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"Fuck," Martyn gasps under his breath as he rips through the undergrowth with his bare hands, not caring how briars catch and tear his skin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." There's yelling somewhere behind him, too close, boots in the grass, laughter and taunts.
"DOC," he hisses to his comm. "Flag this server —" Martyn scrambles over a fallen log. "As fucking hostile."
A hanging ivy vine whips him in the face, splitting open his cheek making his eyes water. His chest burns, but stopping is not an option.
"Affirmative." His comm chirps, far too cheerful for this situation.
A gunshot rings out and Martyn flinches, hard, clapping his hands over his ears and instantly dropping to the dirt face-first. The bushes swallow him up and Martyn rolls, hitching up against a massive tree root.
"Flag server as high technology?" DOC queries.
"Shut uuuup." Martyn says with his voice as low as possible, mouth nearly pressed to his comm. The sounds of Players approaching grow louder and louder, and there's not enough time to get up and run. There's a stabbing side-stitch pain in Martyn's side from how hard he's pushing his body, and he clamps his hand over his mouth as he struggles to slow and quiet his breathing.
From the sound, the Players are on and around him now, spread out to try to find him. A boot breaks through the undergrowth within arm's reach and Martyn's insides seize, all of his thoughts grind to a terrified halt, unable to progress, function, do anything but stare.
But a distant voice yells and when the boots start moving, it's away. Martyn feels bile rising into his throat and doesn't even dare choke it down for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes at most. It burns going back down. With trembling hands, Martyn slowly brings up the compass display on his comm, not daring to move otherwise, not yet, like a sentinel might in the tree above, waiting to drop onto him.
In the minimal light, Martyn has to blink several times before he eyes focus and he can figure out which direction he's supposed to be going in. Part of him wants to just stay here, but it's not safe here, not truly. Staying put is suicide, right now. All he needs to do is get close enough to reconnect to the stream and he'll be out of here.
He twitches his toe to remind himself he them, then starts moving his leg, his arm, and begins army-crawling under the brush, hopefully away from his pursuers. Every little branch and thorn catches in his hair and on his clothes and skin, though, making Martyn feel like a pincushion before long. Blood drips down his cheek and though he keeps wiping it away, he doesn't have time to stop and properly stem it. Eventually, Martyn climbs to his feet and keeps stumbling along through the thick forest. The sun is on its way down toward the horizon and the temperature is dropping with it. He forgot to check his comm when he got going and he doesn't know how long it's been since he (possibly) lost the hunters. He doesn't believe for a second that he's home free, though.
He needs shelter, before the light is completely gone, and finally picks a fair-sized tree. Being off the ground will be safer and warmer than staying below, even if it feels more hidden. There have to be things besides Players in these woods that are dangerous, especially at night.
But halfway up the tree, the branch he's hanging from cracks in a piercing echo and he's suddenly falling, falling , falling —
He hits the ground flat on his back and it forces all the air out of his lungs. Martyn flounders weakly on the ground, gasping involuntarily for a breath that doesn't come like he's a beached fish. The stars peer at him through the canopy far above like the world's shittiest peanut gallery. Eventually Martyn manages to roll over, barely keeping his nose out of the dirt as he braces himself on his elbow.
"DOC." He croaks. "How far until I get connection?"
"1.34 miles." DOC answers after a moment of calculation.
Under two miles, Martyn considers, still sprawled on his back and trying to make his lungs work. Stay here, like a sitting duck, and pretend he's going to be able to sleep? Or keep going and get the hell out? The answer is obvious enough. He's tired, but he can go farther. He has to go farther.
So Martyn scrapes himself up, kicking the loose dirt around to try and cover the bloodtrail he's unintentionally leaving. It won't matter as long as he stays ahead, he decides. The moon reflects just a bit of light to navigate by; Martyn avoids taking his comm out to not create a gleaming target in the dark. He estimates it's maybe even a full hour and a half of peace before the rustling and animal sounds of the dark forest are broken up by Player sound again.
"Fuck," Martyn whispers. If they're just circling around, lost, Martyn could hide again. But if they have his trail… he pushes on, faster. He has the disadvantage here and he knows it, because this is their home field; but he can feel the burgeoning warmth of his connection to the stream growing stronger with proximity to the signal.
He's so close, now. He can't stop. He kicks and shoves his way through the undergrowth, tripping and just getting back up as quick as he can. The yelling is closer, sending ice shooting through Martyn's veins.
When the shots begin, Martyn jumps, shoving down the instinct to hit the dirt and get safe.
"DOC," he chokes out. Everything us burning. "How," he gasps. "Far?"
"1624 feet." comes DOC's voice, muffled with his comm tucked away.
Martyn's ears are ringing and bullets make trees and bushes around him explode, splinterous debris flying while Martyn shields his face, shrapnel slashing his arms up and down and he pushes, pushes, pushes, because if he stops he dies, and he's not losing a canon life like this.
"892 feet." DOC chimes again. Martyn's leg twists and pain shoots up from his ankle as he slips in the mud, barely keeping his feet. Adrenaline is maybe the only thing keeping him going now. His head is pounding and his vision is startin to swim, but stopping is not an option.
"411 feet."
Martyn hears the shot, the after-echo in the air, long before he feels it. His scream comes late, tearing out of his throat. It's a hot poker, skewering straight through his right arm just above the elbow. The shattering of the bone is nearly as loud as the shot itself. Martyn grabs for his own wrist with his free hand, screaming in pain and still instinctively yanking his injured arm down close to his body. Blood pools in his inner elbow rapidly and starts soaking his shirt.
"195 feet."
Martyn can't speak. He can just barely breathe. He can't be sure where his feet are but if he looks down he's going to lose his focus and lose his pace and he's going to fall down and he's going to die. He calls to the stream desperately and it calls back.
A screaming projectile cuts through the air so close to his head that it shears off hair and burns his scalp. The ground becomes rocky beneath his feet and his neck step is nothing but air. He tilts forward and tumbles uncontrollably down into the sandy wash, and that's when the stream wakes up and instantly the falling is, the falling is —
stopped.
The stream folds him in, and Martyn relaxes into its hold. He floats loosely there, focusing only one taking air into his lungs and surviving, breathing, just there.
"Stream stability 89.45%.' DOC reports, voice echoing. Martyn is barely listening, adrenaline and pain leaking out as he's swept up into safe, safe, safe. "Personal stability 68%. Code repair underway." Martyn subsumes to the stream's hold and it weaves into him, painlessly pushing the shards of bone back into place and knitting them slowly but surely. Its soft touch slips over his face, washing away the blood there and pulling the edges of the cuts back together like they never happened in the first place.
DOC is talking, but Martyn's not listening. The stream cradles him close and Martyn is in a daze, close to passing out. Anchored down, Martyn will heal and the stream will keep him safe.
"Muting notifications for sleep mode." DOC announces as Martyn's eyes close.
goodnight, Martyn thinks the stream would whisper, if it could talk. He hears the sentiment all the same.