Sol Penitentiary – Gordon’s Escape

Slow Minimalist annunciation, Slow dramatic, slow annunciated, slow controlled narration, Slow Cinematic Podcast Production, female, melancholic, cinematic raspy voice, slow

[Slow Distinct Narration]

The cell was a coffin, narrow enough that Gordon could stretch his arms and brush both walls with his fingertips. Sweat clung to the metal, the recycled air thick with the scent of bodies long since broken down into parts, sold off, or discarded. Gravity was inconsistent—sometimes it forgot itself, and Gordon would wake up pressed against the ceiling, heart pounding from the sudden shift.

He floated now, upside down, knuckles split from the twenty-three punches he’d thrown into the steel wall. His lips moved, shaping the words he knew best.

“Stolen property.”
“Dangerous.”
“Miscreant.”
“Dad.”

The door hissed open. He didn’t stop counting.

Matteus stepped inside, sharp boots clicking against the floor as artificial gravity reasserted itself.

“Hello, Gordon.”

Gordon didn’t acknowledge him. Just let his fists keep finding steel, blood slipping from his knuckles in weightless drops, drifting between them like dying stars.

Matteus watched, noting things. Always noting things. “Enhanced reflexes. Myostatin inhibition grade twenty-seven now? Impressive.”

Gordon’s breath came slow, steady. His eyes flicked to the corner of the cell—the shiv he’d left there, half-concealed behind a loose plate in the wall. Matteus’ gaze followed. A test. Everything was a test.

A pulse of adrenaline hit his system. The door had barely sealed before Gordon moved, a blur of motion. His legs snapped around a guard’s throat. A twist. A crack. The body jerked once, then went slack.

Another guard fired. The bullet sliced past his ear, close enough that he felt its heat.

Matteus didn’t flinch. “Do not let him escape.”

Gordon was already gone, slipping through the corridor like water through fingers, bare feet silent against the floor. The vents loomed above, a tight crawl space, but he shoved himself inside anyway, ribs scraping metal. He forced himself forward, lungs burning, every breath too loud.

Then—light ahead. An airlock.

Matteus’ voice crackled over the comms. “Flush the vents.”

The air screamed out of the station. The force ripped Gordon forward, and then there was nothing—just the void swallowing him whole. No sound. No air. Just the endless black and the gnawing cold that clawed at his skin.

His body spun, aimless. Then—impact.

A ship. He slammed into the windshield, fingers scrabbling for purchase. He was weightless, frozen breath suspended in his lungs, barely able to make out the figures behind the glass.

Inside, someone tilted their head.

Nebula1 – A Coin Flip

Jim stared at the body plastered to the windshield.

“Uh…” he drawled. “Should we let him in, or should I scrape him off?”

Ves flipped a coin. A sliver of metal spun in the low gravity, caught the light, landed in her palm. She covered it with her other hand, peeked, smirked.

“Yes.”

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[Slow Distinct Narration] Sol Penitentiary – Gordon’s Escape The cell was a coffin, narrow enough that Gordon could stretch his arms and brush both walls with his fingertips. Sweat clung to the metal, the recycled air thick with the scent of bodies long since broken down into parts, sold off, or discarded. Gravity was inconsistent—sometimes it forgot itself, and Gordon would wake up pressed against the ceiling, heart pounding from the sudden shift. He floated now, upside down, knuckles split from the twenty-three punches he’d thrown into the steel wall. His lips moved, shaping the words he knew best. “Stolen property.” “Dangerous.” “Miscreant.” “Dad.” The door hissed open. He didn’t stop counting. Matteus stepped inside, sharp boots clicking against the floor as artificial gravity reasserted itself. “Hello, Gordon.” Gordon didn’t acknowledge him. Just let his fists keep finding steel, blood slipping from his knuckles in weightless drops, drifting between them like dying stars. Matteus watched, noting things. Always noting things. “Enhanced reflexes. Myostatin inhibition grade twenty-seven now? Impressive.” Gordon’s breath came slow, steady. His eyes flicked to the corner of the cell—the shiv he’d left there, half-concealed behind a loose plate in the wall. Matteus’ gaze followed. A test. Everything was a test. A pulse of adrenaline hit his system. The door had barely sealed before Gordon moved, a blur of motion. His legs snapped around a guard’s throat. A twist. A crack. The body jerked once, then went slack. Another guard fired. The bullet sliced past his ear, close enough that he felt its heat. Matteus didn’t flinch. “Do not let him escape.” Gordon was already gone, slipping through the corridor like water through fingers, bare feet silent against the floor. The vents loomed above, a tight crawl space, but he shoved himself inside anyway, ribs scraping metal. He forced himself forward, lungs burning, every breath too loud. Then—light ahead. An airlock. Matteus’ voice crackled over the comms. “Flush the vents.” The air screamed out of the station. The force ripped Gordon forward, and then there was nothing—just the void swallowing him whole. No sound. No air. Just the endless black and the gnawing cold that clawed at his skin. His body spun, aimless. Then—impact. A ship. He slammed into the windshield, fingers scrabbling for purchase. He was weightless, frozen breath suspended in his lungs, barely able to make out the figures behind the glass. Inside, someone tilted their head. Nebula1 – A Coin Flip Jim stared at the body plastered to the windshield. “Uh…” he drawled. “Should we let him in, or should I scrape him off?” Ves flipped a coin. A sliver of metal spun in the low gravity, caught the light, landed in her palm. She covered it with her other hand, peeked, smirked. “Yes.”

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