Steve Trevor isn’t a praying man. He knows his mother would prefer it if he were, but as far as he can tell, no loving god would let people make the world as hellish as they do.
Doesn’t mean there is no God. Doesn’t even mean He doesn’t care, but it sure seems like He can’t do much to intervene, so there’s no point pestering.
Still, there are few other options with his engines are on fire and the plane already way too low to parachute from and falling fast.
Steve thinks, watching the world spin and feeling the hot blood gush from his side,
His life doesn’t flash before his eyes, but the sun on the sea blinds him just before he slams into that blue-green water.
He blacks out from the pain, and comes back to himself with his hands already scrambling at the harness. It finally gives and he drags himself out of the cockpit. Everything hurts.
His head, his joints, the wound in his side that’ll call sharks as sure as a whorehouse calls sailors… This thought is one of the few coherent ones he has right now,
and he drags himself through the water with what will have to be called his good arm even though it feels pretty bad, and spasmodic kicks.
He’s pretty sure at least one of his ankles is broken, but that doesn’t matter. He saw land out of the corner of his eye as he fell, and his head for direction is what makes him a good pilot.
The odds of him actually making it are probably only about fifty to one, but Steve has had worse.
He hauls himself through the water in what he hopes is the right direction for as long as he can before the darkness closes in again.
Read the rest via the link in the description!