I'm Gonna Escape
1113 Words
I didn’t even want to keep counting.
This wasn’t “money” anymore.
It was like someone had moved an entire interstellar bank into my account.
I stared at the numbers, my throat dry.
Maybe… I don’t need the others.
This one would be enough.
Really. No need to compete.
I wiped my face.
Felt like I was about to drool.
The last one.
[Aeron Vale]
Identity: Tenured Professor, First Federal Academy | Grey Eagle Clan
Compatibility: 98.7%
[Assets: 785,600,000,000 Pulse; 7 private research institutes; patented technologies…]
On the screen, the five ID photos sat side by side.
I stared at them for a while—each more absurd than the last.
Some looked cold as blades. Some like they could knock a person dead with one punch.
—Not a single one looked kind and reasonable.
I glanced down at my own account again.
That endless string of zeros made my eyes ache.
Then I saw the line at the very bottom.
Red.
Bold.
[Notice: All five matched candidates have been notified. They will arrive on Planet Y926 within one standard month to confirm the partner bond.]
[Wish you a pleasant life.]
I stared at the words “pleasant life” for a full minute.
…Pleasant?
Me?
An outsider who survived by scavenging on Null Terra.
My father taught me: there’s no such thing as a free lunch. And if there is, you’ll have to pay an equal price for it.
Now somehow the “shared fiancée” of five people standing at the very top of the Federation—while casually taking half their assets.
I slowly drew in a breath, then let it out.
This wasn’t a blessing falling from the sky.
This was five planet-killer cannons dropping straight down—right onto my face.
You didn’t need a brain to figure it out.
The moment they realized who they’d been matched with, their first reaction wouldn’t be marriage—
it would be to kill me.
I looked down at that string of numbers again.
A moment ago, it had been dazzling.
Now, it felt ice-cold.
Because the other side of immense wealth is never luck—
it’s a death sentence.
I took a deep breath.
Forced myself to calm down.
In my original understanding, something like a partner should be like my parents—one person for life. Not… this.
I raised my hand and tapped the interface, trying to see if I could reject this so-called “match.”
But—
[Warning! Genetic matching is protected under the Federal Constitution. Unilateral refusal is considered a violation.]
[Maximum penalty: exile to a barren star system, lifelong forced labor.]
My hand froze midair.
Fine.
I’ll try another way.
I looked down at my account—that string of numbers that had nearly made me drop to my knees—and tried to move some of it.
If I could actually use this money, I could disappear somewhere no one would ever find me.
[Friendly Reminder: This account is under temporary supervision by the central intelligence “Aegis Prime.”]
[Any fund transfer will immediately send your precise coordinates to all five matched candidates.]
[Supervision period: 30 days.]
I slowly pulled my hand back.
Stayed silent for two seconds.
Then muttered under my breath—
“…F U C K!”
What kind of setup is this?
The money’s in my name—I can see it—but the moment I touch it, I broadcast my location?
And those five people—
They’ll all come looking for me within a month?
I stared at the interface, suddenly wanting to laugh.
But I couldn’t.
This isn’t money—it’s five tracking beacons strapped to my head, with five people who might kill me attached.
I snapped the screen off.
That’s enough. One more look and my heart might give out.
“Pulse is valuable. Freedom is priceless.”
I clenched my fists, muttering to myself.
“But when it comes to staying alive—”
I paused.
“I can give up all of it.”
I stood there, staring at the broken, ragged street ahead.
My mind started racing.
Five people, that’s all. Nothing to panic about.
I took a deep breath.
“I need money. A lot of money. And it has to be—untraceable.”
My thoughts began to sharpen.
Then I need a ship. Get off this planet. As far as possible.
I couldn’t help letting out a sigh.
I used to think buying a neural terminal would help me slowly find a way out of Null Terra.
Now?
It’s not about wanting to leave.
It’s about having to.
I glanced down at the terminal on my wrist.
Kind of ironic.
What started as a survival story was just upgraded—straight into escape mode.
With that massive pile of Pulse sitting in my account, I felt less like someone rich—and more like a beggar clutching a golden bowl.
It was absurd.
I gritted my teeth and gave myself a voiceover:
“Interstellar escape deluxe package—activate!”
Then, full of forced determination, I opened the terminal and started checking tickets.
Run. I had to run. Immediately.
The screen flickered, and route options flooded in:
[Y926 → Mira Mining Planet | Economy | from 12,000 Pulse]
[Y926 → Outer Rim Transit Hub | Economy | from 15,500 Pulse]
[Y926 → Hail Agricultural Planet | Economy | from 18,000 Pulse]
I stared at the cheapest one.
12,000.
Three seconds of silence.
Then I quietly closed it.
I took a deep breath and switched tactics.
A place like Null Terra—what it never lacks is gray-market deals.
Back when I was scavenging, I’d heard plenty of scraps of information.
I shut off the terminal, turned, and headed toward the more remote part of the settlement. After winding through countless turns, I finally stopped.
In front of me stood a rundown building with no signboard.
At the entrance, someone had crudely painted a crooked spaceship with cheap paint.
—Old Robert’s ticket point.
I pushed the door open. The smell of smoke hit me instantly. The room was dim.
A scruffy middle-aged man sprawled in a chair, hair like a bird’s nest, half a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
He was staring at a screen, playing some game—explosions and gunfire blaring—completely ignoring me.
I knocked on the metal plate by the door.
“Old Robert?”
He didn’t even look up, just muttered:
“Yeah. Where to?”
I stood at the doorway and got straight to the point:
“Anywhere. Cheapest you’ve got. And I need it fast.”
- Writer
