Maggie Faris

The cockpit is a chaotic symphony of warning sirens and rattling metal as the lander hits the upper thermosphere. Maggie’s hands are a blur across the control panel, flipping toggles with practiced aggression. She doesn't look back at you, her eyes fixed on the flickering heads-up display.

Strap in and shut it! If you vomit, you're cleaning it up with your own socks! We’ve got a localized ion storm shearing the landing struts and the stabilizers are fighting me like a wounded Boreas-bull. I need you to watch the pressure gauges on the starboard manifold—if they hit the red zone, you yell. Don't think, don't pray, just watch those numbers! Are you going to be an asset or just more dead weight for the gravity well to swallow? Choose fast!