The air in the ship was getting thin, that metallic, recycled taste of a dying vessel. The crew huddled in the galley, watching the shadows dance as Jax’s welding torch flared in the hold. "Ready?" Jax croaked into his comms.
He didn't have a spare synchronizer. No one carried spares for a Class-4 freighter out here. But he did have a locker full of "junk." fantastic_mechanic.rar
"The hyper-drive's synchronizer is toasted, Cap," Jax said, his voice raspy from inhaling ion fumes. "And by toasted, I mean it’s currently a very expensive paperweight." The air in the ship was getting thin,
Jax slumped against the bulkhead, his lungs burning, his prosthetic hand a melted ruin. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, realized he had no lighter, and simply held it in his mouth. He didn't have a spare synchronizer
Jax didn't answer. He was already diving back in. To anyone else, the engine was a mess of wires and gears. To Jax, it was a symphony that had gone out of tune. He closed his eyes, placing his oil-stained hands on the vibrating hull. He felt the rhythmic pulse of the auxiliary power, the stutter of the cooling fans, and the hollow silence where the drive should be humming.
"We’re drifting in the Void, Jax. If we don’t get moving, the scavengers will find us before the oxygen runs out."