They thought him to be dead. He was the only "living" thing amoung the debris and wreckage. They took him back. They operated, but they didn't know a thing about aliens. He wasn't breathing and he had no signs of bloodshed, but upon his face was an expression of great sorrow and great pain: the pain of knowing that he would never make it home.

That night he woke up in an enclosed white padded room. The room was very cold; definitely below freezing. He tried to get up, but was very slow to do so because of the restraints digging into the cuts and bruises; each like the sting of a scorpian. He was lucky to be alive, lucky that he could adapt to breathe this strange new gas commonly called oxygen, and very lucky that the unique composition of his body allowed him to heal very fast.

He thought about how good he had it at home: how good and warm it felt to be in the perfect 130º weather. He thought about how dumb he was to volunteer to explore this primitave unheard of planet called Earth. He thought about his family and the 13 generations that lived under the roof of the house that he built.

His thoughts as well as his expression turned toward anger and hatred. He knew that whoever did this to him had to be back sooner or later, probably to make him up for the media. He laid back down and, for hours, plotted his revenge, until he dozed off into a deep sleep.....