He is alive, somehow. Heart hammering, blood pumping, neurons firing. It's a miracle, really, based on the hit the TIE Fighter sustained, coupled with the fact that the eject feature of the pilot's seat had been uncooperative. How quickly it all went wrong. Everything had been going well until it wasn't (the story of his life), and then flying back to Jakku became spiraling towards the sand planet's surface at a breakneck pace that would likely break both of their necks in the most literal of fashions. But Poe Dameron is alive.

And for a moment, brief but distinct, he almost wishes that he wasn't.

The first thing he becomes acutely aware of is how cold it is. Already on the verge of a complete shutdown, his body can only manage a few weak shivers as he pushes up onto hands and knees. Next is the dryness all around him, in the landscape and the air that's being drawn in with ragged breaths. That's the third thing he becomes aware of; the sand that's blocking his air passageways rather effectively. He maneuvers into a semi-upright position, then coughs and splutters until he's convinced he'll open his eyes to see both of his lungs lying in front of him.

Once that's taken care of, the esteemed pilot sits heavily upon the ground. He drags a calloused hand down his face and regrets the action almost immediately as the cuts and scrapes littering his features sting madly in protest. It's only now that he feels the headache lodged somewhere between his temples and the deepest recesses of his memory. The pain gets worse the longer he thinks about it, and despite the fact that it's nighttime, he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the oppressive and all-encompassing light that surrounds him. In those few seconds, a thousand and one images flash through his mind. Kylo Ren and his mask and every thread of Poe's mind that he tangled his fingers around and tore at.

They'd all been told what they could expect from capture. Just another part of training. Death was a likelihood, but torture wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. He can still remember General Organa's rigid posture and even tone as she explained things like interrogation and mind probes. But surely it was a worst-case scenario, something to consider but not to actively fear.

No lesson could have prepared him. No lecture could have been precise enough to describe the feeling of someone picking apart your brain like a scavenger tearing through a scrap pile.

"You just had to tick him off, Dameron," he groans to no one but himself. "Me and my big mouth."

Head in his hands, he stares numbly down at the sand. For the first time in a long time, he misses the forests and the green of Yavin 4. Maybe it's the echoes of the Force that are still reverberating through his subconscious, maybe it's his exhaustion, but he can't remember when the last time was that he visited the jungle-cloaked moon. He misses the trees and the ruins so suddenly and so intensely that it catches him completely off guard.

He misses home.

He can't do this. Not here, not now. Not when there's still a mission. He'd almost forgotten about that, but home also conjures up images of the Resistance base, of a too-small bunk and a white-orange droid rolling eagerly along beside him.

Poe finally looks up to assess his surroundings. He must not have been strapped into the fighter very well, because his seat is half buried in the sand a few yards away, its parachute fanned out like a stain on the desert around it. The rest of the wreckage is nowhere to be seen. For that matter, his co-pilot and fellow escapee is nowhere to be seen, either. That's what finally gets Poe to his feet. He survived, but Finn might not have been so lucky.

Unsteady legs carry him to the crest of a dune, the only nearby place that might offer a better vantage point. The view, however, provides little in the way of answers. There's a dimly lit speck in the distance that looks like a settlement, an observation Poe files away for later use. As for his friend, there doesn't seem to be the smallest scrap of evidence. It's possible that a freak air pocket or the sheer force of impact could have blown him a decent distance from the crash. Finn and the fighter could be miles away but perfectly fine. At the same time, he considers the local advice to avoid areas where the sand was known to pull down anything that dared to cross it. It could very well be that there's nothing left to find. Not on the surface, anyway.

There's a third factor to be aware of, which only makes itself known when Poe silently laments having nothing to protect himself from the chill. His jacket is missing. That beat-up piece of leather was as much a part of him as BB-8 and his X-Wing and his own name. He'd shrugged it off in the cockpit without a second thought, and it was probably resting wherever the rest of the TIE had landed. Wherever Finn was.

Poe runs a hand through his hair. FNsomethingsomethingsomething - he refuses to think of him as anything less than Finn - had to have made it. Someone like that, someone so ready to do the right thing despite the consequences, couldn't just get swallowed up by the desert mere moments after grabbing hold of his own fate. No, Finn is alive, too. He must be.

The pain in his head dulls, fades to almost-not-quite background noise. He'd like to think it's because his sense of optimism is combating the remnants of the shadows in his skull, but really, it's probably because he's breathing and standing and allowing blood to flow normally again. Either way, his thoughts are clearing up. The hint of civilization in the distance doesn't seem so far away now, and his instincts are telling him that anything would be better than waiting to freeze in the night or roast at sunrise. If he can make it out there, it shouldn't be too hard to scrounge up some supplies and a vehicle. All hope hasn't been lost.

Poe Dameron sets out across the sea of sand with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the grit trapped in his boots. But none of that matters.

He has a droid and a jacket to find.