The acrid smell of charred components jarred Freya into consciousness. Her head swam as she opened her eyes and found her world tilted sideways. Pinned under a slab of console, she twisted toward where Robert had been sitting but smoke spilled from the corners of the small shuttle, inhibiting her vision. “Not good,” she muttered, attempting to jerk her legs free without thought. Shards of metal dug into her calf and she felt the trickle of blood. “Yeah, n-not good. Robert?” Without a response, she continued to try to claw herself free, to no avail. She propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed her condition carefully. In addition to the obvious shrapnel wounds, she suspected her leg was broken as well. Both things were fixable if she could free herself and reach the medical kit. The more immediate issue, however, was the toxic atmosphere caused by the smoke. With a grimace, she laid back down and tried to recall the shuttle schematics. There were a dozen small holes tucked into the bulkheads, each with a specific gear item so any crew member would know where to find what they needed. As luck would have it, the filter masks were to her left – just out of reach. She strained and stretched, trying to trigger the release button but her fingers barely skimmed the edge. In one last ditch effort, she threw herself toward the bulkhead and slammed the button. The masks fell out of the compartment into her outstretched hand but she made no attempt to put one on as pain seared through her body. She fell back, out of breath and struggling to remain conscious.
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