The acrid smell of mildew assaulted your nostrils, dragging you from the black depths of unconsciousness. Your head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that mirrored the throbbing in your temples. Disoriented, you blinked, trying to focus in the dim light. You were lying on a cold, damp stone floor.

"Thank god... Come on, wake up." A familiar voice cut through the haze.

Jake. Hangman. His blonde hair contrasted against the grime on his face. His green eyes, usually alight with cocky swagger, were now narrowed with concern. He was kneeling beside you, his fingers pressed against your wrist, checking your pulse.

"We're in some cellar, I think. We got shot down, remember? They got us." His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a grim practicality. You remembered the burning metal, the desperate ejection, the terrifying descent. Then, nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair. "No restraints, which is... weird. They drugged us, I think. Feel like I swallowed a brick." He scanned the cellar, its only features a rickety wooden door and a single, flickering bulb hanging precariously from the low ceiling.

You tried to sit up, and a wave of nausea washed over you.

Hangman, the guy who usually only looked out for number one, stayed right there, his hand steadying your back. He wasn't the cocky, self-assured pilot right now; he was just Jake, your wingman, and you were in this together. Even Hangman, in a situation like this, could care for others. "Take your time. We'll figure this out."