With nimble fingers, I braid them together, creating a lumpy handle for the glass shard. The rest I weave into a thick braid, securing it around my waist like a makeshift belt.
It is not ideal, but it will have to do.
As I tuck in the edges, the flickering emergency light dies. I don't need it to see or anything, but a powered pod might have been useful.
I glance around, briefly consider trying to cut out some of the fabric from the pod, but can't think of a good enough use for it to outweigh remaining in such an indefensible location.
Geared up like a post-apocalyptic Joan of Arc, I step out of the chamber.
I check my head wound again, pleased to note that it's no longer gushing blood, then make my protesting body climb out of the crater.
There are few worse places to be caught by an enemy than a glorified hole.
I finally scrabble my way up the side of the crater and come face to face with the gaping opening that must have been part of the larger ship.
The ship's interior is a mess—twisted metal, dangling wires, and scattered debris. My stomach lurches as I take in the sight.
Despite the force of the crash leaving an enormous wave of rocks and sand around it and further denting it, I can still see the jagged outline of warped metal forcibly separated from when it came apart from the main body.
Another chilling realization strikes me.
Somehow, the larger mass didn't crush my pod in the crash.
"Well, shit."
Small blessings, I guess.
I glance back down to my stasis chamber. There are dents and scars all over the admittedly tough pod, evidence of my being thrown around.
Last I remember, I was in a cell with multiple other pods. Plus Ree, of course.
I scan, looking for them as I look for threats.
Nothing.
I'm going to have to go into the broken piece of ship to look.
I chance a peek above to see the alien sky—a swirling mass of purple and green—stretches out above, offering no comfort.
Though, I realize I do feel... better.
Something in me feels more settled than it has in months. This is far more normal than civilian life could ever be. I was dying a slow death. I'm back in the field now, working on a goal, surviving, saving civilians.
I'm terrified and giddy all at once.
Suddenly, a guttural sound echoes through the wreckage, sending shivers down my spine. A pink cum guy—or whatever the hell they are called—lurches out of the debris pile, its bulbous body covered in slime and gray blood, bulging black eyes searching the wreckage.
I freeze, the shard of glass digging into my palm. The gray freak, thankfully, doesn't spot me.
I'm not exactly easy to miss, so it must be disoriented.
It lumbers toward the front of the wreckage, its movements slow and deliberate.
An opportunity.
Taking a deep breath, I stalk toward the creature, moving with the practiced stealth of a seasoned assassin.
Huh. Maybe I should have taken up that profession. Then I could have been killing off the Chets of the world instead of trying to save their traitor asses.
