1:8

You run. There’s no shame in it. Salvage means nothing to a dead man.

The stream of metal which climbs your leg suddenly contracts, grabbing tight, impeding your movement. One end of it anchors to the floor.

You let out a gasp of pain and shock. It’s everywhere, now that your eyes have adjusted to the light. Every panicked swing of your head torch illuminates another silvery stream of it, sliding towards you.

You grip your thigh with both hands and tear yourself free in a spray of glittering particles.

You thunder towards the airlock.

It’s hot inside your suit. Too hot. You’re sweating all over. Your pulse is pounding in your ears. You wish you could see what’s going on but you can’t, because your view is restricted to a single scratched, steamed up visor, wobbling up and down as you run.

You itch all over, and imagine the little silver particles burrowing into your pores, escaping into your bloodstream, choking your arteries.

You take a corner too fast. You thud into the far wall, winding yourself, but there’s no time to catch your breath. No time to do anything.

The airlock looms up ahead. You slap the activation panel so hard you briefly worry that you’ve broken it, but the first door slides open a second later, and you duck inside.

You look down and the remaining metal has reached your chest. The stream has become a pseudopod which pokes and probes at the front of your suit. You feel it pushing…