The side hatch is a thick round fact in a corridor that smells like paint.

You put a hand on the wheel because wheels are for turning. The wheel does not agree. Ninety extra atmospheres sit on the other side like a mountain that learned to flow. The interlock pin is in, labeled, bored of heroes.

Vargas does not yell. “That door sees the abyss. The moon-pool lock sees our bubble. We built a mouth. Use the mouth.”

Reed, on comm from the sled: “If you could open it, you would not like what came in.”

You can still let go and be the person who used the mouth. You can still put your back into the wheel because hurry feels like care.

Hurry is not a pressure rating.

TIDE: “Side hatch commanded. Interlock engaged. Recommendation: abort.”