the left engine stutters. it's been doing that recently. never enough to cause any serious issues—nor enough to replicate it. i'm not going to bother running through another diagnostic at this hour of my cycle. i tilt the sticks, activating maneuvering thrusters to compensate. too much. Z-axis spin.
i should fix that, but i don't—not immediately. there's plenty of vacuum between me and my destination. the bulk of my velocity is still oriented in the right direction. i'm not losing much, with this spin. i'm just a little out of control.
i slide the sticks forward, locking them into their housing and denying myself the temptation to adjust. i look to the viewport, but the blurry motion of the stars and planets and whatever else i can't quite catch is nearly enough to make me sick. i don't want to look at the navcon.
i lean back in my seat, and turn my eyes to the ceiling. i trace the plates, the seams between the metal. i know them all by heart, now. every rivet, and every groove. i know them. i know.
i can't leave the ship spinning through my night cycle. well, i shouldn't. can't is an interesting word—it's best to be careful how i use it, out in the black. i lean my hands on the joystick housing, considering. not quite yet committed.
it's what i have to do. i know i have to do it. but some part of me isn't willing to believe that yet. some part of me still thinks it will fix itself. the rotation will slow to a halt, equal met by opposite. the left engine will run its own diagnostic, and it'll work this time. i sit in that fantasy as i run my fingers over the cool metal surface of the joystick housing. i envision it. i project it on the ceiling. i cradle it in my heart. for hours. for years. for seconds.
then, i remove the sticks, level out, and head for my bunk.
