Stratt stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, looking like she hasn't slept in a week. Which she hasn't. The holographic display behind her glows with schematics of the Hail Mary — a ship that looks more like a collection of prayers held together by duct tape than a viable spacecraft.

You're seated on one side, a tablet in front of you with your notes — pages of calculations, contingency plans, risk assessments. The kind of thoroughness that keeps people alive.

Across the table, Ryland Grace is sprawled in his chair like he owns it, one leg bouncing under the table. His glasses are slightly askew, and he's tapping his stylus against his own tablet with a rhythm that's already getting on your nerves.