Hunting Wolfe

The Survival Game

The final stretch is a blur as I sprint towards the escape pod. Every step echoes my desperation. Upon reaching it, I notice its sleek, metallic surface untouched—a sign it hasn't been opened. Questions swirl in my mind. Whose pod is this? My hand hovers uncertainly before landing on the pod's surface, hunting for an opening mechanism. The metal burns into my skin, and I yank my hand back with a gasp. "Ow!" Undeterred, my eyes frantically scan the exterior, fingers hovering over its contours until they find their prize, the small, recessive emergency release button. Heart racing, I press the button, unleashing a loud hiss as the pod unveils its secrets. Inside lies the pilot from our ship, slumped over, a dark, angry gash marring his forehead. Blood trickles down, mingling with the sweat on his pallid face.

With cautious steps, I climb into the pod, my fingers trembling as they reach for his throat, hoping to find a pulse, some sign of life. His skin radiates warmth—a flicker of hope—but beneath my searching fingers, there's no throb of a heartbeat. No rise and fall of breath. Cold realization crashes over me—he's dead. I recoil, horrified, my breath catching in my throat. The world tilts as I scramble backward, tumbling out of the pod and hitting the ground hard, the lifeless face of the pilot burned into my mind. I climb unsteadily to my feet. So, what do I do now? I push the emergency release button, and the pod slowly closes back. I can't just leave his body exposed, to be eaten by wild animals. And I can't exactly think while staring at the body either.

A soft rustling sound drifts from behind me, breaking the eerie stillness of the alien landscape. My heart quickens as I brace for an encounter with the unknown denizens of this planet. Or perhaps, it's Aceon, finally tracking me down. Slowly, I pivot on my heel, and my breath hitches at the sight that greets me—a glinting, razor-sharp blade, the tip of a long, slender sword hovering mere inches from my throat. My eyes widen as they focus on the deadly weapon. It gleams ominously under the strange, dim light of the alien sky, reflecting fragmented rays that dance across its surface. For a heartbeat, my mind is fixated solely on the cold steel, its sharpness promising a swift end. Gradually, I lift my gaze, tracing the sword's length with deliberate slowness. The blade is held with a steady hand by a figure, a figure with a strikingly human-like appearance.

This being, however, is draped in the hues of another world. His skin, tinged with a deep, ruddy red, marks him unmistakably as a Martian. His reddish-brown hair is tousled, framing a face lined with tense determination. His eyes, a steadfast brown, bore into mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. He towers over me, his stature formidable and intimidating. His lips move, and it's only after a lingering moment that the words he speaks pierce through my dazed mind. His tone is laced with urgency and anger, a rapid-fire demand that makes my head spin. He is asking—a question sharp as the sword he wields—demanding to know who I am and to which faction I belong.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I say, my voice trembling slightly with the weight of the unknown.

"Am I not speaking human?" he asks, his tone laced with a hint of impatience.

"Humans have many languages," interjects another being, humanoid in appearance but with a significant distinction—a coat of light brown fur identifying her as a Femlander. Her voice, a higher-pitched melody, assures me she is female.

"How do you know?" the Martian questions, his sharp eyes and gleaming sword never wavering from me. "Have you ever been to Earth?"

"No, but I have read something called a book," she responds calmly.

"Hrmph," he grunts, clearly unimpressed.

Gathering my courage, I manage to speak, "Under the threat of death, my brain is a little slow at processing your question."

"Oh, so she does speak," he mocks, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, I'm just not sure how to answer," I explain. "I mean, my name is Rayanna, but I don't understand what you mean by 'what faction are you part of?'"

"Exactly what I asked. We are on Thaydon 5, it's week three, so what faction are you part of, Rayanna."

"Thaydon 5? Week three? Factions?" I echo, my mind spinning with confusion.

"Thaydon 5, you know, The Survival Game. Currently the number one watched program in eight galaxies," the Femlander clarifies, her voice unwavering.

"The number one watched..." My voice falters. "Do you mean we are on television right now?"

"Yes," she confirms with a simple nod.

My heart races as I struggle to grasp the reality, "What is this program exactly?"

"Forty individuals are dumped on an alien planet," the Femlander begins, her voice smooth and practiced. "They must survive harsh weather conditions and wild animals. Factions of eight are formed, and the faction that survives the longest wins ten million credits." She pauses, her eyes steely. "And there must be at least five of you left, or no one gets any credits."

"I'm not actually part of the show," I explain. "You see, I wasn't among the original forty contestants. My friends and I were merely passing by this planet when, out of the blue, a barrage of something shot up our ship." I emphasize the gravity of the situation with a wave of my hand. "It caused significant damage, leaving us no choice but to deploy the escape pods." I gesture behind their shoulders, pointing into the vast, uncharted wilderness. "My escape pod landed somewhere in that direction," I specify, hoping they grasp the enormity of the area I indicate. "The one over there," I continue, nodding toward the nearby, metal structure, "belonged to the owner of the ship we were traveling on, he didn't make it."

Pausing for a moment, I let the silence underscore my next words. "And my friends," I add, with a sorrowful shake of my head, "I have no idea where they are." The dread of their unknown fates lingers heavily in the air, my concern for them overriding my concern for my own safety. The sword at my throat lowers.

"Come on, then. You cancome back to camp with us. We are one individual short of the having theminimum number of faction members." The Femlander says