Mike rolled out from the wreckage of the bathroom, it had become separated from the ship and miraculously, he survived. His chest heaved heavily as he gasped the heavy, thick air, he began to cough furiously.
He soon came to his senses, and managed to stand up, using a piece of pipe to support himself, he shifted through the wreckage, he was furious, he wanted blood, he was going to find and kill whatever alien creature that was unlucky enough to cross his path.
He opened a nearby locker, it contained some security gear and weapons. He grabbed a handgun, five magazines and headed back to what remained of his room, he was surprised to see that his belongings were still intact. He opened a small plain wood box, and smiled evilly.
He caressed the smooth, scalpel like edge of it, gripped it's black leather handle and twirled it before sliding it into a holder on his belt. The hatchet, his grandfather's hatchet, a weapon that belonged to his people for centuries, black carbon-fiber steel edge, titanium handle wrapped in black leather. It had tasted blood before, and by the souls of his ancestors, it would taste it again today.
Mike set off into the woods, for the longest time he had felt like an outsider, like he never belonged in the world, now, he was in a foreign, hostile forest with an enemy that wanted him dead somewhere in there.
He was home once again.