Author's note: This is my first attempt at posting any fanfiction, and it's my first H50 story. I'd like to thank the amazing praemonitus praemunitus for her beta help and for the encouragement she gave me to give this a try. Thanks, my friend.

This story was inspired by the song "Never Surrender" by Corey Hart. Everytime I heard it I kept having this idea. Thought I should do something about it.

Disclaimer: I don't own H50 or any characters related to the series. Only pleasure is gained from writing this.

The air was hot and dry, almost crying for a relief that would never come. Long it has been since the landscape saw any moisture. Sand was the primary resident of these parts, its grainy texture blanketing the terrain. The sand longed for the cold of the night, as the temperature would plummet once the stars emerged.

A black spot on the dusty landscape billowed acrid, dark smoke into the atmosphere. Length of rotor was sprawled about in pieces, broken easily by the sand's deep grip. Unyielding, it tore the blades off of the nearby helicopter with no mercy. Heat radiated off the polished metal, slowly adding to the temperature inside the cockpit.

Inside, sweat rolled down the face of the unconscious man, tainting with red as it passed though the cuts and scrapes. His shirt was saturated with sweat and blood, and it clung to his body. Smoke assaulted his nostrils, and eyes began to move beneath closed lids as consciousness began to return. A groan escaped dried lips as lashes fluttered open, blue eyes sluggishly trying to focus.

Steve blinked several times, confusion crossing his features as he tried to get his bearings. He traced a bloodied hand across his brow, attempting to clear the sweat from his drenched face. Briefly he wondered how he got himself into this situation as his clouded brain attempted to focus. Looking around he analyzed his situation, shaking his head as though the action would rid his brain of the cobwebs that seem to have enwrapped it.

"Get it together, McGarrett," he commanded himself, as the acrid smoke floated about him like a thick London fog.

Steve's SEAL training began to come online, as the gravity of his dangerous predicament began pressing its advantage. He had to get out of there, and if it wasn't soon, he'd be BBQ. He could almost hear Danny ranting, arms flying about as if a deer fly were circling his head.

"Only you could get yourself into this kind of trouble, Steven." He smiled at the thought of his partner's rant-disguised worry.

Deciding he had no time to take stock of his injuries, Steve unbuckled his belt, and wrenched his left leg out from where it was stuck between the anti-torque pedals and the bulkhead. A groan escaped his lips, as a wave of pained nausea swept over him. Glancing down he noticed the crimson stain at his side, and he breathed deeply, steeling himself for the pain that was sure to accompany his next move.

Slowly Steve moved, his hands grasping anything available to him that would assist in his departure from the smouldering hulk that was his chopper. The impact had torn one of the doors off, and it was hanging from the top hinge like a ripped arm of a stuffed toy. Steve looked around for his backpack that he'd brought with him, hoping that it did not perish in the collision.

Steve spied the pack laying in the sand outside, and a wave of relief passed over him. Again he tried to voice some assurances to himself. "Get moving, Steve," he told himself. "You've had worse. Be the SuperSEAL that Danny's always calling you and get your ass out of this copter."

Stumbling out the open door, he fell into the sand, hands grasping the grains, looking for support, his mind wishing that it was the familiar Hawaiian beach beneath dragged himself towards the overstuffed bag as though it were his only lifeline, the heat from the burning chopper prodding him from behind. The meters may as well have been miles. Grasping the bag he fell into it, drawing it towards himself with a groan. He clutched it like a child would their favourite blanket as he rolled onto his back, head dropping heavily to the sand.

Un-mercilessly, the sun beat down onto Steve's sprawled form, almost as unrelenting as the engulfed helicopter had treated him. With a pained groan Steve sat up, his trembling, bloodied fingers fumbling with the backpack's buckles. He opened the top, hand rummaging around for one of the water bottles. He grasped the smooth surface of the container, and he opened it, lips savouring the clear liquid it provided. He knew he shouldn't drink too much at once, and regrettably he snugged the cap back on and put it back in the bag.

Steve's mental training began to organize his pain, and he started cataloguing his injuries like an itemized checklist.Mild concussion. Check. Left leg torn up, possibly fractured. Check. He peeled away his khaki t-shirt, and took stock of his side. A large, jagged gash ran from just underneath his arm down to his hip. He could see a black piece of metal about the size of a golf ball embedded into his flesh. Compromised side. Check.

He knew these were the largest injuries he could see, aside from the possibility of cracked ribs, the cuts that were obviously on his face, and the bruising he knew darn well his body had endured during the abuse of the had to patch himself up the best he could, and try and find a place out of the heat to regroup, or any blood loss would be the least of his problems. Danny had teased him when he was packing his bag, saying that Mary Poppins had nothing on Steve. Right now Steve would settle for her umbrella so he could use it for shade and fly himself out of here.

Steve took out a roll of 3M™VetWrap™, and a thick package of gauze, similar to the ones the medics had in the field. Sweat dripped down his face, and he blinked it out of his eyes. Whether it was more from the heat or the body trauma he'd suffered, he wasn't sure. Either way the end result wasn't desirable.

Lifting up his shirt, he eyed the piece of shrapnel like it was a trap waiting for someone who'd be foolish enough to fall for it. Drawing in a deep breath, he grasped the offending object tightly, pain etched into his features. One...two...

He jerked out the piece, his cry of pain the only sound for miles. Through labored breaths he fought to stay conscious as he applied the trauma pack to his wound -the coagulating agent in the pack would help slow the bleeding.

"Breathe, McGarrett," he said out loud to himself, riding out a wave of nausea that was like an angry sea ready to engulf gingerly wrapped his midsection with the 3M™VetWrap™, as it would keep the bandage in place, allow the wound to breathe, and give him freedom of movement. He dropped his shirt back down gently. It would have to do for now.

His leg was throbbing and he needed to fashion a crude support for his lower leg, or his next moves were going to be even more of a bitch. Luckily it wasn't an open fracture, or he'd have even larger problems ahead.

Steve used a small blanket that was in the pack as a cushion around his leg. He took out the inner liner of the pack and used it for the splint. His hands fumbled with the clip to a Para cord survival bracelet that was on his wrist. He'd use it to secure the splint together. As he thought about the bracelet, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

-Flashback-

"Come on, Uncle Steve. Put it on!" Grace cried excitedly, bouncing up and down, a tightly coiled bundle of energy.

"Yeah c'mon Steven, put it on." Danny prodded, his voice mimicking that of his daughter's. A grin plastered his face, as he watch his partner fidget.

"I learned how to make it with the Aloha Girls last camping trip!" she supplied. It's a survival bracelet; and it's perfectly pink."

Steve's expression was one Danny could only describe as embarrassment. He thought it was funny how his badass Navy SEAL friend could turn into putty in Grace's hands. Steve was touched that his "niece" thought of him so highly. He loved the little girl to death himself, and he'd do anything for her. Steve smiled widely at Grace as he crouched down to her eye level. Colour aside, the bracelet was well done.

"Thank you Gracie," Steve said as he gathered the girl into a large hug. "I'll wear it all the time."

Grace beamed at this and exclaimed, "Danno said that you could use it more than he would with all the trouble you attract."

"Oh he did, did he?" Steve ground out, his smile now forced for Grace's sake as he glanced up at his friend, who was smiling like a cat who just ate a canary. "I'll have to make sure that Danno's right there with me, in case I need to use it," Steve barbed playfully at Danny, as he stood up, hand on Grace's shoulder. "I think you should maybe make your dad a matching one in bright purple. It would match his eyes."

Steve grinned as his partner's expression changed, ready for the barrage of words about to dominate his brother's next verbal spiel.

"If we," Danny pointed between himself and Steve, like Maverick and Goose in Top Gun, "need two of these things during one incident, I'm taking the next plane off this rock."

Steve, knowing his friend well, gestured to himself. "C'mon partner, admit it- you'd follow me anywhere. Besides, you'd miss me if you went back to Jersey."

-End flashback-

Steve came out of his reverie, tired gaze staring at the pink woven cord in his hand, his mind wondering how long ago he'd drifted into thought. His brief mental respite he'd allowed himself ended when a spike of pain drifted up his injured leg.

He unraveled the bright pink cord and began securing the splint to his leg. Winded from the task, Steve flopped back into the sand, chest moving rapidly before slowing, once he'd used his training to manage the himself to a seated position, Steve took one last swig of the water before packing everything into the backpack. Unsteadily Steve got to his feet, body swaying like a tall tree in high winds, as he tried putting a bit of weight onto his bad leg. Hissing as his wound pulled on his side, he shrugged on the back pack.

Steve looked around, unsure of which way to venture. He didn't know how far away he was from the nearest Forward Operating Base, nor exactly where he'd crashed, but he'd decided to head in the direction he'd been going before he'd landed prematurely.

Glancing back at the wreckage of the helicopter, Steve spied the damaged tail section. It was most certainly not damaged in the crash. Bits of what led to his current situation assaulted his concussed mind. Another helo. Air-to-air missile fire. His efforts to evade both. Quickly he glanced around the horizon for signs of another crashed and burning helicopter. In the distance he thought he saw what could be smoke, but he needed to be sure of the cause.

A higher sense of urgency flooded his body, and he reached unconsciously to touch his P226 that was still strapped to his leg, needing the comfort of its presence. The injuries and heat were just trumped by a more unwanted threat. Someone knew he was here. That someone was likely looking for him- and it wasn't his team.

TBC.