The world came back in muffled blows.
A buzzing drilled into her skull.
Her ears whistled as if someone were scraping at the inside of her skull
The metallic, acidic taste of her own blood was what finally woke her up.
She floated, weightless, disoriented "left inside a steel coffin with walls so close they seemed to breathe with her".
Slowly, she brought her hands to her head.
A wet click answered back.
Her whole body hurt; every muscle burned as if it had been wrung out from the inside.
The air was thick, poorly recycled.
It smelled of stale metal, prolonged confinement, slow death.
Around her, the dimness of a tiny, claustrophobic cargo bay.
A pair of emergency lights flickered without conviction, casting dull flashes that didn't illuminate "only confused: a clumsy dance of shadow over metal"
Silence was almost absolute.
Only the distant rumble of the void.
The engines were dead.
The generators inactive.
The ship was a corpse… and she, a cell trapped inside it.
But staying still meant dying.
Awkwardly, she began to move, pushing off the walls like a wandering specter. The red lights pulsed with her breathing. Her numb fingers searched for any switch, any sign of life.
A distant glimmer "two green LEDs" gave her a primitive surge of hope.
She pushed toward them.
The corridor was narrow, three meters of corroded metal, covered in cables that looked like burnt intestines. Soot hung from the ceiling like space mold.
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She reached the bridge.
Stopped.
The entire control panel was covered in strange symbols, old marks left by dead navigators… and yet, something inside her understood them instantly.
She didn’t think.
She acted.
Her hands moved as if remembering a rusted routine.
She pressed a sequence of buttons, turned a corroded manual key, and the ship responded with an electric roar that ran through the walls like a waking monster.
Lights.
Engines.
Air.
The pressurized hiss filled the cabin like a resurrection’s sigh.
The central screen lit up:
--- Operating System: ONLINE ---
--- Emergency route established ---
--- Initiating recovery protocol ---
She explored the ship: a capsule built for two people, a narrow bunkroom, a deteriorated bathroom, and the bay where she had awakened.
Nothing more.
A coffin with engines.
In the bathroom she wiped the dried blood from her temple.
The water came out murky, smelling of rotting entrails.
She removed the stained medical gown and rummaged through the pirates’ belongings.
She found a tight white tank top, loose pants, broken magnetic boots, and a metal helmet with a deep dent in the side.
She lifted it.
Heavy.
Opaque.
She tried it on.
A perfect fit.
Nobody would ever see her face again.
In the bay she found dry rations, a chipped light armor plate, a corroded machete, and an old revolver "loaded with six different bullets", as if each carried a filthy story of its own.
Ate compressed bread that tasted of dust and desolation.
Then she returned to the bridge.
She dropped into the captain’s seat.
The leather creaked, sticky, as if someone had pissed themselves on it before dying.
She looked at the lit panels.
The course was locked, sealed with encrypted coordinates.
A predetermined journey.
A prewritten sentence.
The hyperjump was calibrated slowly.
Estimated time: 96 hours.
She ate in silence, watching the numbers blink as if mocking her.
There was nothing to do but wait.
Later, in the bunkroom, she lay down.
The helmet rested beside the bed.
The ship vibrated faintly, like the labored breathing of a dying creature.
Before sleeping, she stared at the rusted ceiling and allowed herself a quiet phrase, barely a dragged thought:
— I’m alive. For now.
The void sounded with a faint, deep creak, as if the can were responding.
The screen flickered with an uneasy glow:
COORDINATES FIXED — KRAG SHIPYARD.
