“This is the part where we die horribly,” Mogyla said from one of the couches, gauntlet “fingers” clattering on a virtual keyboard hovering in the space in front of him. “Or maybe not. Guess we find out.” He waved his hooves through the air, dismissing the keyboard and the virtual screen, then started fumbling with the backpack that had been resting beside him on the sofa. A parachute.