My ship. My home. Gone. And I have no way to get to it. And there are raiders in the Core. And if they find me they will kill me. Or worse. And I need to get away. And I’m mad at myself because my rage is fighting against my survival instincts. The instincts win. Because I can rage all I want if I survive this. My mind races. I need to get away. I need to move quickly. And I need to avoid running into Ferals. All this noise is liable to attract any that are hungry. I think about the only other vehicle in the Core. I run for the Ferrari. I keep the automatic down at my side, ready to raise it and fire at any raiders that come across my path. I get near the dead Feral and leap over it, desperate to get past it. My foot comes down at the edge of the blood slick. Too close. And I slip. And slam into the floor and my skin is crawling as I imagine the Feral blood all over me.
