Imagine: one day you're innocently jetting around, doing space chores, when suddenly a nefarious commissar blasts a hole in your space cone, with Salyut 3 or possibly some kind of curvaceous stabbing implement. The air's leaking out! You're doomed!
Not so. For those brilliant engineers at General Electric have foreseen this very situation. You have the Man Out Of Space Easiest Manned Orbital Operations Safety Equipment (MOOSE) and everything's going to be okay.
First, you eject, fracturing your spine in the process. Now you don't need to worry about the hole in your spacecraft, since you're floating around with nothing between you and the void but half a centimeter of nylon.
Step two, you-
Wait. Lemme make sure I've got this right. Okay.
Step two is you, uh-
No, okay, let me just verify this. Uh huh. Right. Jesus.
Step two is you climb into a fucking plastic bag.
The bag's made of BoPET, used in fire shelters and Pop-Tart™ wrappers, so you know you're quite safe from the wiles of the utter lack of substance that your body is just millimeters away from diffusing into.
Third you take your rocket pack, which I guess you grabbed from the ejection seat or something, and manually line up and fire it so as to fall back to Mother Earth in a direction more suitable than straight down. Honestly, if it wasn't for the bag stealing the show I'd be freaked out by this part. Like, it's a handheld rocket engine? With a scope? People have, to be fair, actually lined up burns manually in real life (the Apollo 13 crew famously did so), but to be less fair, all of them were probably less stressed out than you, who is after all alone and being shot at and shooting yourself.
The bag fills up with foam, and that and a heat shield and the Pop-Tart™ wrapper protect you from the wall of fire between you and safety during what is presumably the most terrifying half hour of free fall ever experienced by anyone - and let me tell you, people who have fallen from space have pretty high standards for terror.
Finally, you land in the Pacific, where you bob around for a few days before some sharks, mistaking you for mediocre toaster strudel, chow down.
