Touchdown || Dover & Concord & Bismarck
It was all a blur, once Dover really thought of it. One moment, they’d been suspended in space, and the next, a massive half of the ship Dover had called home was a smoldering heap of metal, being pulled in by some neighboring planet’s gravitational field.
Maybe he blacked out. Maybe it was just the darkness that consumed his field of vision. Somehow, Dover had ended up in an escape pod, and was being violently launched out of the smoldering half of the Equinox, but not before some falling piece of metal hit him in the back of the head, giving him a nasty concussion.
It was even impossible to tell how long it had been, that he was in the pod. Everything had sort of faded into a singular and constant stream of muffled sounds and indiscernible flashes of light. When he finally breached the barrier of consciousness, however, there was a certain distinct sense of loneliness. It might have been from the astonishingly empty feeling that the area he landed in projected, but also that the pod (meant for four people) was completely vacant, aside from himself.
Granted, there was a reason for that. Dover had waited quite some time for Charlie, hoping that he would show up in the midst of the violence and noise and shooting and such. But he didn’t. And that hurt. Not acutely, or actively, or in some burning and fiery way, but it hurt. Like a pinprick. Which made Dover realize that it was one thing that he and the pod had in common: they were nearly empty.
Even Leo hadn’t shown up. Not even on Dover’s chip, could he sense the AI. That was what had kept him. He was two friends down, and had nothing to show for it, aside from a slightly deflated ego and a wounded pride. Standing up, Dover sighed deeply and examined his surroundings. He looked around, squinting as his eyes failed to adjust to the brightness (he had a concussion?), and his head throbbed.
How was it that he wasn’t entirely grateful to be alive? The place he landed bore an uncanny resemblance to home— just the place he had intended to escape. Stepping away from the pod and letting out a thick cough, Dover felt his heart skip a beat. Was he alone? Was he dead? If he was, death was entirely less glamorous than advertised.
"Hello?" He said into the radio, only to be answered with an earful of static. He attempted weakly to contact Leo, but failed that as well. Taking a few staggering steps (everything was a bit topsy-turvy, courtesy of whatever had banged him on the head on his way into the pod), he walked further and saw that the area he landed was completely flat. In the distance, shrouded by fog, were a few peaks of mountains. He would have gone that way, but it was entirely too far, and he was entirely too ill.
The immediate landscape was flat, he could see almost indefinitely in every direction— including upwards. He turned his head to the sky, only to lose his balance and fall down, hitting his head once more as his vision went white for a few brief moments. Dover was sure to make a mental note not to look up. At least, not until he had someone to support him.
Just as he was preparing to whip out some old knowledge about desert survival and foreign environments, he saw some dark figure. Were they dressed in dark clothes, or was it that the heat was fooling his eyes? It might have been a mirage… Dover would not have been surprised. In desperation, he tore off his helmet, breathing deeply. He was distantly disappointed to find that the atmosphere was breathable. “Hello?” He shouted, voice hoarse and throat dry. “Who is this?”
The sound of his own voice made his brain ache. As dehydration’s effects began sinking in, Dover took a few steps forward. “Who are you?” He repeated, speaking despite the fact that it hurt to even move, hoping against hope that whomever it was, would be able to help.
