The capsule tore through an atmosphere the color of tarnished silver, howling like a thunderstorm trapped in metal lungs. When it struck the surface, chemical mist hissed outward, curling into streams of bronze vapor that choked the pale horizon. For several minutes there was no movement—only the creaking protest of alien alloy cooling against unfamiliar air. Then the hatch blew apart with a wet, resonant sigh.

From within crawled a figure wrapped in patchwork armor, hose‑lines trailing like seaweed behind him. Gutrot dragged himself through the fumes, each breath rattling inside his helm. The ground smelled wrong—too sterile, almost clean—a scent that frightened him more than toxins ever could. He twisted the dial at his neck; the suit’s filters recalibrated, tasting for oxygen, nitrogen, sulfur, anything recognizable. Results flickered negative twice before stabilizing. Barely livable, but survivable.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the vast, colorless sky. No stars. Just static haze stretching to infinity. His last clear memory was of containment—cold walls, glass tanks, scientists arguing over which gases would make him rupture faster. Then the explosion. Freedom pushed through chaos, and escape became instinct. Now here he was, marooned on a planet unlisted in any flight logs, his captors’ screams still echoing through memory like engine feedback.

Dust swirled; something small skittered across the horizon—an insect? a machine? He couldn’t tell. The instinct to analyze returned. He extended a gloved hand, vented a short puff of greenish fog, and watched the creature collapse at once. Harmless compound, he told himself. Reflex, not cruelty. Yet guilt spread across his thoughts like acid rain.

The world remained silent. Perfect silence—for a Vaptroon, unnatural. His species thrived on sound, hissing exchanges, chemical chatter. Isolation pressed harder than the gravity here. Gutrot rose, adjusting the valves along his spine until his body hummed faintly; it comforted him, that synthetic note of home.

He began walking toward a distant shimmer—a tower or reflection, maybe a settlement. Each step left droplets of condensation that bubbled and evaporated into tiny, chromatic vapors. He whispered to himself through the mask, a rasping whisper that carried both humour and wariness.

“Congratulations, old boy. Out of one cage, into a bigger one.”

An hour passed before he realized the shimmer moved like ocean waves though the land was solid. Atmosphere distortions, heavy ionization—signs of civilization or catastrophe. Either prospect meant survival. He quickened his pace, vent ports hissing faintly like sighs between each stride.