With vision blurring from the violent turbulence, you desperately reach for the emergency temporal anchor - a bulky brass device mounted just above your head. Your fingers brush against its cold surface as another jolt sends a sharp pain through your shoulder. Gritting your teeth, you grasp the anchor's handle and yank it downward with all your remaining strength.

A metallic CLUNK echoes through the cabin as three tungsten spikes shoot from the machine's underside, piercing through the fabric of time itself. The violent shaking immediately lessens, though the vortex outside still churns ominously. The anchor's display flickers to life, showing a countdown: 00:04:59...00:04:58...

You slump back into the chair, sweat dripping down your temples as you assess your situation. The control panel shows extensive damage - several important gauges are smashed, and the main navigation interface is completely dark. Only the emergency systems seem functional. Through the cracked dome, you can now see your surroundings more clearly - you're suspended in what appears to be a temporal eddy, a relatively calm pocket between eras. Glimpses of different times flash by like pages in a book being rapidly flipped.

As consciousness slips away, you notice something alarming - the leather straps securing you are frayed from the turbulence, and one has come completely undone. The last thing you feel is the temporal anchor's countdown vibrating through the floor: 00:03:12...00:03:11...