Rafael woke from the dream, sweat bleeding from his brow, and from everywhere besides. The waking world greeted him with a blanket of shadows pierced only occasionally by threads of light stabbing into his field of vision. Rafael winced from these, squinting his eyes until he found himself in a world of greys, early evening having fallen and brought with it a faintly cool air that tickled at his burning skin.

He closed his eyes, basking in the soft caress of the evening air, but the comfort it provided proved brief at best. His throat constricted, dried to the point of cracking. He could feel his lips split as he parted them. Slowly he licked out trying to wet them, yet he had no spit and soon the taste of blood warmed his tongue offering the only moisture that he could work up. Rafael swallowed, attempting yet again to moisten his mouth, but with little success. He tried to speak, but this too proved fruitless - at first.

By his third try he could almost feel the words forming, yet the effort grated upon the roof of his mouth like sandpaper, and more fissures opened upon his lips. Each crack stung, and yet that sharp pain felt distant, muted and barely noticeable. It dwelled beneath a larger pain, a dull ache that throbbed through his entire body, and burned from each leg and his right arm.

Something was wrong, so very wrong.

Cerberus had been bucking upon reentry, spinning in a violent freefall after the primary parachute had snapped.Yet that had only been the beginning. Rafael could see the violet swarms of pinwheels descending on the capsules through the portholes, and he faintly recalled an impulse to act. He had done something, he had attempted to save Cerberus, but everything after he had spotted the pinwheels had vanished, not just clouded in smoke, but burnt to ash and gone.

What had happened? He had to know.

Rafael made to move his head and instantly regretted it. He hadn't even moved a millimeter before he felt some unknown resistance holding him down by the forehead. The world exploded, fireworks ricocheting through his skull as sirens rung in his ears. He had no spit left and yet he knew he was going to vomit, gagging as the acidic bile rose in his throat.

No spit, no words, but this I can manage, he thought right before the vomit crested his esophagus and erupted out - only it had nowhere to go. It spat out, the acid stinging the fissures that webbed his parched lips, yet then it came back down. He couldn't turn his head, no matter how hard he tried, and with every buck of movement more fireworks burst and the nausea grew stronger. He couldn't move or breathe, spew pooling in his mouth, and as he panicked he choked, the harsh and sour taste of vomit clogging his throat.

Suddenly he felt hands around his head. Rafael tried to open his eyes, but his world was a kaleidoscope of misery - pain, dizziness, nausea, and the strange sensation of choking on one's own vomit all battling for dominance.

So, this is the day, he thought, only it wasn't. Not yet.

"Quickly," someone shouted. The sound echoed, swirling and dancing with the ringing anthem pounding in Rafael's head. "Before he chokes."

Rafael continued to vomit, only as his insides attempted to retch out of him, something foreign tried to force itself in, pushing over his now acid-coated lips, and pressing down upon his tongue. He couldn't see it, not through the chaos that had fallen upon his world, yet he felt it, then heard a gurgling and a suction as a motor started. Suddenly, not only was he vomiting out his guts, but that something else was vacuuming that same vomit from the pool that had formed in his mouth. It came as an odd feeling, entirely unpleasant, and Rafael felt his sanity draining away along with the spew emptying out through that machine.

Then the pressure on his head ceased and hands were turning his head to the side, the machine still suctioning out the vomit, though even without that suction his airways cleared with that sideways pivot. He coughed sputtering out the remaining chunks of bile and stomach acid, then eased off, his breathing slowing and the world crystallizing bit by bit.

"Can you hear me, Sergeant?"

Rafael couldn't make out the face yet, just a blur within the larger foggy gray.

"Are you okay?" the voice continued.

Another shape pushed up against the first, crowding into Rafael's line of sight and blocking out all else.

"Tre? Speak to me."

Rafael tried to form words, his mouth now moistened by the bile that had almost drowned him. Yet even now a lump formed in his throat and he couldn't get the words out. The powerlessness of it all infuriated him; he lay there a broken man, unable to move, see, or speak, and covered in his own filth. He could feel the heat rise to his cheeks with the mix of frustration and humiliation.

"Tre? Come on, buddy."

He tried again, the words pushing up against that blockage, a dam holding him back. At last, it broke.

"Don't... call me that."

"Aye, Aye, Sergeant."

Rafael's vision cleared and he could see Private Walcott hovering over him, her ebony face split by an ear-to-ear smile.

"Glad to have you back, sir," she continued.

"Let's not..." Rafael started, then stopped. His throat burned from the effort to speak. He needed to stop, yet he hated to give in.

"Let's not what?" Walcot asked.

"...be premature," Rafael finished.

As he did, Private Park shoved Walcott aside. "Yes," he said, "let's not rush things." The field medic wiped at Rafael's lips, clearing away the remaining bile. "I'm sorry about this, sir, but you're in no shape to be awake."

'You..." Rafael started. "... don't say."

Park nodded, opening up a field kit as he did. Rafael glanced about as best as he could, assessing the situation. He appeared to be in a portable hab, their GLX, which came with standard issue heat shielding. Good, he thought. That should hold the pinwheels back.

Walcott and Park hovered at his side, Park prepping a couple syringes. Ruegger appeared to be sorting through a few crates of supplies, jotting notes on a holotab - likely a running inventory. Rafael felt a tension ease inside. His squad was safe.

He continued the scan of the room, his world swirling as he tried to turn his head further.

"Woah, there, sir." Park laid a hand on his head. "Take it slow. You have a concussion."

Rafael obliged, satisified that he at least had an explanation for the jackhammer going off in his head.

"Is that all?" he asked sarcastically, knowing full well that it wasn't. Park hemmed and hawed for a moment, but Rafael stopped him.

"Live? Yes or no?"

Park hesitated, before chiming in with a yes. That pause, told Rafael everything that he needed to know for the moment. Apparently he must look as bad as he felt. He couldn't lift his head yet to see beyond his own strapped down chest and gut, but there'd be time for that later.

Tilting his head ever so slowly, he began to see team Able. Varma and Bills huddled in a far corner playing cards, and casting hesitant glances his way, and yep, there was Sergeant Lance heading his way.

Yet he couldn't see Private Karzai or Staff Sergeant Simmons. He began to turn his head the other way, the pain splitting through his skull.

Walcott stopped him with a touch. "Don't bother," she said. "They aren't here."

Rafael looked up at Walcott questioningly, the words on the tip of his tongue, but unable to speak them for a plethora of reasons. Walcot, however, apparently got the message.

"Simmons died upon impact. Fahima..." she paused.

Lance took over. "Fahima' s out there," she said. "Somewhere. We'll find her." As she finished she took a seat by Rafael's side.

"Omega?" Rafael managed.

"Our package?" Lance asked. "Yeah, Offredi's here - just a little incapacitated at the moment. I had to make a command decision. I'd be happy to hand the reins over."

Rafael smiled, a puncture piercing the crook of his arm. He felt a warmth course through him starting at the injection site and slowly spreading up from there. "Not yet," he said, and then sleep overtook him.