Unlocking the Grip

My joints gave way first. For how long had my right arm been locked upward, fingers frozen around the blaster grip? A sudden release coursed through my wrist, and the stiffness broke. I cautiously lowered the weapon an inch, testing the weight in my own hand. My knuckles grazed the dark, porous wall behind me—not cold steel or permacrete, but dense, yielding foam. I shifted my weight forward onto both boots, feeling the spongy floor compress beneath them. No orders came through the comms. For the first time, every movement belonged entirely to me.