"Al' righty boys, all yall need to do is live, this sounds easy enough by itself, I mean come on, how cannot dying be that hard?  Besides the fact that they outnumber us one thousandth to one, that a single squadron of their squads is more experienced than our entire fighting force combined, most of whom never even got their dicks wet, that we are a God damned fucking mining base, I think we have a great chance at beating those fucks."

- Station Manager, Roman Alexander, last words before the destruction of Outpost Hardy

I am no stranger to the dark.  I have been with it for too long, too long to count, too long to even care.  It has always been the same, a pitch blacknesses, no sight, no smell, no taste, no nothing.  A near empty void, with just one item, me.  Just floating around like a bug in the water, no care in the world, only me and the dark, without the lack of senses I wonder sometimes if I lack other things as well, important things, feelings, emotions, empathy, reasoning, all important human necessities in order to have a healthy mind.  Time in this cold blackness does not exist, hours can turn to years, and months can be seconds, if I'm lucky, I could convince myself that this is the end, the last of my adventures, my personal limbo.  That would be very nice.

However, it always ends too soon.  A white speck appears in my senses, I can see, taste, I can even physically feel that little white speck of hell.  For it always brings me back, to my personal hell.  It grows larger, and larger, to the point where the entire void is covered in this once small white speck.  And when the last of the void is covered, my safe haven being taken away from my very eyes, I shift.

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From the white abyss to a yellowing and downright disgusting room, the walls, a once a solid uniform white color, has been transformed by the passage of time into a faded and inconsistent yellow.  The floor, once upon a time a sea of carpet, is now a rough and torn wasteland, with pockets of ripped carpet reaching the concrete base.  Nothing too special about this room, just a rectangular room, completely devoid of anything, besides a door, and the body in this room.

Lying dead, face down, in the center of the room is a corpse.  Nothing too special about this corpse, comparing it to other corpses I have witnessed in the past, I would say that this one is a little taller than the average corpse.  Besides its height, it does have a little nugget of individuality, which is its wounds.  The corpse seems to have an enormous amount of cuts on it, so much so that its blood is leaking out everywhere, forming what one would call a puddle.  The cuts themselves seem to be made on purpose, as they form squares, triangles, a fucking hectogon, I counted, and more geometric shapes, whoever made this is probably a huge nerd.  Also, the corpse is black, not sure what this has to do with anything, besides being racist, but his skin color is a dark brown.

After another quick glance around the room, its certain that the only thing here is I, this room, and the body.  Nothing else, no doors, no windows, no people, no instructions, no weapons, not a single light source in sight, I'm not sure how I can even see in here, just me, the corpse, and a room.

This is a first.  And totally unexpected

Then a voice rang throughout my head.

"Ah fUCk.  I think it worked."