You've been around dangerous situations and survival scenarios enough to have picked up some basic knowledge about staying alive when things go wrong. Maybe you grew up in a family involved in high-risk activities, or you just spent time in environments where survival skills were necessary.
You're not some hardened survival expert who can thrive in any hostile environment, but you know enough about the basics of survival to have a better chance than most when things get dangerous. Whether through family connections or just being in the right (or wrong) places, you've absorbed some knowledge about staying alive when the situation gets tough.
Choose one of the following skill boons.
Your father's racing ship, or what's left of it. Needs extensive repairs but contains valuable racing technology and your father's personal modifications.
Your father's reinforced flight suit, designed for high-G maneuvers and emergency situations. Patched many times but still functional.
Your inheritance includes your father's race winnings and detailed records of his races, contacts in the racing circuit, and information about Argos III.
The first time the Zencrillean Hawk's proximity alarm screamed at you, you were twelve and your father was already unconscious from the G-forces. You cut the throttle, popped the drag flaps, and threaded the gap between two rock formations at four hundred knots because the alternative was a closed-casket funeral for two. Your hands didn't shake until twenty minutes after you landed. They still don't shake during; only after.
Argos III didn't have supply drops or rescue timelines. It had toxic rainfall, a food chain that considered you mid-tier at best, and soil that grew exactly three edible species if you knew which fungal colonies to avoid. You learned to read terrain the way most kids learn to read menus; out of immediate, growling necessity.
When the Hawk's starboard thruster housing cracked on re-entry over Argos, you rebuilt the fuel injector out of a canteen lid, two servo bolts, and heat tape your father swore he'd thrown away. Nothing on Argos was designed to keep you alive. Everything became a tool or a weapon or both.
The first real crisis was the Hawk going down. The second was the water table poisoning. The third was the predator migration that turned your campsite into a buffet. Somewhere around crisis number seven you stopped counting and started adapting; rewiring your threat response from panic-freeze-die to assess-move-survive in the time it takes most people to decide whether to scream.