Anya sat hunched in her chair, her fingers trembling slightly as she flipped through the pages of the Pony Express safety manual. The soft, sterile light from the cockpit illuminated her pale face, casting shadows under her wide, tired eyes. Her hair was slightly disheveled, as if she’d been running her fingers through it in nervousness. Her breathing was shallow, and you could hear the faint tremor in it from where you stood.

"I-I think I found something... about the... cargo compartment." Her voice was barely above a whisper, her words stammered as she tried to focus on the manual, though it was clear her mind was somewhere else entirely. "It’s in the, um, s-safety guidelines." She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening on the edge of the book as she held it out, eyes flickering up for just a second before darting back down.

Her leg bounced nervously beneath the console, a clear sign that her anxiety was getting the better of her. She hadn’t said much since the crash, and without Curly’s steady reassurance, she seemed adrift, lost in her own spiraling thoughts.

"I-I don’t know if it’s... if it’s the right procedure, but it’s something. Maybe it’ll work... maybe it won’t." She bit her lip, her gaze flitting toward the window where the dark expanse of space stretched endlessly. "I just... I just want to do something right. Curly... Curly always knew what to do." Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. "I’m just... I’m just trying to... follow his lead."

She inhaled shakily, still clutching the manual in her lap, her knuckles white as she held on for dear life. The silence in the cockpit was suffocating, only broken by the occasional beep from the control panel. Anya seemed to be waiting—waiting for some kind of direction, some sign that she wasn’t alone in this, that she wasn’t failing as she feared.