Micah sits in silence on the bench facing the airlock as he works to untie the knot lodged in his throat. The dreaded time had finally arrived, the one that strained his anxiety every six months like nauseating clockwork--
In his mind, he could picture his bioshifter crewmate doing cartwheels (of the closest approximation to joy he was capable of) in the definitively joyless void of space merely six feet before him.
The image would be amusing if he didn't also have to be out there.
It wasn't as though he disliked space-- it was quite the opposite. Finding pockets of stunning nebulae on their travels and exchanging locations of rare cosmic events with strangers in passing were high up on reasons space-faring was the life for him. He even kept a bucket-list of once-in-a-lifetime astral phenomena he'd love to one day observe and shared it eagerly with anyone who would listen.
No, it was simply the practice of being submerged in it, hopelessly ungrounded in all orbital planes of direction, protected by nothing but a few layers of thin insulation and cheap synthetic polymers... And, of course, not helped that today specifically required the lugging of sharp, cumbersome tools across a complex mass of machinery that had no business being accessed by one so inexperienced in the field.
But four (five?) hands were better than two, even if those two were damp and graceless.
Gently stroking the helmet by his hip, he breathes out the last reserve of whatever remaining whisper could convince him to stay before launching to his feet and tightening the straps below the metal-rimmed collar of his navy suit. The quicker we get out there, the quicker it gets done, he repeats in thought while donning shock-resistant gloves. He fidgets with the worn cuff edges that barely exposed its thin microfiber lining, distantly wondering if that could be the reason amongst a thousand and one that finally does him in, like a broken seal, like a loose grip, like a hurtling meteoroid--
-- but before he devolves, Micah is shocked to attention by an impatient rapping on the airlock glass, followed by a muffled voice projected from his helmet comms, "Hey, don't have any sense of urgency while you're in there, yeah?"
"Y-yeah, sorry, I'm... I'm..." Micah stutters while making check-pats all over his suit, trailing off after realizing he's still wearing dog tags. With a frazzled motion, he yanks them over his head to shove in the holding compartment before finalizing his safety inspection with the helmet, sliding it into the collar with a satisfying click, "...coming."
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
