He closed his eyes and the remnants of his tangled dreams drifted back to him.

He remembered with a start.

"Captain!"

"What?" asked Engie, alarmed by the outburst.

"Captain's in trouble! Those tiara monsters were attacking him – I have to help -" he tried to swing his legs onto the ground but the engineer pushed him back.

"Captain's fine. You saw him, remember?" Unconsciously he touched his arm. Under his sleeve a ring of finger-shaped bruises marked his skin. "It's the rest of us who were having problems."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Out there somewhere." He pointed to the window overlooking the devastated city.

"Is Snippy with him?"

The engineer groaned at the anxiety in his voice. "No, he isn't."

Pilot eyed him suspiciously. He would obviously need better evidence that the sniper was not at this very moment trying to steal their leader's affections. He turned to the door and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Charles!"

There was the sound of rapid footsteps and the sniper appeared at the door.

"What's wrong?" His eyes went immediately to Pilot. "He's awake!"

"That was quick." Engie sounded amused.

"Oh, I was -" he gestured ambiguously. "I just got back – from -"

"From pacing up and down the corridor? What perfect timing." The engineer stood. "It's your turn to babysit."

"OK…"

Engie brushed past him, having no desire to debate the issue.

Snippy sat down. Pilot was watching him narrowly. He drummed his fingers on his knees, not quite sure what to do.

"So… how do you feel?" he queried.

"I am in optimal condition," said Pilot rather stiffly.

Snippy looked over his injuries, which pointed to the contrary. A twisted ankle and some extraneous bruising, unnoticed in the initial alarm over his head wound, had been patched up by the engineer in the same makeshift way. He nodded, humouring him. "Oh, definitely."

Pilot wasn't listening. "So don't get any ideas, Mr Snippy," he continued. "I know you want Captain all to yourself -" he had to raise his voice here to drown out Snippy's expressions of dissent – "but you're not getting rid of me that easily."

Good, a part of him thought, but the rest of him was busy vocally insisting that he had no intention of trying to usurp the position of trust which Pilot apparently believed himself to hold. The argument culminated the way it always did, with a volley of Pilot's outlandish and imaginative invective and threats of physical harm.

Overall, Snippy thought, trying to prevent the pilot from delivering a kick with his injured leg which would undoubtedly hurt him more than it would Snippy, it was a lot easier to feel sorry for him when he was unconscious.