Collateral Damage

Amidst the initial chaos and his own inner turmoil, Jet gradually regained his composure and began to methodically assess his perplexing situation.

The first thing that caught his attention was a conspicuous hole in the chest area of the space suit. The edges of the hole bore burn marks, and a strange purple substance coated both his suit and the lifeless alien bodies strewn about.

This purple goo, Jet concluded, was likely congealed alien blood. He glanced at the area where he had first awakened, noting the presence of substantial bloodstains and what he could only assume were remnants of some sort of alien viscera.

"This makes no sense," he pondered. "All the evidence suggests that this body was as dead as Julius Caesar until I somehow ended up inhabiting it. And, for some reason, it's fully healed. Well, at least this means all religions are dead wrong! Thankfully, I never believed in any hocus-pocus, or I'd be seriously disappointed right now."

Jet proceeded to examine his newfound form. It featured four arms and two legs, although all the limbs were elongated and slender. The legs possessed reverse-jointed joints, reminiscent of a cat's. Both his hands and feet had only three fingers each.

Curiosity about his facial features nagged at him, but there was no reflective surface in sight. He attempted to feel his face with his fingers, but the suit came complete with a helmet that didn't hinder his senses.

The best he could determine was the shape of the helmet. Based on this, Jet surmised that his new head might resemble a shark's dorsal fin.

He then tested his ability to speak. "Test, test. Jet Evangelista. One, two, three." He could indeed articulate words, but it was still in English. This indicated that he hadn't inherited the muscle memory or the intellect of the body's previous occupant.

Jet attempted to stand but found the center of gravity to be drastically different from what he was accustomed to. Disheartened, he resorted to crawling, moving about like an infant.

His next course of action was to examine the alien corpses in an attempt to gain some insight into the bizarre circumstances surrounding him. Judging by their suits, it appeared that two factions had been engaged in a fierce conflict.

One faction wore red space suits, while Jet's was a subdued gray. As to which side was winning, or even whether it mattered at all, Jet had no inkling; his priority was his own survival.

In this perplexing alien environment, Jet realized his inability to communicate. Lacking a universal translator, he was essentially mute, which meant he would likely be perceived as a liability by both enemies and potential allies.

"Who would want a babbling fool, incapable even of standing in a life-or-death situation? I've barely been here for a day, and I'm already as good as dead."

Refusing to surrender to despair, Jet managed to rise by using the walls for support and embarked on an exploratory journey.

The corridor was lined with doors, yet his options were painfully limited because he could only enter the ones that were already open. Frustratingly, Jet had no idea how to operate the doors or the control panels scattered about. His attempts to push buttons at random yielded no results.

As hunger gnawed at him, Jet's mind raced with desperation. "Am I destined to perish like this? Starving to death in a blasted spaceship, or on some alien planet, or whatever the heck this is? I don't even know what this useless hunk of flesh eats! Even if I stumbled upon a mountain of food, I wouldn't have a clue about what's what. And even if I did, I wouldn't know how the heck to remove this helmet."

After hours of fruitless wandering, exhaustion and hunger pushed him to the brink of hysteria. Jet screamed and kicked at whatever he could reach until sheer fatigue finally lulled him into sleep.

Upon waking, his mind cleared, and Jet recognized the direness of his situation. "This is a nightmare. I'm out of options. I don't even know how to end my own life if I wanted to." He banged the back of his helmeted head against the wall in frustration.

"I never contemplated this, but being reborn in a sci-fi world is truly the worst-case scenario. An alien body, unfamiliar customs, an utter lack of common sense for this new species. To make matters worse, everything here is so high-tech that I can't even operate a simple door. Every button could be labeled, and it would still be useless because I don't understand their language."

His hunger intensified, and he grew weaker by the hour. With no time to waste, he resumed his wandering, banging and shouting at every door he encountered in a desperate attempt to attract attention.

Near the brink of fainting from hunger and exhaustion, Jet was finally met with success as a door swung open. The shock of this event caused him to lose his balance and tumble to the ground. On the other side, grey-suited aliens stood in a wedge formation, each brandishing a long metal staff-like weapon. Jet didn't attempt to stand; instead, he weakly raised a right hand in what he hoped was a gesture of peace.

"Captain! That's Xa'rk! His life signal has returned; it wasn't a glitch. He's still alive." (from this point onward, * signifies words Jet doesn't understand)

The formation dispersed slightly, allowing a taller and more robust alien to approach. The soldiers kept their weapons raised, ever alert and awaiting an attack order.

"Why is he babbling? Medic, do you read any readings about that blaster wound?"

A purple-clad alien stepped forward, scanning Jet's body. "None, sir. It's not any dialect in the empire. And the scanner confirms that the hole in his armor is definitely from a Corellan blaster. I have no idea how he survived it unscathed. It's a miracle."

"It's a liability," the captain's tone was grim. He took a staff from a soldier's hands and, with the push of a button, transformed it into a glaive, its blade formed of pure energy.

Jet resigned himself, thinking, "Well, it seems I'm going to die from a lightsaber. How cool, one strike, and I'll be turned into dandruff. Lucky me, another painless death incoming."

However, when the captain thrust the glaive into his chest, there was no searing, burning sound. It pierced him from side to side, causing him to bleed to death. The blade wasn't a laser-based weapon; it was a hard-light construct, resembling an ordinary glaive.

"Listen up, soldiers. Xa'rk was a good soldier, and we will remember and mourn him as such. When and if we get out of this alive. But that thing, whatever it is, is a risk we cannot allow to take. Not with Prince Rek'hart in our care and those Corellan rebel scums still at large. Better some collateral damage than a spy among our ranks. Now, shut that door and check the perimeter again."

This time, death was far from painless for Jet. He felt like his chest was on fire, but what hurt even more were his lungs. Breathing became a struggle; each breath was shallower and more challenging than the last. Blood gurgled from his mouth, and he felt like he was slowly drowning. His throat constricted in a futile attempt to draw in air. It took less than a minute for him to die, but for Jet, it seemed to last an eternity.

Once more, he found himself surrounded by blinding light and being drawn toward it. Unlike the last time, he didn't find solace in the fading of worries and rage. He was annoyed. Jet had never believed in any gods or an afterlife, as he believed death should be final for everyone, regardless of their actions in life.

"What purpose could being reborn possibly serve if I retain all my memories?" he wondered. "Whatever body or planet I end up on, I'll still carry my baggage. All my pain, rage, and contempt toward humankind will prevent me from learning any supposed lesson."

Inside that otherworldly space, he realized that his psychologist was only half right. He could change if he wanted to, but because of all his past experiences, he had no will to. It was a perfect example of a catch-22 paradox.

Suddenly, he was pulled downwards and away from the light. His vision was blurry, but he could hear commotion around him. Giant hands held him still as he vomited, and he realized he was naked, with a breeze on his butt cheeks.

"I don't know what the heck is going on," he thought, "but I bet I'm in deep sh*t again."

When Jet could finally see again, he discovered that the hands were not gigantic; the issue was that he was very small—a baby, to be precise.

"He's alive! I did it! I managed to save your boy's life!" cried a gibberish-speaking old woman. Jet found himself inside a wooden shack, surrounded by people dressed in rags that could only be considered clothes if they were part of a medieval renaissance fair.

"Man, I hate always being right!"