The flashing of warning lights and the shake of atmospheric entry woke me. My head pounded, and I did not know where I was. A helpful voice reminded me, “NOW ENTERING ATMOSPHERE. CONSCIOUSNESS SUPPRESSION: RELEASED. PREPARE YOURSELF, VOLUNTEER.”

My eyes felt heavy and clogged with mucus. Ugh, fuck. Was the only thought going through my head. How long had I been unconscious? It felt like months. Something was covering my face—an oppressive pressure that only added to my discomfort. Goggles and a mask of some sort. I tried to take them off, but my arms were bound. Legs too. My scream was muffled, and I nearly gagged from the pain of it. Something was in my throat. It felt like a rope of razors, digging in with every panicked breath. I closed my eyes again and took in a long, painful breath. Calm down. I told myself. You expected this.

I looked at my environment. It was small, like a broom closet. In front of my face was a small window. If I could have gasped, I would have. I saw a vast, green landscape made up of clear, distinct shapes. The blue water of an ocean, shining beaches. Patches of jungle, woods, grasslands. A paradise pieced together out of order. The landscape swiftly became the ground, and I couldn’t help but start to panic about the speed I was going. Not that I could do anything about it. There was a roar of noise from below me. Rockets to slow my descent. The pod became warm, then hot—almost unbearably hot. A red and orange glow obscured the ground that was quickly rising to meet me. The temperature kept rising. And then—crash. My body screamed. I was jolted, shaken. If it wasn’t for these restraints, my body would have shattered.

“LANDING SUCCESSFUL. FORCE DISTRIBUTION SUCCESSFUL. RELEASE IMMINENT.” The voice sounded like a dozen voices speaking together with a mechanical edge to it. With a hiss of releasing pressure, the door to the pod popped open. Water poured into the pod. It was steaming hot and quickly reached my knees. My limbs unlocked, and I immediately fumbled with the mask. My limbs shook with weakness. The water continued to rush in, climbing to my waist. Ripping the mask off my face was painful. A long plastic tube pulled from my throat.

“REMINDER: YOU HAVE BEEN PROVIDED BASIC SURVIVAL EQUIPMENT. ONE MONTH OF SURVIVAL REMOVES ONE YEAR FROM YOUR SENTENCE. TIME REMAINING: 180 YEARS.”

The door was heavy, but I managed to collapse through it into waist-deep water. My head went under, and I tasted it. Salt. A sea. I grabbed onto my pod for support. It wasn’t sinking. Luckily, I landed in shallow water. After catching my breath, I searched the pod. There wasn’t much—a simple mask and tube connected to some system above, the harness I was clamped into. But behind the harness was a small pack. Too exhausted to be excited, I grabbed it. I was expecting at most a multi-tool or a knife. It was attached to the pod by simple clips, easy to remove even with my shaking fingers.

Turning toward the shore, something caught my eye: a glint of light in the water. It was moving towards me, fast, slicing through the water like a fish. It darted past me, brushing against my leg with a cold, faint sensation. I saw red blood drift into the water before the pain hit me. Stinging pain radiated from my leg. Shit, shit, shit! I thought. I just started this new, exciting chapter of my life, and it was already in danger. A cut this deep to the leg can be life-threatening.

The fish, or whatever it was, had turned around. Almost lazily, it drifted in and out of the blood cloud. I got a decent look at it through the clear water. It was like an eel. Maybe three feet long. Two long bright silver razors ran down its top and bottom. It didn’t just swim through the water but cut through it like a knife. While it feasted—I assumed it was feasting—on my blood, I crawled towards the shore. My leg screamed with pain. With tears welling in my eyes, I ripped off a part of my shirt. I just now realized I was wearing a simple shirt, thick pants, and 3D-printed boots. The pants likely saved me from losing the entire leg.

Luckily, I knew some basic first aid. I tied a strip of my shirt to the wound, tightening it with some driftwood nearby. I just lay there a moment. It’s amazing how exhausting being released from a medically induced coma and then trying to avoid drowning can be. I rolled over and vomited. My body hurt, a lot. My throat was raw, body felt weak and on the verge of death, my leg stung, and the light of the sun felt blinding.

Despite my situation, I couldn’t just sit here, out in the open. 180 years. Or, if I survived, 180 months—15 years on this planet. Giving up here would probably be easier. Crawl back into the sea and let that thing finish the job. But, no. I was only guilty of loyalty to my people. I would make it off this planet.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Fueled by my anger, I shoved myself out of view, into the dense foliage. They wouldn’t break me—not here, not like this. Not yet, at least.

Finally, I managed to catch my breath, stopped heaving, and just lay there. What had happened? Where was I? Slowly, it came back to me. I was imprisoned. All rights stripped from me, as if I had any to begin with, and sentenced to a life of slavery. In prison, I’d been given the option to be sent to a dangerous planet where I’d be monitored constantly. Every month here would reduce one year from my ridiculously long prison sentence. They didn’t tell me why they wanted to drop convicted criminals on this planet so badly. I took the deal anyway.

I could see the smoke trail from my pod in the sky… and five others. Six pods in total. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or terrified that there were others. The sky was blue and calming. My eyes drifted closed.

“No!” I told myself. Pushing myself up on shaky limbs, I forced myself to look around me. Nothing was in sight, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Shelter, water, protection, then food. Those were my priorities. After tending to my leg, of course. I didn’t even want to check how bad it really was. I did anyway.

The cut was clean but deep. Stopping the bleeding wasn’t as big of a problem as I feared. Maybe I could make it through. Hopefully, the pack would have some needle and thread. I quickly took inventory of what I had.

The pack itself was small but well designed. Waterproof, with separate pouches and straps to wear it on my back. I noted each clip had a small whistle built in. Inside, two large objects took up most of the room—brick-sized blocks in foil wrapping. I placed those to the side. A sturdy knife was tucked into the side. The handle felt lighter than it should, and I realized I could unscrew the bottom of the handle. Inside was about a dozen waterproof matches.

The pack also contained three metal containers, each about three inches tall and one inch wide, with a release pin and a nozzle. I nearly dropped them, thinking they were grenades, but a plastic wrap around each had bright writing: Emergency Nexocite Medical Spray. Nexocite. I wasn’t sure what that meant—maybe a company that made them? There were simple instructions on the back.

1. Clean wound.

2. Pull pin from the ENMS while pointing directly at the wound.

3. Allow spray to fully cover the wound.

4. Let ENMS foam sit, undisturbed, for at least one hour.

5. Remove excess foam and wash wound.

Perfect. I had no idea what this stuff was, but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. Using another bit of my shirt, I removed as much sand and dirt as I could from the cut. My leg stung as I peeled away the soaked bandage. Blood oozed out. Well, here goes nothing.

I pointed the spray tip at the wound, a good six inches away, and pulled the pin. A silver liquid exploded from the nozzle, cold as ice. I did my best to cover the cut, watching as the initial burst slowed to a steady spray. The foam was more like metal—sticky, mercury-like. It moved on its own, smoothing itself over my leg as if it had a mind of its own. It reminded me of moss or fungus creeping over a log. I shivered, skin crawling.

Satisfied I wasn’t going to die immediately, I turned my attention back to the pack. I examined the bricks first. They were wrapped in pure silver packaging, with no writing. Each was about two pounds. I decided to open one. Inside was, well, a brick—a compressed gray matter mixed with brown flecks. I suspected what it was. A quick sniff confirmed it: oats and sesame. Yup, food.

I took a tentative bite. Once I bit through the structure, it crumbled in my mouth, like dense oatmeal with a faint medicinal taste. Bland and dry. I was ravenously hungry but only ate about an eighth of the bar. The food bar was surprisingly filling. While I chewed, I kept rifling around in my bag. Some cord, a water filter, a collapsible canteen, and an emergency blanket. Handy stuff.

I nearly choked as a roar echoed from somewhere in the jungle. My blood ran cold. Whatever it was, it was big but distant. Feeling exposed, I crawled towards a small nook make of tree roots and waited. Only another half hour was all I could stand. During that time, my leg flashed between a cold and itchy sensation. I envisioned the metal, moss-like material oozing into my body. The foam had dried into curling little patches of dull metal. Wiping them away was like peeling off old scabs. The cut was completely gone. It didn’t even hurt. It was as if I’d never been cut at all. Leaning closer, I could see a thin silver line running across my leg. Weird.

But it was time to get moving. Shelter, water, safety. The basic rules of survival. I’d need all of them if I wanted to last through the night.