He had been walking for an eternity.
Step by step he made his way across this barren, black landscape without purpose or direction.
Raising his hand before his face, he looked towards the featureless horizon before averting his eyes from the searing white sky.
His suit clung to his sweaty body, the helmet discarded long ago and left as a landmark on this endless plane.
This entire journey had been pointless; he had failed. There was nothing to be found in this empty world, nothing that would save him.
It was time to accept the futility and stop walking, time to give up.
Not like he could have gone much further anyway, his body bruised and exhausted. He dropped onto his knees and put his hands onto the ground,
taking deep and fast breaths. Rage welled up inside him, his fingers trying to claw into the smooth surface of the black ground.
What should have been a scream ended as nothing more than a rasping, breathless croak.
An endless stream of whispers had plagued his ears the entire way and now transformed into a disorienting cackle.
The gods of this realm were mocking his fate and watching as his spirit crumbled.
Gathering his strength, he made the effort to rise again and stumbled forward, his legs protesting every step.
A faint glitter caught his eye, a basin of turquoise liquid breaking up the monotone landscape.
He knew it was just another illusion, a promise of hope that could be crushed once more. Something to make him keep struggling.
Shaky steps brought him closer, his ragged breath almost drowning out the cackles in his mind.
Again, he dropped onto his knees, extending his arms to gather a sip of water in the bowl formed by his interlocking hands.
Greedily he gulped it down, the cool water burning in his dry throat until it reached his stomach which contorted in pain.
His eyes widened and he put his hands onto the ground, leaning forward as he heaved.
He woke with a start, collapsed on the floor and retching as he struggled to empty his stomach when the only thing it had left to give was bile.
The dried vomit on parts of his suit and the inside of the escape pod were clear signs that this wasn't the first time.
He rose into a sitting position, hunched over and breathing hard and fast after the urge subsided.
The display to his side desperately tried to inform him of the dangerously low oxygen level, but didn't manage to grab his attention.
Dehydration and withdrawal had taken its toll, his body shaking and his mind filled with desperation.
Staring at the floor with apathy, he tried his hardest to ignore the pain coursing through his veins and keep the last shreds of his sanity.
Finally, he broke down and wept.
He lived through hours of passing consciousness, his head spinning and his limbs getting numb as his cardiovascular system began to fail.
While the man was dying, the escape pod continued calmly floating through space, diligently transmitting the emergency signal.
He woke in his dream again, the hellish landscape slightly transformed. A lone tree was spending shade near a turquoise body of water.
This time it didn't feel like his entire body was in pain, only slight discomfort left. Slowly he pushed his hands into the water and formed a bowl, lifting it towards his lips. The water didn't burn when it touched his throat and he closed his eyes and drank it.
As far as he was concerned, this was a final mercy bestowed upon him, the reward for accepting his fate. A short time of painless rest before it was all over.
What amount of luck is necessary for a collapsing jumphole to transport this pod to a location where it can be found?
What amount is needed for it to do so at a time when someone is there to find it?
And in the end, would the man that has all this luck think of himself as lucky?
The station was a surprisingly clean and well maintained place. Even out here at the edge of nomad space, the zoners managed to somehow supply themselves. Yamada Shouzou was alive, for now.
The zoners had decided to save him, of course not being above to ask for his money in return afterwards. They would need it to keep the station maintained after all. The rest of his credits went to an Outcast, the only one there being able to supply what he now required for survival. With his supply getting smaller every day and him being all but broke, he was stuck in a hopeless situation once again.
Of course, he could always send a message home, make the Naval Forces come for him and with that also tell them about his addiction. Yamada was not an unusually proud man, but this condition was not something his family, friends and comrades should ever know about. It was better for all of them if they believed he was killed in action. Mostly, he thought, it was better for himself.
Sitting on a small crate in one of the docking bays, he was looking over at a Kingfisher. The Outcast it belonged to would have more of the stuff on his ship. They were not a charity though and he would have to pay for it somehow. He had shied away from the idea for a while, stalking the docking bay for days as he was trying to avoid making this decision. Somehow hoping that he would not have to cross this line.
But when the withdrawal symptoms kicked in, he knew he couldn't wait any longer.
As he looked down onto his clenched fists, he assured himself that nobody would miss an Outcast.