It feels like falling, every time. That moment when you leap, arms wide, and your brain screams that this is wrong. Humans don't fly. You're ten thousand feet up, and in however long it'll be until you can fall that far, taking into account terminal velocity and wind resistance and all those things which school exams tell you to assume don't exist, you'll be dead.
And then the magic happens. "Spread," that little implant in the back of your neck says, and suddenly that daft-looking, awkward cape which spends most of its time getting in your way isn't so daft and awkward any more. It's doing the job it was designed for. Perfect airfoil, shaping the airflow, supporting your weight. And you're not falling any more. You're flying. Gliding, at least. Soaring. This must be what it's like to be a bird. Pure heaven. Freedom in three dimensions.
It can't last, of course. You're not up here to be free and soar. You're up here because of the enemy ship, below you now. Your job: to get inside and neutralise it. Reluctantly, you reshape the airfoil of your cape and spiral down. Land gently on the hull. There will be a way inside somewhere. You'll set charges, and then leap out just in time. The ship will fall to its doom. You? You'll glide down in a perfect spiral, land whisper-soft. Another job done.