April 11, 2024.

CASSIAN MARSHALL WAS NOT OUT OF PLACE IN BAD SITUATIONS. No, in fact he often thrived in them. In those moments when his back was against a wall and there was no way out. That pressure could work miracles. He could come up with a solution that he might not have considered if his own life wasn't on the line in the process. But the fact of the matter is that "often" does not mean "all the time" and right now, the only sound he could hear was his breath.

Desperate, ragged breath.

Everything moved slowly, so so so slowly. Like molten glass, he could feel his tired legs beneath him as he tried to move towards the fire, as he tried to get to his feet. To the trench that they'd dug three long, sleepless days ago. To the spot he knows they need to hold.

Smoke clouds his vision. A dark and angry grey blanket covered the forest, choking the life out of the air and the plants and warning every living being to flee from the wrath of the wildflames. Every being except the firefighters, that is. But Cassian couldn't make out his brothers beyond the smoke. The flames were growing higher above them, the wind having shifted to their direction, forcing them back to their original position.

He manages to stand, his bunker gear weighing heavily on him like a ton of bricks or like an elephant was sitting on his shoulders. Did the weight always feel this heavy? Or was it because of the blast that had knocked him to the ground and made him hit his head? Or was he really just that weak?

Cassian shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. He knew he couldn't think like that. Not right now, not when his brothers needed him. Not when his little girl was waiting at home. No, he would not succumb. He would not give up. Fight the fire, fight the fire, fight the fire.

He repeats the mantra in his head.

Fight the fire fight the fire fight the fire fight-

Things become sharper with the clarity he gains. He can see the fire ahead now, backlighting the smokescreen and dancing dangerously, the shadows not unlike puppets at a show. Cassian takes a small step forward. Then again. And again, until he reaches their trench and looks left and right. So so so slowly. Did he have a concussion?

Nobody. The trench was empty.

His turnout gear was so hot. The flames weren't far from him now and the gathered heat could scorch him inside and out even from across the trench. Sweat coats his body. The weight that was between his shoulders only grows heavier, then he realizes it's his head. It hurts.

Some part of him recognizes that there's more sound in the world now beside his breathing. Behind him, voices yell. Ahead, the fire rages. He tightens his grip on the Pulaski in his hand, trying to focus. Forward or ahead? Fight the fire- but his brothers were behind him! Why were they behind him? They were supposed to be at the firefront fighting it back and holding the perimeter.

Cassian makes it half a step before he remembers that the fire can spread underground, too.

And then the winds shift again. He can feel the change this time as the winds blow horizontally to the east over the wall of fire in front of him, and the flames only grow in size. He's scared it might start a crown-fire when he sees the spiral begin to take form in the sky above the forest canopy. And then that fear is replaced by something far, far heavier.

Terror.

It drenches and drowns every sense until Cassian can't tear his eyes away even when the firestorm arcs high above the canopy, reflecting in his mask as he stands rooted to the spot like one of those trees below it. Fire underboot, fire overhead, fire to the front. He was almost entirely surrounded. Time didn't look to be moving so slowly anymore. No, it felt too fast. His heart began to race, it never raced during these fires. His breathing sped up. He was getting too scared.

"MARSHALL!" A voice yells somewhere behind him. It grounds him, he knows that voice. "MARSHALL! MARSHALL, WHERE ARE YOU?"

Cassian turns from the firestorm and starts to run, stumbling blindly through the smoke to the voice. He trips but maintains his footing, flinging both arms out to balance. He follows the voice and trusts his instincts. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that the voice means safety. And safety means he can get his head checked out. Then he can continue to fight the fire. Then they can go home.

"Marshall!"

Cassian struggles to find any words to speak with his mouth bone-dry and his throat aching. He makes it to another firebreak that he didn't remember digging in an area where the smoke is nowhere near as thick. He can make out the details of the figure calling his name now, in their signature yellow turnout gear, as he walks through the trench and to the other side. The voice belongs to Fire Captain Blake Boone who grasps both of Cassian's shoulders, grip firm and strong and safe. He gives Cassian a hard shake.

"Marshall?"

"Cap," Cassian chokes out. He coughs hard. "Cap, I didn't know where you went."

Boone's face is unreadable, or Cassian's head is just that fucked up right now. He shakes his head. "Marshall, we couldn't find you in the smoke. We pushed back, thinking you did the same. I've been trying to find you for almost an hour now. What happened?"

At least half of Boone's words must have gone over his head. Cassian coughs more and blinks a few times, eyes darting between his brothers all attending to the firebreak around them. How long had they all been here? Boone shakes Cassian again.

"Marshall! Tell me what happened."

"My head hurts, Cap."

"Fuck." Boone swears under his breath. He turns to Dustin Morris, dragging the other firefighter close to them. "Morris, I need you to get Marshall out of here. He has a concussion. It's bad. You get him out of here and get your ass back, quick. This fire isn't going down without a fight."

"Yes sir," Morris begins to steer Cassian away. Away from the flames, the noise, the ringing that started in his ears. Cassian wrenches away from his friend and turns to Boone. The sudden motion makes him want to throw up. "Hey!" Morris shouts behind him.

"Cap! Cap!" Cassian reaches for him, wishing his head would sort itself out. Everything is muddled in there right now but he knew he had to warn them. "There's a firestorm back there. Our- our firebreak didn't work. It's coming, Cap. It's coming. The firebrands were carried east."

East, to another part of the forest.