Three
I regain consciousness two thousand feet in the air over unknown territory in an unfamiliar body: you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but that just never seems to happen. This time I'm strapped to a paraglider of a familiar Spanish brand (they claim to make it from recycled aluminum, but that’s not even a little bit true).
Time for a physics check-up: carbon-based life form with four limbs in total, all of them apparently in working order. So far so good. There's a row of gauges in front of me – most of them fake, no doubt – and I tap a select few to see what information they might reveal. Airspeed seems to be 3 on a scale of 1 to 5. Barometric pressure stands at 5.672.7 and relative friction is .3364. That last readout bothers me. Was it really that low last time? Ah, to hell with it. Can't do anything about that anyway. Instead, I scan the land below me in an attempt to identify my whereabouts. I squint at the intricate pattern of black lines against reddish-brown soil. Is that the delta of the river Wisla?
I lose altitude alarmingly fast: this I don’t learn from any of the gauges, no sir, not at all. Just common sense and the fact that I suddenly find myself being able to make out individual trees below me. How did this happen? Did an invisible raptor slash my polyester wings when I wasn't looking?
As I brace for impact, one of the gauges starts flashing red – surely the one assessing structural integrity.