Adventures of the Predator in Norway.
01. Predator. The Crash.
Consciousness burst into the Predator’s mind with a painful flash. Too fast! Waking up too quickly! That meant something was wrong. As if to prove these thoughts right, an unpleasant distress signal pierced through its brain.
So be it! The thought flashed again. No time to think now—only to act, to execute those meticulously trained motions with automatic precision.
With a sharp movement, it unclasped the restraining locks and slid out of its pod, swiftly assessing the situation as it moved: This is serious indeed. The already cramped cockpit was now thick with smoke, flickers of open flame visible here and there. The fire suppression system had failed. Fine. We’ll figure that out later.
But then—what’s this?! Through the smoke, the Predator caught sight of a vast blue glow—a massive hemisphere swelling ominously in the ship’s forward viewport. Out of control, the vessel was plummeting straight toward some planet, it noted grimly.
Alright. The computer will handle the calculations. Just need to reach the escape pod.
With two powerful leaps, he reached the escape pod. With a sharp tug, he yanked open the hatch and threw himself inside. The locks clicked shut behind him—relative safety at last.
The computer finally spat out its calculations, and the verdict was immediate: Everything was going wrong.
The ship was hurtling toward a planet—one with an atmosphere. Their speed was too high. The math was merciless: a catastrophic crash was inevitable, and the countdown had dwindled to seconds.
Just let the hull survive initial atmospheric entry, he thought. After that, it’ll be easier. The emergency thrusters should fire, tearing the pod free from the crippled, uncontrollable wreck.
And that meant only one thing: a shot at survival.
The hull held. Against all odds, it remained largely intact—externally, at least. Trailing a monstrous tail of fire and smoke, the ship continued its deadly descent after the brutal atmospheric impact.
The Predator’s focus narrowed to the altimeter. He counted down to the ejection sequence: Five seconds… two… one.
Nothing.
The catapult had failed. That meteor strike must have crippled the central computer too.
Which meant only one option left: jump.
A parachute drop in these conditions—barely controlled freefall—was his last chance. In one fluid motion, he unclasped the restraints, launched himself from the seat, and wrenched the manual hatch release. A violent blast of light and air slammed into him. Gritting against the onslaught, he hurled himself outward—into the screaming sky.
