Poe grunts a noncommittal sound as he trims the thrust, sideslipping neatly into the outer edges of the debris field. This far out, it's still easy enough flying, at least by his reckoning -- enough space between tumbling bits of rock and ice and detritus to blink without risking unrecoverable reaction time. He wishes he was in his X-wing. He wishes there wasn't the looming sensor profile of two dozen TIE fighters closing the distance more quickly than anyone would be comfortable with, confident or not.

"Was thinking the same thing. For now, anyway," Poe says, after several more seconds of relative silence. The Heartline slips just beneath another spinning chunk of rock, no more than three meters between the cratered surface and reinforced hull. Immediately, Poe tilts the ship gently onto its port side, then glances over at Andor. He looks -- well, determined. Maybe just a touch paler than usual.

Poor guy.

"I suppose," Poe continues, "the real question is how long it'll take for that Captain to come to grips with the fact that it's not gonna happen. Be interesting to see what they do then."