A haze covered her vision that took a few moments to clear. She was still groggy with whatever poison the darts had delivered into her system, though she supposed they would probably call it a drug and not a poison.

The effect was the same, however—she felt like shit.

She tried to sit up, but only got as far as lifting her head. Straps around her chest, hips, ankles, and wrists held her fast to the gurney she lay on, her arms extended on platforms on either side like a crucifix.

The realization sobered her up quickly and she struggled to keep panic from overtaking her. In the end, she couldn’t resist. She summoned all of the strength at her disposal, using the fear-provided adrenaline flowing through her veins as jet fuel on the fire of her desire to escape. She strained against the chest strap that held her fast to the gurney, but the mechanical advantage it had was too great for her to overcome, even with all her considerable strength. She needed a different plan of attack.

Her arms.

They were held by one strap each at the middle of her forearm. From her limited viewpoint, she didn’t see the clasping mechanism that locked the straps tight. They were most likely on the underside of the gurney, a clever design that would make it difficult to escape if a patient were to get a hand free. Lucky for her, no one was standing around to interfere if she could get free.

She tested the right arm strap, pulling up like she was doing a bicep curl at the gym. The strap stretched taut but didn’t budge. She increased her effort and felt it stretch even further, but it held her too tightly to slip her arm out.

Instead of pulling straight up, she turned both hands palm down and curled her hands toward her hip like she was the Incredible Hulk posing in a body building contest. This time, with the benefit of leverage, she was rewarded with a ripping sound as the straps tore in half.

With her hand and arms free, she groped at the wider band of the chest strap, feeling for the mechanism that held it tight, but she found nothing. Nothing but the smooth industrial-strength material of the strap. The clasp must lay on the underside, just like the arm straps.

Back to brute strength, then, she thought. She dug her fingers into the narrow space between her chest and the device that held her fast to the gurney. And then she pulled. Pulled like her life depended on it.

Slowly, the edge of the strap peeled back toward her feet as she strained, the veins in her head standing out like they would rip free from her body at any moment. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and the air from her lungs escaped through her clenched teeth like the steam from a boiler under immense pressure.

Something popped on the underside of the gurney and she heard a clink on the floor as the strap suddenly loosened and went slack. She quickly flung it off and sat up, eyeing the strap around her waist and then the two straps around either ankle.

“Halfway there,” she coached herself, before continuing.

She placed both hands next to her hips and tried to wiggle her legs backward out of the hip strap, but she was only able to get a few inches of freedom before the ankle straps stopped her progress.

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She took a second to wipe the sweat that was threatening to fall in her eyes and considered her next course of action.

Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and performed several twists of her torso, trying to loosen up the tightly bound muscles of her back and chest.

Then she threw herself over the side of gurney and stretched as far as she could, grasping for anything that she could find on the underside to hold herself in place. She missed on the first attempt; the movement was too course and unfamiliar, but her fingers slid over something sticking out and she fought to remember its precise location as she prepared to try again.

She found success on her next try, her fingers gripping tight on what felt like a small metal ridge running down the length of the gurney’s backside. Breathing was difficult in the contorted pose, but she managed to hold on, inching her hand little by little, feeling for whatever held the waist strap in place.

The strap turned out to be a low-tech buckle. She pulled it tighter and wiggled the pin free of the notch. With enormous relief, the strap fell slack and she sat upright, savoring several pain-free lungfuls of air.

Scooting further down the gurney, she made quick work of the remaining ankle straps. Next came the IV needle.

She pinched it between her right thumb and index finger and braced herself before pulling it out. There was a slight stinging sensation, but otherwise it was nowhere near as bad as she’d imagined.

The machines that the IV stand extended from began to beep. Not a friendly beep, either. It sounded accusatory. Beep!—you have done something you’re not supposed to!—Beep!

With her freedom from the gurney secured, Violet turned her attention to the room she was in an immediately frowned as she saw the door with a heavy deadbolt and some kind of control panel to it left. A large observation window stood next to the door. Outside she could see a hallway and several similar rooms. From one cell to another, she thought. She was reminded of an old saying her mother used to repeat when she’d made a mess of things, “out of the frying pan, and into the fire.”

The differences between her last cell and this one were night and day, however. Whereas the last one was spic and span, in tip-top military shape with precisely painted walls and a sterilized feel; this one felt worn and well-used—old even. The walls were duracrete blocks, the paint faded and scratched in a thousand places. In some parts she could actually see the rough surface of the duracrete itself. But it told her one thing: she was on the ground somewhere—asteroid, moon, or planet, she couldn’t say—but duracrete wasn’t a substance used for ship interiors. Too bulky and heavy.

And the medical equipment was generations from top of the line. She recognized most of the machines from their function, but they were ancient versions of what she’d seen in her family’s doctor office onboard Tryptek Station.

The monitor’s accusatory beep was joined by an outside klaxon sounding an alarm. She could hear the echoes of it down the hall outside the room.

That can’t be good, she thought.

Her brain was speeding up, preparing her for whatever happened next. She spotted a thin metal stand that held up a piece of equipment and she grabbed it, upending the machine onto the floor with a clang. A few shards of plastic chipped off the clunky machinery and scattered across the floor as she pried the metal rod free from the platform that the machinery had sat on.

The rod was about three feet long and had a solid feel to it. She smacked it against her palm several times, pleased with the sensation. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

And then she waited for whatever fate the blaring alarms outside brought her.

She heard the clatter of boots heel-striking down the hall. Moments later, a squad of rag tag soldiers armed with a mix of blasters, resonator blades, and piecemeal body armor appeared.

They took up flanking positions on either side of the door and trained their weapons on her.

Violet tightened her grip on the metal rod in her hand and crouched slightly. “Who wants to die first?”