Plip. Plip. Plip.

That is the sound of a viscous fluid hitting a metallic surface, I think.

Hm. And now why would there be viscous fluids landing on a metallic surface?

Slowly my other senses filter into my brain. First comes the sense of smell. Oily, musky, sweat, filtered, stale. Seems to fit the sounds I am hearing. Footsteps on grates. Sporadic muffled shouts. Slowly taste returns. Or, at least vague sensations of my mouth. Bitter. That's not a normal taste.

Spatial awareness slowly creeps in. My head is oriented vertically. Slightly cocked to the side, but supported from the back somehow. Torso also upright. Arms relaxed to the side, bent at the elbows. Legs lie horizontally along the ground. Right leg bent at the knee slightly. OK, inventory of my limbs, Check. I think I send the signal to my mouth to curl into a grin.

Sounds start becoming clearer. I can hear the hiss of some kind of gas exiting an opening. Maybe a leak or a rupture. Some minor scrapping noises. Doors whizzing open and shut. A low rumble in the background. I smell a whiff of ozone.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Eyes don't seem to want to open. But that's alright. I feel tired anyways. Just going to hang out here for a moment.

Sharper senses of feeling bleed in. There's padding pressing into my neck and the back of my head. My shoulders are rubbing something hard. As I shift my weight I hear a squeak of fiberglass on metal. There's also a dull sensation somewhere in my upper right arm. I flex it and a sudden jolt of pain pierces across my body and a bursts inside my brain's neurons.

ZIGNAUTS POLARIS OWOWowowow. OK, now I'm awake.

The rest of the world snaps into focus. Slowly I force my eyes open. I'm in my K-suit. The corridor is well-lit in a plain off-white hue, but a few of the lights are flickering. Normally clean blue walls have a few smears of something on them. Thin metal non-slip grates line the hallway on top of the simple non-rust sheet metal flooring. My visor's HUD indicates air pressure is a little below 0.8 atmospheres, but breathable. The hiss appears to be a small leak to my left somewhere of some colorless gas. A small line of holes dot the wall in front of me.

I rotate my head to the right and look at my arm. Sure enough, the yellow suit is covered in red blood. Puncture in the fabric, edges look singed. Clean hit right above the elbow. Damn.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Body doesn't want to get up. Everything feels heavy. Ache in the back of my head. And a nice steady leak in my right arm.

It's like a stupid vid. Just sitting here slowly bleeding out. Typical.

Most of my life has been marked by "typical." Simple milestones on an orchestrated trajectory to whatever my destiny was supposed to be. And while above-average, there was nothing particularly unique. No true niche to call attractive or passion that fired me up. Just a typical person living their typical life. A few hobbies here and there, surrounded by a group of friends. Went to social outings, had a job at a nice station, life overall was alright.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

I wonder where my friends are. If you could call them that. Mostly a long string of friends of coincidence and ease of access. One group while in school. Another at the academy. People who I worked with or orbited with. And as life moved on I would find new friends to replace the ones outside of convenience. I pondered if my family counted. Perhaps. Although really I couldn't talk to them about particular things. Couldn't break the image of their typical daughter. And my siblings weren't exactly the closest buddies.

After all, I thought, you can't rely on anyone but yourself sometimes. If you're not strong enough to tackle it, then get stronger.

And it served well. It helped insulate the pain of rejections. Just do better next time! It meant there was no one else to blame. Everything can be solved! It made me independent. I didn't have to rely on someone else; I didn't have to burden someone else. Everyone else around me was free to be their own person as I accommodated and nimbly side-stepped problem after problem. Things would mysteriously be more efficient as the little details would get scooped up. Drama was avoided; ruffled feathers smoothed over. And slowly up the ladder of skills and maturity I climbed with my own arms and legs.

Great analogy that's worth with a P-bolt hole in my arm. Can't lift the stupid thing.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

The pressure behind my ear from the edge of the helmet is slowly becoming uncomfortable. My ears start to tingle in the open air. That's a good sign. Finally able to feel my whole body. I wiggle my toes inside the boots. My left hand responds just fine and I tentatively push against the grates on the floor. The arm and shoulder feel solid, but the rest of my body isn't ready to get up.

A small wave of panic jumps along the neurons in my skull. Perhaps my body won't ever feel ready. The right forearm shielding is already streaked a nice shade of red, and it feels like all of the inner lining of the glove is wet. That's a decent amount of blood; how much can the body lose again? I think I skipped that lecture.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

If I do die here, I wonder who will show up at my funeral. A small part of my consciousness reels against the morbid nature of the thought, but the rest is intrigued. Family I suppose is safe. Family friends from when I was growing up should be there. "Life tragically cut short with all that potential" they'd say. "So proud to see them all grow up." Perhaps most of my current circle of friends. Will Jeff show up? I haven't talked to that guy in, what, three cycles? He did get busy, and he's stationed in a different facility, but I could have scheduled a link. Slight inconvenience to him, minor to me. Chat for an hour. Not too hard.

Could have. Should have. Didn't. Typical.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Still, in some ways, he also left me, I wonder. It is equally difficult, or easy, for him to reach out to me. And yet not a peep. Can't blame him. I wasn't the closest person in his life. He must be busy. And I can only really blame myself for the way things turned out. No use blaming someone else, you only have control over yourself. And now he's somewhere else and I'm here alone in this hallway sitting against a wall with a stupid bleeding arm. And wishing I had sent a link to catch up.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Now I get why people have a fascination with blood as a life source. Kind of poetic hearing it slowly drain out.

The visor indicates air pressure is getting low. My rebreather mask pops out of the chest and is fitted to my mouth and nose. The extra boost in oxygen pushes against the black periphery, but it's fighting a losing battle. My right fingers are now a muddled prickly sensation. I pull my feet towards my body and the hallway echoes the scrapes. Oddly quiet, I think to myself.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

The low rumble has stopped. Some part of my brain registers that was the engines. OK, time to get up and get this arm fixed up. I shift my weight onto my left arm and push against the ground, but my hips refuse to thrust upwards and over my feet. The exertion causes my breathing to spike and I drop back to the ground with a loud thunk. Not getting up? How silly. It's so simple. You get out of bed every day. How is this any different? My chest heaves slowly. I slide to my left and turn until I'm lying on my chest on the ground. I struggle to lift my body into a crawling position, my knee guards loudly scratching against the rough tiles. My right arm protests every move as I try to avoid banging it on the floor.

Plip. Plip. Plip.


A flash of panic sets in again. This isn't how I wanted to die. I wanted to die surrounded by friends. After making a difference. After doing... something else! Not just in a stupid metal hallway. I ball my fingers into a fist and pound the grate I'm lying on. It rattles a little.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

I can do this. I can still get up. I can find medical. I'll be OK. I can still move. I can do more.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Pay attention to the pain. Let it motivate you.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Don't close your eyes.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Someone will come.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Help.

Plip. Plip. Plip.