#type:open

Ring of fire

60°12'4" N 25° 3' 8" E

Considered as at least partly man made because of

Various types of rocks

arranged in a circle

Sacrifical stump

60°12'12" N 25°3'6" E

Considered as at least partly man made because of

Berriesarranged on stump

Scatter a hut

60°12'9" N 25°3'17" E

Evolved in to twin-tree-tipi

Considered as at least partly man made because of

A string tied to a tree

different types of wood gathered to the location

Twig assortment

60°11'58" N 25°3'9" E

Considered as at least partly man made because of

Different types of wood assorted to one spot

wood leaning on a tree

proximity of a trail

Hang-on-swing

60°12'7" N 25°3'8" E

Considered as at least partly man made because of

A plank nailed to trees

a rope tied to the plank

Sniffing stop

60°12'7" N 25°3'8" E

Considered as at least partly man made because of

Decorative painting

Someone, Lincoln managed to think hazily, should have designed those fucking escape pods to watch out for asteroids.

All he could see was black and blue, blurs of color that he couldn't quite figure out. The blue seemed to be sky, but what was the black? Something waving in the corner of his vision, one big blob. The grass he seemed to be lying on was solid, at least, even if his head was still whirling.

His escape pod had gotten clipped by an asteroid in the belt, tearing out a chunk of the side of the pod and sending it spinning. The force of metal crumpling inward had taken out a piece of his chest armor, but it had mostly protected him from any serious injury. But whatever GPS system the pod was equipped with had gotten damaged, and even though his helmet had still been secure enough to keep feeding him oxygen, Lincoln had known he was in trouble.

He'd kept a calm head as best he could. Waiting, trying to time everything perfectly. And as impact had been seconds away, he'd activated his armor enhancement. His vision had lit up with red as the energy surrounded him, temporary invulnerability shielding from the worst of the impact. But then he'd gotten thrown from the pod, the shield faltering as it absorbed too much damage.

He'd bounced down the side of a small hill, into a tree, and then rolled the rest of the way down, coming to a final stop on the grass.

It hadn't been fucking pleasant.

Get up, Dhatri.

Just fucking get up.

Lincoln took a breath, grimacing as pain jolted through his side. He carefully picked his way to his feet, looking down. A goddamn tree branch, maybe an inch around, had lodged itself between his bottom two ribs. His blood looked dark against the t-shirt he'd worn under the armor, but the branch didn't feel like it had gone in too deep.

What limited medical knowledge he had advised him that he shouldn't pull it out, not until he had a medic nearby. So Lincoln took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. All Agents trained for stealth and infiltration were also trained in torture resistance, just on the off chance they got captured--and Lincoln had had plenty of experience. So he took the pain, and he filed it away. Mind over matter. Couldn't use it too much, of course, because pain was a useful mechanism, but it looked like he had something of a walk in front of him.

He took his helmet off, tucked it under his arm, and took one step after another, making his way toward the wreck of the ship he could see. Panic threatened to make itself known, but he filed that away too.

Pegasus. Was Pegasus alive?

Focus, Dhatri. Just keep walking.

So he walked, and a mile later he spied the sight of an escape pod. A few of the Agents seemed to be gathered. Not nearly as many as there should be.

The silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing to Peter.

While others had gotten to the escape pods, Peter had not. He had not known if his consciousness would transfer to one of the spare forms that the Equinox held in storage, but he got his answer when he opened his eyes and found that he was indeed still alive. He remembered his corporeal form being destroyed--the hangar had crumpled upon impact--and the feeling had been . . . disconcerting.

The storage he had woken up in was right at the tear in the ship; the far wall was gone, replaced with a chasm of blackened metal and blue sky beyond that.

Agent Nashville?

No answer. The implant link was still offline.

And he was surrounded by the very still spare bodies of his brothers and sisters.

Scrambling upright, Peter cautiously made his way to the very edge of the tear in the ship, standing on the precipice. He could not hear anything. No voices. Just the whistle of wind through the torn ship.

He had seen some of the Agents get to escape pods. But he had no way of knowing if they had survived or not. And what of the A.I.? What of the Director?

There was a feeling that Peter distinctly recalled feeling at several moments in his life--the cold, burrowing sensation of dread, but a strangely numb one. Shock, then. A very human feeling, he had been told.

"Hello?"