"Mmhmm." Poe closes his eyes briefly -- listens to the smooth hum of the ship, and promises to bring the techs back something nice for all the work they've put in on her if he makes it out of this. (It's a common enough pre-battle promise, but more often than not, he tends to make good on it.)

For a period of about thirty seconds, he doesn't say anything else, content to let the ship run with only minor twitches of course correction as he watches the numbers scroll down. Their path skims along the upper curve of the planet, a smooth insertion into the closest ring that follows the orbit of all that debris. This close, Poe's pretty sure he can make out occasional chunks of hull that mark the graves of ships that hadn't survived the trip -- those that hadn't yet been pulverized by colliding rock. He's willing to put money on the fact that somewhere groundside is a squadron of thrillseekers who get their kicks hopping the field as frequently as they can manage.

"Those TIEs riding up our tail," Poe says, seemingly unconcerned as he rolls the ship to pass beside a finger of debris roughly the length of a y-wing. "You figure they're coming to shoot us down, or try to herd us back toward that big ugly's tractor beams?"