You fly the puck.

The nose screen is ugly and kind: a little fan of travel times, a number for altitude off the bottom, a trim bug that wiggles when a current shoulders you. Reed hums, off-key, the way people hum when they will not chat and will not panic.

Lamps stay on because bolts still exist. You just stop letting them vote.

A return ticks at two hundred meters, then one-eighty, a compact echo in the vent bearing. Reed glances. “That’s a candidate. We can steal Yuna’s grid from here. Or we can cut toward the pretty shimmer because we are already wet.”

Vargas: “Wet is not a plan.”

You adjust the trim one blip toward light so Minnow won’t kiss mud if you slow. Near-neutral again. The sled feels like a held breath that is willing to wait.