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“Is it a fish?” asks the first man, peering into the container.
“Can’t be,” says the other. “Fish can’t survive outside of water. I bet it’s a kind of huge bug. We are near the asteroids.”
Wind pulls a hand down his face. Of all the days to let Four test a shrink ray, it had to be the day he’d get separated from the group and caught in a jar by a pair of dolts. At least he’d confirmed with Four earlier that his tracker was active and that most of his tech still worked at this size. It was only a matter of time before the shrink effect wore off… but if he didn’t get out of the thick-walled jar fast enough…
“Never seen a bug look like this before,” the first guy says. He shakes the jar.
“I’m not a bug!” Wind shouts, losing his balance. He falls hard on the glass and puts his hands out to try and brace himself. He’s definitely getting some bruises here. He tries to bang against the glass with another shout. “Let me out!”
He doesn’t think any sound escapes, unfortunately. The jar lid is thick, too.
“I guess we can try using it as bait,” the second shrugs. He picks up the jar and tucks it into the bag at his shoulder. “We’re going fishing.”
“The fish’re gonna be mad you speared their young,” the first laughs.
“I thought you said it wasn’t a fish!”
Boots crunch over dirt and grass, and Wind is glad that he doesn’t get motion sick this easily. His weapons aren’t working, he confirms, and his claws won’t get through this glass in time. He can only hope that someone comes to his rescue in time, or—
Light streams into the jar again as one of the men pulls it out. The jar tips, the lid scrapes, and Wind braces himself to jump and run and potentially break a bone getting away. “Getting caught in a jar” would be a really stupid way to die.
Wind slides down the smooth side of the jar, hands spread on either side of him, fleshy palm beneath him. The jar bounces, and he catches some air (and a few more bruises.)
When he lands on the man’s hand, he makes a break for it, scrambling over skin and sleeve. But he is quite small, and slow, and the men think he’s a bug. One of their hands wraps around him, huge and warm and a little wet, disgusting.
“Let me go, I’m not a bug!” Wind shouts again, hoping to get through to them. He struggles. “Seriously!”
“It’s squeaking,” the man holding him says. “But it’s scaly.”
“Maybe it’s more like a rat,” suggests his friend. “A fishy rat.” He pulls out a shiny, pointy fishhook.
Wind’s eyes widen. He got a fishhook stuck in the webs between his fingers once. It sucked and took ages to heal. At this size, no matter where they stick it, he’s going to die.
“Impaled by a huge fishhook” is also a stupid way to die.
Wind struggles harder. He opens his mouth wide, then sinks as many rows of sharp teeth as he can into the flesh holding him.
“Ow!” The man lets go sharply, and Wind finds himself in freefall.
He screams as the ground approaches.
And then he lands on—wait, is that Twilight’s hand? Saved from an untimely death once again! Wind’s scream turns into hysterical laughter.