The arrays unlatch into a spin they were not invited to. One wing takes a slap of leftover rate. A caution flag: array drive stall. They cannot track a Sun they cannot hold still.

“You put sails on a washing machine,” Jax says, not unkind, just accurate.

Power ticks up a pathetic trickle when a panel happens to slice sunlight, then dies again. The wings add a little extra wobble, like backpacks on a merry-go-round.

Mira’s mouth is a line. “We can still detumble with sun sensors and fold this mistake into the plan. Or we can decide the day is already a scribble and burn.”

KILO remains mostly mute if you never woke KILO; the array motors ran on a local circuit like a stubborn night-light. The sun-sensor tile is still dark, waiting for a brain to read it.

You watch a gold blanket catch a flash of real Sun and lose it. The flash was pretty. Pretty is not charge-positive.