“The storm doesn’t look that bad, quit worryin’.”

Jason could see the concern on his friend’s face, the thunder briefly illuminating them. Finding the legendary city of Paititi, hidden deep within the remote rainforests, was more important than some bad weather. Gotham’s libraries could only tell so much about mythical cities worlds away before he grew restless.

His friend was unconvinced.

“We can’t give up now.” He said, his voice a deep rumble. “Don’t tell me the legendary archaeologist is scared of rain.”

Unfortunately, he had caused their damnation long before they embarked on the plane.

Rain began heavily hammering the helicopter at his words, drowning out the sound of the engine. Visibility vanished in the sudden thunderstorm; one moment they had been discussing the rise of the paramilitary group Trinity—and the oncoming Mayan apocalypse Jason may or may not had triggered by stealing a legendary dagger—and the next, the sky turned violent.

Everything went wrong within seconds.

The windshield exploded, glass showering the cockpit. The pilot slumped over unconscious, blood seeping from their skull.

“F#ck,” he swore under his breath.

Jason grabbed hold of the cyclic, shoving the dead weight of the pilot aside. His distress signals crackled unanswered on the radio. They were on their own.

He had seconds to act, life or death.

“Get ready to jump!” Jason shouted, the helicopter swaying violently. The cockpit was a mess of blinking red lights, screaming at Jason either about the failing engine or a terrain alert to pull back up. As if he wasn’t aware of the rapidly approaching rainforest below.

“Now or never!”

He shoved his friend out first, acting on instinct, and leapt right after. The free-fall lit his veins on fire with adrenaline, the rain like daggers and the air screaming in their ears—before the parachutes deployed. The last thing he saw was the terrified expression of his friend, then nothing.

When Jason came to, the world had changed. The storm was gone, replaced by a lush green jungle, and sweltering humidity. Sweat clung to his skin, as he flicked away the buzzing insects—some of them larger than his palm. His throat felt hoarse, rubbed raw from screaming his friend’s name.

Groaning, he sat up. He tried to stand, and nearly vomited from the vertigo, his back resting against something metallic and solid—the helicopter. Or what was left of it, twisted into scrap among the foliage of the Peruvian jungle.

It was difficult to tell how long he’d been unconscious, but the buzz of nighttime insects suggested nightfall. A few hours at least. Maybe days. He could only pray his friend was alive in the wreckage, or had landed somewhere safe.

Gunfire cracked in the distance, urging him to his feet once more. Trinity. He staggered away from the wreckage, clutching his side.

“{{user}}! Where are you?”

He spat out blood and ash, then paused to listen. To the native wildlife—and to the distant gunfire.