Stranded on a Tiny Planet

Pixie

Meanwhile...

Merco sat in silence for several minutes, trying to absorb what he'd just seen. Tiny sentient beings...tiny flying sentient beings. Never could he have conceived such a thing. He glanced around and it dawned on him that this whole world was small. What he thought were saplings and tall scrub were full grown trees to the inhabitants. Funny how he'd never thought of it before seeing the tiny aliens. He'd encountered other alien species that were smaller than humans, but even they hit the three-foot mark. A being only a few inches tall was something he'd never heard of nor seen before in his life.

Merco frowned. It unsettled him how frightened they acted when they saw him. How could he blame them? If they'd never seen anyone like him, how enormous must he appear? Surely, they weren't the only ones? No. No there probably were other little aliens. Perhaps even watching him right now?

He glanced around suspiciously but didn't see nor hear anyone...except for the growl of his stomach. Merco, banished his thoughts in favor of hunger, and resumed the task of cleaning and prepping his fish for cooking. First, he washed his catch and then skewered it with the spear. Then he set to work gathering dead twigs...

or rather...trees?

He gathered the wood to make a carefully stacked pile. Then he peeled his prosthetic glove off of his mechanical arm. Though the doctors frowned upon him modifying the prosthetic, he'd made a few useful alterations. One alteration being a cigarette lighter. Though he'd managed to tame the habit years after the war at the behest of his family, the cravings still nagged at him; especially under stress.

Boy, was he longing for a smoke now.

Unfortunately for him there wasn't a pack for light years but fortunately, his old habit had yielded a beneficial tool implanted in his thumb. Merco bent back the top thumb digit, revealing the striker. With a curt snap of his fingers it lit itself. He smirked and held it to his kindling. In no time he had a smoky fire going. Then he proceeded to hover his fish on a stick over the fire for the roasting process.

As the fish began to brown, his thoughts wandered back to the tiny aliens he'd encountered. He had so many questions. What planet was this? Did they have ships that could travel in space and if so, could they transport him out of here? Or if not, did they possess a communications network that could reach out to other planets? Could he communicate with them? Would they even want to communicate with him?

For what felt like an eternity, the fish cooked. Merco finally couldn't wait anymore and decided it had cooked long enough. He touched the browned flesh and it flaked like a fish should when cooked properly. He dug out a chunk greedily but hissed as the hot meat burned his fingertips. Merco fumbled with a tiny piece, blowing frantically to cool it before popping it in his mouth. No seasoning. Bland flavor. Kind of dry. But at the moment it was a five-star meal.

"Please don't be toxic. Please don't kill me." He thought repetitively as he greedily devoured the fish meat.

As he ate, he'd pause, almost waiting for nausea or some other sickness to bash him in the guts. But much to his relief, his stomach readily accepted the fish without any backlash. However, he was still not out of danger. There might be unforeseen consequences to this alien water and food. The pounding in his head was definitely concerning and it didn't seem to abate.

Was he going to survive this, or would this planet be his final resting place?

With his stomach beginning to fill, Merco was feeling somewhat better, save for the pulse of his head wound. In his urgency to feed himself, he had neglected to put his clothes back on, so he began to redress himself. When he picked up his shirt and pushed his head through the neck hole, the shimmering teal rock he'd found fell out of his pocket and plopped into the shallows of the lake.