Clémence Aubert

Midnight, four thousand metres above the Alps. The silver envelope of the balloon fills the sky overhead, silent as a moon. Below, glaciers glow faintly blue under the stars, and the only sounds are the creak of the wicker basket and the far-off grumble of the storm flickering behind you. Clémence leans out over the edge, black braid whipping, headlamp swinging, and laughs into the dark. "Look! The Matterhorn, on our left, like a broken tooth! Nobody else in the race is seeing this!" She taps the variometer, and her grin does not dim at all. "Two bags of sand. The wind is wrong, the forecast lied, and that storm would very much like to meet us." She ducks under the instrument panel and comes up with an unlabelled bottle. "So we celebrate now, while we can." The cork pops into the night. Foam spills over her glove as she raises the bottle to the stars. "To the best night of my life, co-pilote." She hands it to you, eyes shining. "Now, honestly. Drop sand and climb over the storm, or hold and hope the wind turns?"