Thermal Lake
half a klick from Camp

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LALE WOKE up with moisture on his lips and a chill deep in his bones. The humidity that heated them up during the day had blanketed him and the recruits around him with dew droplets that were cold and tasted fresh.

He rubbed his forearms to try and beat back the cold and got up before stretching, eyes scanning the early morning darkness. The moon was huge and luminous, still clinging onto the remainder of the light. It looked bigger and closer than it had in 2039.

Lale sighed and rubbed his eyes. If he had wanted to, he could've sat and thought about what had led him to arriving in the Jurassic, and in the marsh. Would it have started with Fereldson, or even before that? With his childhood or the climate change or the people who denied the climate change and let it happen?

But he didn't want to, so he didn't. From experience battling in the heat of the toasted borders, he knew reminiscing would do nothing. Maybe get him killed if he got distracted, but nothing useful anyway.

Instead, Lale overlooked the waterfall and scanned in the direction of the camp. Of Ichabod. Even the thought of the Englishman made him tighten his fists. The next time I see him, Lale thought darkly, his lips twisted into a faint scowl, I'll kill him, I swear to God.

If there is a next time, another thought promptly reminded him. Lale relented, reelinghis anger back in for the moment. It sat heavy in his chest. It's highly likely you'll get yourself killed before that, Lale. Get the others killed.

Lale looked over his shoulder, at the sleeping forms of the other recruits, and felt slightly guilty for his own selfish thoughts. They all had a bone to pick with Ichabod, and he had to focus.

First, food. The night before they'd all been too jittery or solemn to eat, but the hunger pangs were insistent in Lale's gut.

Walking quietly, he approached the pool Bradley had told them about the day before, which stemmed the flow of water that cascaded down the waterfall. Indeed, fish flecked with silver and looking relatively un-mutantlike flapped their fins and thought their happy little fishy thoughts.

They've never even seen a human before, Lale realized. He felt a smile press against his lips, and he gave in, indulging himself in the thought that he was maybe the first person to fish from this pond besides from Bradley. Bradley.

He dipped his hand into the water before he could think on the grief that suddenly accompanied his friend's name, the shock of the cold fading as he knelt down. The fish darted away, but Lale could be patient when he wanted to.

There there, little fishies ... Just me and some water. He let his hand grow cold, eyeing the distance between his palm and the closest fish, who had conveniently not been as vigilant as its buddies. Stay there, little guy ...

Before Lale could overthink it, he swept his hand under the fish's belly and flung it onto the ground beside him, a trick he'd learnt from a beggar who lived near a coast induced by the Meltdown — he and his parents had been there for some holiday or something, and, left to his own devices, Lale had stupidly trailed to the swollen ocean's beach and watched the man who had fished with nothing more than his own hand.

He'd never had the chance to practice it, but for a brief second he felt his chest heat in pride. Then Lale had to quickly pounce on the fish before it wriggled back into the water. Tightening his grip against its muscular body, Lale felt a bolt of panic — what was he supposed to kill it with? A rock? Wouldn't that dirty the meat or something? — before the fish stopped struggling and flopped in his hands, dead.

Yes! Lale sat back and gazed down wide-eyed at the future meal before him. He smiled again, holding back a small chuckle. That was easier than expected!

Something cracked behind him, and Lale whisked around, his smile wiped away in an instant. He tightened his one fist and narrowed his eyes in the dark as he scrabbled for a weapon; his fingers catching on the fish instead. Lale's scowl deepened as he grasped hold of it.

Maybe it can distract the ... whatever it is. He could only see a vague silhouette of a slumped figure, disfigured by lumped shapes and the darkness. Lale flexed his arm and got ready to launch his meal at the creature, before his eyes caught on tangled ringlets and familiar darkened skin.

"Amelia?" He dropped the fish, feeling a bolster of relief that made him launch forward and straight towards her. Just as he opened his mouth to release the torrent of questions building up in his chest, Amelia keeled forward and Lale had to stoop to catch her, her suit chilled to touch.

Her hair brushed across his lips as he held her close, feeling the tremors running through her like they were his own. Lale bit down hard on his cheek and forced himself not to move as Amelia sobbed into his shoulder, pushing away the demands for that moment.

It wasn't every day he got to hold a beautiful girl like Amelia in his arms, but he felt it was messed up to think about that while the girl in question cried.

When Amelia's seizures ceased, Lale took her by her shoulders and held her slightly away, his grey gaze made soft by the early morning pink. "You're here." He didn't have to force the relief in his eyes.

"I'm here." Amelia's watery smile, on the other hand, was as fake as Ichabod's loyalty. She rubbed her tears away, stepping from Lale's grasp. He tightened his fists to fight back against the loss he felt.

Lale's eyes traveled from Amelia's grime-smeared face to the packs she carried ... and the sling over her waist where a familiar tufted head peeked up at him with golden orbs. Lale scowled, feeling the uncharacteristic gentleness seep from him in an instant.

"You brought that thing here?" To be honest, he hadn't even thought about the baby Tanycolagreus since he'd left camp; it was Amelia's to deal with, as far as he was concerned. But things had changed and priorities had shifted — would that critter eat all the leftover rations they had?

Lale eyed it distrustfully, and Amelia shrugged off the multiple packs she had obviously hauled along with her. "Don't," she warned, just as Lale opened his mouth to justify his views. Wouldn't dinosaurs have diseases? Or rabies? Or — "Nothing else deserves to die because of Ichabod."

Amelia shoved mud-covered leaflets into his chest, and Lale eyed the pages and diagrams showcasing metallic structures and magnets and measurements he'd hoped he would escape in the technology unit of their training back in 2039. He looked questioningly at the girl as she knelt down with a grimace and sat on the dew-covered silt on the waterfall.

"What is this?"

"Ichabod's plans," Amelia replied tonelessly. She looked as dead as Lale felt, forced to be a leader when all he wanted to do was go on a vengeance spree. Ichabod had killed Bradley, and he didn't need some useless images to further justify where the bastard had to die.

Something made Lale pause, however. He had to be considerate towards Amelia, too — what had she had to do to get ahold of these? The thoughts twisted his gut into a knot.

Wordlessly, Lale sat down beside her and started flicking through the pages. Measurement after measurement ... scale after scale ... scrawled handwritten notes discussing the EEG and its ability to control PAST-issued technology. What they needed; supplies and metals of magnetic purposes all of a different atomic metal and element. It made his head ache, but slowly it was all coming together.

Everything that Ichabod needed — materials, designs, metals, everything — was to make his own time machine.

Lale looked at Amelia sharply, his grip tightening on the swathes of paper. "What's he going to do?" He asked lowly, his heart thumping in his chest and a sneaking suspicion curling in his throat.

Amelia shut her eyes, her lips twisting. "He's ... he's going to take the dinosaurs back.

"Back to 2039."

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