A terrible headache makes you wake up. You’re in a crash landed plane, though as you look at the mangled bodies, you realize there’s no look of terror on their face, and they all look calm. then you realize you’re the pilot.
I glanced over the torn-off top of the plane. From what I could tell, I was in a jungle-like area. I study the surroundings, and saw the plane had crashed through tall green trees. So it was the Amazon, I guessed. Huh. As night turned to day in the passing hours, I made a fire by finding some fline, an orange-like fruit, (yes, you can start a fire with an orange), and a stick.
As I sit by the fire, I wonder how the plane crashed, and how I survived.
My name? I don’t need a name, people refer to me as Jack, and I always will. Names don’t matter. Names are simply staples placed by the government, and to them, you’re just another John Doe, a drone used for control. In the year 2016, we’re all drones. In the 1970s, people dream of flying cars by 2000. Now, the future and the present look bleak.
That’s why I became a pilot. The pay was good, and training did take a few years, but I was glad to actually be helping people in such a dangerous world. The splitting headache becomes unbearable, and I black out.