Firstclass Pov [best] Instant

I’m First Class Engineer Saito, serial number 7783-K. I’m thirty-two thousand kilometers above the Pacific, and I’m supposed to be replacing a thermal coupling on Panel J-9. But I’ve been staring at my wrench for three minutes now, watching it float in front of my visor, because I’ve run out of reasons to turn it.

But I say, “Negative, Commander. All systems go.” firstclass pov

Maybe he’s right.

I’ve done this exact repair twenty-three times. I could do it blindfolded, which is good, because the sun keeps sliding in and out of my peripheral vision like a migraine waiting to happen. The station’s rotation means I get sixty seconds of blazing light, then sixty seconds of absolute black. Like a celestial interrogation lamp. I’m First Class Engineer Saito, serial number 7783-K

But that’s the thing about first class. We’re the ones who go out first. The test pilots, the deep-space explorers, the ones who strap ourselves to bombs and call it progress. We’re supposed to be brave. Supposed to be curious. Supposed to look at the void and feel wonder, not this—hollow ache behind my sternum that I can’t quite name. But I say, “Negative, Commander

A crackle in my helmet speaker. “Saito, this is Solstice. Status report.”

There’s a rhythm to spacewalking. A liturgy. Clip in. Check tether. Turn bolt one-quarter. Wait for the click. Turn again. Count breaths. Don’t think about the fact that you’re wearing a flimsy bag of nylon and hope between your skin and the most hostile environment imaginable.