Tedekhi’s heart rate hasn't gone below 100 beats per minute in seven days, and he would be concerned if he had any ability to focus on something other than piloting this crappy little ship he’s stolen from a deep-space port.
The engine whines incessantly and he closes his eyes against it, his ears flat against his head. The front screen is white as he moves through hyperspace, and the sensors and controls blink on and off. Tedekhi tried to repair them as best he could, but he had no supplies. He's piloting half-blind. But he's almost home, almost almost almost. Just a little longer. A few more hours.
He's so tired. He's so thirsty. The burning wounds on his thigh and stomach left by a soldier’s blaster during his escape send angry stabs of pain through his body — he has no medical supplies. He'd dabbed the wounds with sanitizer and wrapped them in strips torn from his shirt — not proper burn care, and he worries they're infected.
The display blinks off. Tedekhi whacks it until it comes back online, and then leans back in his chair and groans. His head is spinning, and spots dance in his vision — his food and water ran out two days ago. This ship is too small to store much, and it wasn't made for interstellar transport; it's a glorified taxi. There isn't even a bed. That is probably why it had been so easy to steal — that and the fact that it's falling apart.
Only a few more hours of hyperspace, Tedekhi tells himself. Just hold on until then.