The S.O.L. survivor can’t see through the fogged up window of the escape hatch. He tries to wipe the triple layer glass, but it makes no difference. It must be hotter outside then in, which doesn’t give him comfort because he is baking in the airtight pod. Sweat beads roll freely down his body.
Returning to his instrument panel he bashes it again with the palm of his right hand. For a moment the L.E.D. lights blink on and his heart thumps with joy, but a sudden series of sparks jump across the panel and he knows his messing with the circuitry fried the whole thing.
“Fuck me,” he mutters knowing what comes next.
The bad part is he can only guess what’s outside the supposed safety inside the insulated ceramic and fiber he has been calling home.
What he does know is he can’t stay put any longer. It’s been three days already and if there was going to be a rescue it would have happened by now. That either means no one knows where he is or the Force Armada was wiped out. Either way his recon and survival training dictates when food and water get low it’s either pop a kill pill or look for more.
He’s not quite ready for the easy way out just yet.
He pulls the heavy environment helm over his head and latches it tight to the shoulder harness.
Satisfied he is sucking in filtered air he reaches over grasps the firing mech for the explosive bolts holding down the hatch.
It’s now or never he decides and taps the switch.
The bolts explode and the hatch goes flying.
He climbs out and instantly feels surrounded by the chirp and whine of jungle life and his mind laughs at the idea of escaping an escape pod into a deadly jungle filled with an unknown future.
Stories 