Never Odd Or Even

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Never Odd or Even
We all delude ourselves into thinking we have time; it's often said that the worst thing you can do is waste it. And I couldn't have agreed more.
"Don't you think we should just end it?" she said, tapping three fingers on the rivet gun, strapped to her thigh—as if waiting for the go-ahead to pull the trigger.
I looked at her, and she at me. A thousand questions, rattling around in each of our heads. A thousand memories of time, wasted. A thousand things unsaid. A thousand times we failed to grasp what could have been.
"No," I said. My eyes were drawn to the orange casing around her tool. Along with the rivet gun, she kept an ion torch, a pair of bolt cutters, and a bandolier of spare rivets around her belt. "There has to be a way out."
"Routine salvage op, my ass," she huffed without a hint of mirth. I echoed the sentiment, staring into the cavernous expanse of the UNSC Ranger's Core room. The slipspace core thrummed with a decidedly active pulsing sound that I felt more than heard. The vacuum of the chamber may have stopped most of the sound, but I could feel it through my legs. Like a fan on max speed, rattling the casing it came in. 
The ship itself wasn't in slipspace. The UNSC Ranger was adrift. Languidly listing around a Gas Giant, in a remarkable, stable orbit. The hull was intact, power systems functional, and my salvage team clamored for first rights to everything onboard. Right down to the copper wiring behind the Titanium plates.
That was back when there still was a team.
No one realised that the Slipspace drive was still active when we came aboard. No one among our small team actually ‘’knew’’ what happened when a Slipspace drive ruptured while it was still on.
Now we had our answer. I was sure the boys at ONI would give it a formal name. I sure as hell couldn’t.
I checked my air supply. It was holding steady. Despite the fact that I hadn't changed tanks in almost two hours, the tank was still half empty. She checked hers, as well, and shook her head.
"Why do we bother?" she asked. "We know it won't change."
The slipspace drive hummed in agreement. I shot it a glance. The outer shell was cracked. A blue gas seeped from the metal housing behind the black plates. I saw flashes of blue, white, and even colours I didn't know existed, from inside. Averting my eyes, I went to rub my forehead to stave off the oncoming migraine. My hand clinked against my visor, and I sighed.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off with a frustrated exhalation. 
"Why?" She turned her head to look at me so fast I almost missed it. "Why keep going? We've done everything, and we still end up right back here, again!"
Looking away from her, I decided to ignore the flare of panic in my chest. It wouldn't do to give in to fear. That's what happened to the others, and now they were "Calm down." I wished more than ever I could massage my temples.
"Calm down?! We're stuck here, and you don't even seem to care! I don't—" I stood up suddenly, grabbing her hands and pulling her into me. Our suits weren't made for close contact like this, but she clung to me like a lifeline. She choked, and shook her head. Holding a hand up to her visor to cover her mouth, she turned around and looked back towards the other end of the room.
My eyes followed heres; roamed the two clearly-decaying figures at the other end of the room. They both bobbed up, and down, in the microgravity of the room. A strange, deathly waltz set in time to the Drive’s thrumming vibrations through the deck. The bulkier suit was easy to differentiate. A patch, corporate logo, and orange finish. It was also not the one I was looking at.
"I will not end up like them," she said, staring at me with big eyes. "I won't. I would rather die."
I said nothing. A part of me was agreeing with her. A part that grew every time we came back to this conversation. I thought on it for a while, squeezing her hand with mine. I wished we could've actually touched. 
I looked at the other salvage suit. The smaller one, meant to fit a petite frame. I gulped around the lump in my throat. The thought of the two of them madly scrambling about the ship, desperately searching for some way to break out.
I refused to become them. Even though, in some way, we already ‘’were’’
"No," I said. My eyes were drawn to the orange casing around her tool. Along with the rivet gun, she kept an ion torch, a pair of bolt cutters, and a bandolier of spare rivets around her belt. "There has to be a way out."
I looked at her, and she at me. A thousand questions, rattling around in each of our heads. A thousand memories of time, wasted. A thousand things unsaid. A thousand times we failed to grasp what could have been.
"Don't you think we should just end it?" she said, tapping three fingers on the rivet gun, strapped to her thigh—as if waiting for the go-ahead to pull the trigger.
And I couldn't have agreed more.
It's often said that the worst thing you can do is waste it; we all delude ourselves into thinking we have time.
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