This ain't Yoda

It hangs over me in the dark. What little light filters through the tear in my hull suggests muscle wrapped in glistening black skin. A peristaltic wave is rippling under that skin and I am fighting the urge to vomit.

Is it breathing?

Am I breathing?

I remember the angry red of atmospheric reentry, altitude klaxons wailing, a flash of swamp on the view screen. After that, there was nothing. Nothing untill this.

Water, warm as a bath and stinking of sulphur is everywhere, but I’m not afraid of drowning because that thing is unfolding itself. I have other problems.