Your vision swims as you fight against the creeping darkness threatening to claim your consciousness. With trembling hands, you fumble for the emergency medical kit secured beneath the pilot's seat. The metal latch resists at first, then gives way with a painful squeal that echoes through your pounding skull.

Inside the weathered tin box, vials of various liquids clink together. Your blurred vision struggles to focus on the labels - morphine, coagulants, adrenaline. Your fingers close around a small amber vial marked 'Stim-X' with military-grade lettering. The rubber stopper makes a faint pop as you remove it, and the sharp chemical smell assaults your nostrils.

Just as you're about to administer the dose, another temporal shudder rocks the cabin. The vial nearly slips from your grasp as you're thrown sideways against the loosened restraints. Gritting your teeth, you steady your hand and press the auto-injector against your thigh. A hot wave of artificial alertness floods your system, making your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The effects are immediate - colors become painfully vivid, sounds sharpen to knife-point clarity. You can now see the full extent of the damage to your time machine. The main power conduit is sparking dangerously near the navigation console, and the smell of burning insulation fills the cramped cabin. Through the fractured dome, the temporal eddy continues its slow rotation, flashing glimpses of civilizations past and future - a Roman coliseum packed with cheering crowds, a silent cyberpunk alleyway gleaming with neon.

A new warning light catches your eye - the temporal anchor's countdown now reads 00:02:03...00:02:02... The tungsten spikes won't hold forever against the relentless pull of the time stream. You feel the stimulant humming through your veins, giving you precious minutes to act before the inevitable crash.