Don't Panic.
The white sand is cool to the touch. It's the same temperature as the damp sand that borders the sea, the kind that clumps and sticks when you dig it out of the ground.
This sand is not damp. Just cool. I know because I dug for hours, hoping against hope that eventually I'd hit water.
I didn't.
This entire planet is a contradiction. The sky is black, but the ground is bright white. The air is warm, yet the sand is cool.
There are plants growing, but there is no water.
I can live without food. Sure, it feels like someone's stabbing me in the belly. But I can live and stay strong.
Not without water.
Well, let me clarify. I can live, survive, no problem. But I get weak, emaciated and paralyzed, living in my own filth, and shame, and despair until someone finds it in themselves to pick me up and pour some water down my throat. Which can take quite a while.
Got caught on a prison planet once. The guards were fond of lashing their prisoners. Enjoyed the cries of pain and the sight of blood splashing to the ground.
As soon as they saw the cuts and welts fade back into my skin, denying them their fun, everything revved up a notch. You could cut the morbid curiosity with a damned butter knife.
The locked me in a cement box. No bed, no pot, no window. Just a drain in the floor and a closed door. No food or water either.
I don't know how long I was in there. But by the time someone came to find me, came to tell me that the prisoners had overthrown the guards, I couldn't move, speak, or see. They had to carry me from the cell, drag my filthy, stiff body through the halls.
I got better after I was hydrated.
It doesn't seem that bad, right? I mean, I lived. I'm here now to tell the tale. But for someone like me, someone raised on the bitter pill of control, the hard edge of fear, the smell of panic, and the harsh pain of failure, being helpless.... dammit. I can't even tell you how it feels. It's worse than dying.
I'm trying to stay calm, trapped in this fucking contradiction of a planet. I really am. If you panic, if you lose it, you're no use to anybody.
But I only have two bottles of water left. They should last a while if I ration them, but who knows how long it will be until a ship picks up my distress signal. Who knows how long it will be until a ship comes this way.
Maybe they won't even be able to pick up the signal at the frequency it's transmitting at.
Stop it. Stop it right now. You're a soldier. You can take care of yourself.
Don't panic.
I'm trying to think of a single reason not to absolutely lose my shit. I'm grasping at loose threads, memories, stories, anything to keep me sane. I'm coming up blank.
But... oh. Right. There, in the back corner of my mind.
Save the blonde kid. Keep the pretty me from breaking.
That's it. The mission.
I'll take a small sip from a bottle, just a bit, enough to stave off the anxiety. And then I'll lie back with the headset, face the black, and think of the mission.
Signing out,
Reaper
This sand is not damp. Just cool. I know because I dug for hours, hoping against hope that eventually I'd hit water.
I didn't.
This entire planet is a contradiction. The sky is black, but the ground is bright white. The air is warm, yet the sand is cool.
There are plants growing, but there is no water.
I can live without food. Sure, it feels like someone's stabbing me in the belly. But I can live and stay strong.
Not without water.
Well, let me clarify. I can live, survive, no problem. But I get weak, emaciated and paralyzed, living in my own filth, and shame, and despair until someone finds it in themselves to pick me up and pour some water down my throat. Which can take quite a while.
Got caught on a prison planet once. The guards were fond of lashing their prisoners. Enjoyed the cries of pain and the sight of blood splashing to the ground.
As soon as they saw the cuts and welts fade back into my skin, denying them their fun, everything revved up a notch. You could cut the morbid curiosity with a damned butter knife.
The locked me in a cement box. No bed, no pot, no window. Just a drain in the floor and a closed door. No food or water either.
I don't know how long I was in there. But by the time someone came to find me, came to tell me that the prisoners had overthrown the guards, I couldn't move, speak, or see. They had to carry me from the cell, drag my filthy, stiff body through the halls.
I got better after I was hydrated.
It doesn't seem that bad, right? I mean, I lived. I'm here now to tell the tale. But for someone like me, someone raised on the bitter pill of control, the hard edge of fear, the smell of panic, and the harsh pain of failure, being helpless.... dammit. I can't even tell you how it feels. It's worse than dying.
I'm trying to stay calm, trapped in this fucking contradiction of a planet. I really am. If you panic, if you lose it, you're no use to anybody.
But I only have two bottles of water left. They should last a while if I ration them, but who knows how long it will be until a ship picks up my distress signal. Who knows how long it will be until a ship comes this way.
Maybe they won't even be able to pick up the signal at the frequency it's transmitting at.
Stop it. Stop it right now. You're a soldier. You can take care of yourself.
Don't panic.
I'm trying to think of a single reason not to absolutely lose my shit. I'm grasping at loose threads, memories, stories, anything to keep me sane. I'm coming up blank.
But... oh. Right. There, in the back corner of my mind.
Save the blonde kid. Keep the pretty me from breaking.
That's it. The mission.
I'll take a small sip from a bottle, just a bit, enough to stave off the anxiety. And then I'll lie back with the headset, face the black, and think of the mission.
Signing out,
Reaper