Not too bad

Another dimensional shear hit. Susan came so hard her teeth cracked together, the interface flooding her synapses with synthetic dopamine as the *Stormcrow* stabilized. For three terrifying, glorious seconds, she *was* the ship—every hull breach a gasp, every engine surge a pulse of climax. Then reality snapped back with the screech of tearing metal.

Susan peeled her cheek off the console's sticky surface, tasting copper and burnt insulation. Her fingers trembled as she unclenched them from the armrests—her nails had left crescent-shaped gouges in the synth-leather. "That wasn't hyperspace," she rasped. "That was a fucking exorcism."

The mechanic's face flickered onto the viewscreen, his features arranged in what might've been apology or amusement—with Sylvaaris, it was always hard to tell. "Apologies for the... intensity of the integration process," he said, as his lips curled into a slight grin. "The neural interface is a Voraxian combat modification—once bonded, it allows pilot and ship to operate as one nervous system."