Lost Count

Caspian

Pavel had never felt more useless than he did now. He was a man used to the harsh Moscow winters, not the burning heat of the sun beating down on them. This place was a damn wasteland, and he couldn't even help them move on to their next destination. Wherever that may be. The heat was damn near getting to him, sapping the strength from his muscles and stealing his breath.

He could barely make full circuits around the little base they claimed without wheezing for air. It was torturous, amplified by the fact that he had no idea whether or not Artyom was okay. How that man was able to trudge around through the sand and sun was beyond Pavel. Damir was handling it rather well, too (although his troubles all stemmed from the mistreatment of his people). Pavel didn't know much about what was going on, but he knew that these oil-riggers were taking advantage of people weaker than themselves. That was most definitely a reason to completely destroy their influence, in Pavel's opinion.

It was just beginning to get dark when Pavel leaned against the low wall outside of the building that housed the rest of his teammates. Krest would occasionally check in with everyone, making sure that Stepan's heatstroke didn't worsen. Even though there wasn't much he could do at this point. Duke was also out of commission, weak and weary from the miserable weather. The sooner they left, the better. None of them were built to survive these kind of conditions for long periods of time. Except maybe Damir, and Artyom apparently. Pavel almost chuckled to himself at the thought of Artyom traipsing around the desert, unaffected by the blistering sun. But he was wracked with a sudden coughing fit. It was dry and crackling, stealing the breath from his lungs.

"Damn fucking sand, blyadj..." Pavel murmured to himself when he recovered. He reached for the flask of water at his hip and shook it a few times to gauge how much he had left. He could hear the soft pattering of water droplets on the inside of the damned thing. Not much left. Pavel had been trying to ration his water properly, but the wind whipped the sand, blowing it into his face and getting in his mouth, followed by his lungs, causing bouts of coughing that he couldn't seem to shake. He was damn ready to get the hell out of this terrible place. The sooner that Artyom came back with good news, the better.

He stumbled back into the building in order to get a respite from the weather to find that Stepan and Duke's conditions had worsened. Katya was fretting almost nonstop over the two of them now, and Alyosha was sitting next to them with his head in his hands. The heat was starting to get to him as well. Krest was hovering over a pot of stew, distracting Nastya from the dire situation that the crew was currently in. Pavel wanted to go over to them and help, but his legs were weak and he felt as if he could collapse at any moment. He made it to an open chair and fell into it, leaning his head back and closing his eyes against the bright light of the fire. He'd seen enough light now to last a lifetime. The sun reflecting off of the sand of the desert had nearly blinded him by now, and he was loath to see anything like it ever again.

Pavel could hear Idiot mumbling to himself in worry over in the corner. Ever since Artyom had brought back those satellite maps, he'd been working himself up into a frenzy over them. That probably wasn't a good sign, if Pavel could be honest with himself. Miller was with him, interjecting every now and then with some commentary that varied in usefulness. Pavel didn't really understand what they were talking about, as the names bandied about meant nothing to him. He was still a man of stations and underground tunnels, not this wide open world full of sunshine and complete freedom.

He didn't want to be here anymore. Obviously Pavel would follow Artyom's lead wherever he went, but this was straining the limits of his endurance as well as patience.

"Hey, Red. You holding up alright?" Pavel cracked open an eye to fix Krest with a tired look. "Ah-ha, you look absolutely miserable. Okay okay, I get it." Krest had often tried to initiate conversations with the younger man. Pavel didn't exactly know what his point was, checking in with him and constantly casting glances his way. It honestly made him a little uncomfortable. What was his problem? "Keep watch over the pot, my little helper. Who knows, maybe you can be as good as I am at cooking someday!" He directed his words at Nastya, who had been watching him with wide eyes for the past hour. She wrinkled her nose.