Red lights blink on the handles I grasp.
Not good.
Break out of prison, steal a jetpack. Great plan.
Jetpack screaming: LOW BATTERY -- at 4000 feet?
Bad plan.
Landing is difficult, like a goose to a pond. Dive, float... MAYDAY. I mentally flap some wings.
I crash into the sand.
Red sand, sparkling in the sunlight. I'm in a desert. Rippled red sand, stretching for miles.
My captors boom overhead, two streaks through the deep blue.
Missed me.
I stand, dusting specks off myself, my hair, some off my tongue.
What does red sand taste like?
Freedom.
And 'lost'.