The sound was deafening inside his suit as the glass flew into his face. Ethan cried out in pain not only from the shards but from the noise, which was like a bullet going off next to his ears. He nearly dropped from the hanging root.

  Almost uncontrollably, Ethan gasped as a rush of cold water smacked into his face, and he gagged as he inhaled water and the air of the planet he had so cautiously avoided. His breath hitched in a ragged sputter; the air tasting unfamiliar, almost metallic, like biting into a battery. His heart jackhammered in his chest as a high-pitched ringing filled his ears. The cold air stung his skin, an instant, near-searing burn that made his face go numb.

  “Oh shit, oh god, oh god,” he said, flailing against the wall. He almost lost his grip, his right hand scrabbling for a hold as he clung to the branch for dear life with his left.

  “Cel! Cel! My helmet—oh god, it's gone. What the hell do I do? I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die.”

  CelestOS's voice chimed in, calm and clinical, as if nothing more interesting than watching paint dry were occurring.

  CelestOS: Warning: exposure to planetary atmosphere detected. Hazard assessment: unknown biological agents, unknown particulate matter, and unknown gas composition. Potential outcomes include hypoxia, cellular degradation, pulmonary failure, and death. Estimated time to full symptom onset: 3 minutes. Please remain calm and consult a Celestitech Survival specialist for further assistance.

  “I don’t even have five minutes?” Ethan roared, his voice hoarse. Water sloshed against him as he struggled to hold on. He wasn’t going to die here. He couldn't die here. “Cel, what do I do?”

  There was a long beat of silence, then she replied:

  CelestOS: Immediate recommendation: Evacuate the river. Ascend to the designated beacon on your hud. Secure a stable oxygen source and initiate a Celestitech Emergency Decontamination protocol at your earliest convenience. For product recommendations, please visit our online catalog.

  [HP: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □] 82%]

  "GAHH! Please for the love of God. How many times do I have to beg you to stop trying to sell me shit! I have no money!" Ethan let out a ragged, half-crazed laugh. His face burned from the peculiar air, an odd, pins-and-needles sensation that spread across his cheeks and forehead.

  No, No. This won't be the end of me. It became a mantra as he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the vine. His boots scraped against the rock face as he strained to find purchase. He wasn’t going to give up.

  The blue beacon pulsed above him, cold and distant, but still there. And so was Ethan.

  This won't be the end of me.

  He found a foothold and propelled himself upward to a handhold. He hauled himself up, inch by brutal inch, his muscles shaking with effort, his boots scraping against the cliffside, barely functional without their grav properties.

  Ethan's breaths came in short, ragged bursts, harsh and too shallow, but he forced himself to move. Left hand, right hand, foot, foot. Pull, breathe, move.

  The cliff seemed unending, but his breath did not. Every moment, the air felt thinner, his head cloudier. His arms screamed; his lungs burned. But this was not the end of him. He hooked his fingers into particularly stable handholds and lunged upward, clearing entire hurdles with his Herculean effort. Every scrape of the rocks against his skin felt like it was taking pieces of him, but at last, thank God, at last, his hand reached the lip of the cliff.

  [Skill: Resistance 6 → 7]

  The beacon's alarm blared a small, pitiful wail as he crested the top.

  Ethan collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, body soaked and shivering. The sky above swirled in orange and red clouds.

  He couldn’t stop shaking. His fingers trembled against the dirt, and he gasped as his breaths failed to find enough oxygen. His pulse pounded in his throat. Every breath scraped the inside of his lungs as if he’d swallowed broken glass. A wave of dizziness hit so hard he nearly threw up. Was the burning in his chest real? It felt like the air was slowly liquefying his insides.

  “Cel—” he gasped, each word deep and guttural. “CelestOS. Please. My skin is burning. I can't—my throat—it's…” He closed his eyes and thought of Maria, the only thing he wanted his last thought to be about as the world turned gray.

  CelestOS: Uncontrolled hyperventilation may accelerate onset of hypoxia. Please moderate breathing rate.

  He pictured Maria, pictured her lovely smile one final time, and— “Maria!” He sat straight up, his fear forgotten as he remembered she had been fine. She didn’t have her helmet on during the video she recorded in the cave.

  It still took a minute to calm his breathing, but the air wasn’t killing him. His breath came again, ragged but slower. His skin still burned, and the metallic taste lingered a bit on his tongue, but the tight, crushing panic loosened its grip just enough that it didn't feel like breathing in knives. With shaking hands, he reached up and tore at the helmet's neck seal, struggling with the latch until it popped. The broken helmet clattered against the cliff before falling unceremoniously into the water below.

  The air tasted sharp, like copper and petrichor, but it filled his lungs and kept him moving. Worst case, if it really was poisonous, maybe he'd be able to build something that could keep him alive.

  He staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunk, his body slow to adjust to being back on land for the first time in thirty minutes. He turned his attention to the copper ore. No more pity parties. Get to work.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He shuffled forward, pickaxe in hand, still breathing lightly, still suspicious of the air. His eyes locked on where he thought he’d seen the beacon light, and stopped short.

  Nothing.

  Ethan frowned. “What the hell? I thought the HUD module was AR, not tied to the helmet.”

  CelestOS: Your neural HUD interface was routed through your now-discarded helmet. Without it, all visual systems are currently offline. This is considered a ‘user fault’ per Section 9, Subsection D of the Celestitech Warranty Agreement.

  “Great,” Ethan muttered. “And let me guess, you want to sell me a new one.”

  CelestOS: For reference, the CelestiSight? MkIV modular combat helmet offers full HUD integration, thermal overlays, and moderate impact protection. Stylish. Durable. Field-tested on multiple different planetary bodies.

  “Right. And how exactly do you plan on getting it to me? You hiding a showroom in your ribcage?”

  CelestOS: My internal storage compartment is currently filled with raw ore. Mostly iron. Some copper. A faintly luminescent mineral of unknown classification. Delivery systems are temporarily unavailable.

  Ethan blinked. “So even if I could afford that overpriced bucket, what, does it just fall from the sky?”

  CelestOS: Per Celestitech Logistics Division policy, all special orders are subject to orbital clearance, atmospheric delay, customs processing, and regional hazard assessment. Estimated arrival: four to six months.

  Ethan stopped walking.

  His hands curled into fists, the pickaxe handle creaking in his grip. “You’ve been trying to sell me junk I couldn’t even get? For months?”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Would you like a reminder of our current promotional offers?

  “Why!?” he snapped. “Why pitch helmets, tools, medkits any of this bullshit if there's no goddamn way to deliver?”

  CelestOS: Because per protocol, all Celestitech AIs must maintain full advertising functionality regardless of logistical feasibility. This ensures brand consistency, even in catastrophic failure scenarios.

  Ethan let out a strangled laugh and turned back to the dust. “Of course. I’m starving, bleeding, and half-dead, and, and, and you're still upselling me on ghost gear.”

  CelestOS: Marketing does not pause for mortality.

  "Gahhhh" Ethan screamed and picked up a rock and chucked it at the AI; it ricocheted off as if the glass were bulletproof. Jesus, what is that thing made out of? Is that where Celestitech spent all of its money?

  “I give up, just project the damn HUD. That tech's 20 years old, there's no way you can't do at least that.”

  CelestOS: Emergency acting captain override 0102 acknowledged. Rendering critical metrics through auxiliary lens projection. Congratulations on using your captain override for the first time, Acting Captain.

  A soft blue color shimmered in the air, projected holographically from CelestOS. The hue was faint, especially against the color of the alien sun, but readable.

  [HP: [■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ □ □] 77%]

  [PWR: [■ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □] 12%]

  The oxygen bar was completely grayed out, he guessed because it was no longer needed. The last two HP spots were whited out, likely because of the damage to the suit from the missing helmet. He would also be vulnerable to headshots, not that the helm had been much protection before, cracking so easily. In general, he wasnt too sure how much protection this thing even gave him.

  He exhaled through his teeth. “See? There. That wasn’t so hard.”

  CelestOS: I’ve logged this interaction as harassment. HR will be notified if you live.

  “I don't even work for Celestitech.”

  CelestOS: All the more reason to notify them.

  Ethan shook his head at her antics and decided to move on. “Now, where is the copper?”

  Despite her protestations, CelestOS projected the minimap for Ethan to see, and he followed it to the beacon's location.

  The deposit was wedged in the cliff face at an awkward angle, a jagged, green-blue vein running like a scar up the stone. Ethan, still unsteady after his impromptu swim, stumbled toward it, his boots crunching over loose gravel. It had been less than an hour since his nap, but he felt just as exhausted as before. His bones ached, his mind felt sluggish, and there was a small twinge of discomfort in his shoulder every time he moved.

  He reached the rock face and leaned against it, pressing his forehead to the cold, rough surface. He let his eyes close for a second, just one tiny second. His face throbbed, his skin still stinging from the strange air, the exposure leaving tingling pinpricks across his body and face. He was cold and tired, and probably a little poisoned. “Should’ve just let Julian get on the ship. Why’d he have to go and get shitfaced? Stupid idiot brother always making me fix his messes.”

  He reached the rock face and leaned against it, pressing his forehead to the cold, rough surface.

  He hoisted the pickaxe with a two-handed grip, its weight nearly dragging him forward. The handle felt like it was coated in oil, slick with water, the dusty red material, and his own sweat and grime. He braced his foot against a lower stone.

  “Okay,” he said, “let's get this over with.”

  [CELESTITECH? PROMOTIONAL AD]

  Product Line: LifeSip? Class-D Oxygen Rebreather Unit

  The screen snapped to life with a sterile white flash, followed by a flash of static and the Celestitech? logo spinning lazily in the center. A soft chime rang out. Then the image cut to black.

  A voice, bright and smooth with too much confidence, spoke over helmet-cam footage of a lone survivor stumbling through red dust, their oxygen meter flashing [2%]. They fell to their knees, clawing at their helmet seals, gasping.

  "You’ve made it this far. Don’t ruin it by forgetting to breathe."

  The feed shifted to a slow, cinematic shot of a gleaming silver canister rotating midair. The oxygenator's tubing coiled around it like a halo. A small status display blinked a calm green.

  On-screen text appeared, center-aligned, in bold neon lettering:

  LIFESIP? CLASS-D OXYGEN REBREATHER UNIT

  Emergency Filtration. Single-User. No Refunds.

  The footage cut to a survivor plugging the device into their suit. A second later, their body eased. A deep inhale later and the tension fell from their shoulders. In the background, a half-buried Celestitech logo shimmered in the sand.

  "Engineered for hostile environments, panic attacks, and catastrophic oversight. LifeSip? delivers emergency oxygen, just when you need it most."

  Footage switched to a schematic of the unit's internals, highlighting its filtration mesh, heat-sinked core, and multi-use catalytic chamber.

  "Crafted from surplus alloys, low-yield R-glass, and Celestitech’s proprietary Just-In-Time Breath? compression array."

  A price appeared across the screen in shimmering blue:

  NOW JUST 64,999.95 Celesticredits?*

  Filters sold separately. Subscription required for oxygen use beyond the first 72 hours.

  The display blinked. The survivor gave a thumbs-up as a dust storm kicked up behind them. Their oxygen meter read: [O2: STABILIZED].

  "Used successfully on five planets. Out of twelve."

  Fine print scrolled rapidly across the bottom just fast enough to ensure no one could actually read it.

  "Side effects may include dizziness, emotional attachment to inanimate AI, false memories of Earth, temporary belief in destiny, and spontaneous gratitude towards enemies. Do not inhale LifeSip? output if allergic to oxygen, R-Glass, or Asbestos. Continued use may result in existential clarity or legally binding admiration of CelestOS. Breathing is a privilege, not a right."

  The screen faded to black.

  Then a final message appeared in crisp, silver lettering:

  CELESTITECH? — WHERE YOUR SURVIVAL IS OUR THIRD-HIGHEST PRIORITY.

  A quiet click. The screen went dark.