There was a special sensation you got when a landing was royally fucked. This was that sensation. He could feel it, like it was mould creeping across the ship. Or, well, a gust of wind, because the temperature had just dropped by about fifteen degrees. Hard landing, brace for impact. No problem. Squeezing his gun between his knees, he kept his head down and his hands over his head. He looked like a pussy, sure, but he'd rather look like a pussy and be [i]alive[/i] than not look like a little bitch and have his neck bent fourteen different ways, that was for sure.