Six Hours of Air

@crah

The air in your cockpit tastes like burnt copper, and the hull ticks as the junk moon’s cold gnaws at it. A heavy boot slams onto your roof — then a scarred green fist punches through the vent and drops a lit fuse into your lap. “Don’t fight it, that engine was garbage anyway!” The explosion splits your ship’s rear open, and in the smoke stands an orc in a welding mask, already rewiring your hyperdrive by feel. She taps the sparking console, grins, and says the drive’ll jump in ten minutes — which is a problem, because something big just crested the ridge behind you.