The future is not what I expected it to be [For quitehomoerotic]
Parachute or not, Jack hit the ground hard, half stunned. He twisted enough to land properly without breaking anything, but it still jarred him and he disconnected from the chute on instinct and lay on the ground trying to get his bearings and catch his breath. Something had happened up there, something he couldn't fully describe. Already dizzy from the smoke and heat from his plane burning around him, it had seemed like the sky itself opened up, sucked him in. After struggling to even be able to eject from the burning cockpit, he figured he had to be delusional, must have hit his head on something, but now, staring up at the empty sky, he reassessed that. No planes. No wreckage. No enemy fighters. None of his men. Nothing but a few birds up against a leaden sky. He'd felt tossed around by the wind, felt pretty sure he'd blacked out for a while, but no way he'd gotten carried this far away from the fight without realizing it, was there?
Cautiously, he reached around to feel his head. Whatever had hit him hadn't done so hard enough to break skin or leave any knots he could feel. Pushing himself up to sitting, he started coughing, throat and lungs both raw with smoke. He felt like he'd been run over, caught in a tornado, tossed around with Dorothy's house and smashed into the ground under it for good measure, but he was alive.
The question was where.
It was silent, no sounds of fighting reaching him. God only knew how far he'd been blown off course, and the sense of unease, the image of the gaping hole in the sky wouldn't leave him. He managed to get to his feet, tugging off his helmet and goggles as he looked around. The terrain still looked like Wales, but nothing struck him as overly familiar. When he turned enough to catch a glimpse of the city on the horizon, though, he froze. Something was wrong, all right, very wrong. Because while there were a couple of familiar looking landmarks telling him he'd landed not so far outside of Cardiff, the city he was looking back on didn't look like the Cardiff he knew at all.
"What the hell is going on?"
Cautiously, he reached around to feel his head. Whatever had hit him hadn't done so hard enough to break skin or leave any knots he could feel. Pushing himself up to sitting, he started coughing, throat and lungs both raw with smoke. He felt like he'd been run over, caught in a tornado, tossed around with Dorothy's house and smashed into the ground under it for good measure, but he was alive.
The question was where.
It was silent, no sounds of fighting reaching him. God only knew how far he'd been blown off course, and the sense of unease, the image of the gaping hole in the sky wouldn't leave him. He managed to get to his feet, tugging off his helmet and goggles as he looked around. The terrain still looked like Wales, but nothing struck him as overly familiar. When he turned enough to catch a glimpse of the city on the horizon, though, he froze. Something was wrong, all right, very wrong. Because while there were a couple of familiar looking landmarks telling him he'd landed not so far outside of Cardiff, the city he was looking back on didn't look like the Cardiff he knew at all.
"What the hell is going on?"