“I know you’re not blind,” Rosalyn replied, fighting impatience. “Just be realistic, you want me to calm down. We’ll just go in circles unless we . . . unless we find some kind of truce.”

“Truce,” the Foxfire—Piero—tested the word, hesitating.

And he wasn’t moving. Rosalyn knew what they were waiting for. All she had to do to end this was remove her environmental suit. She had assumed they would get to this point and that another part of the plan would occur to her, but now she was drawing a blank. Either Edison or Misato performed a miracle or they were going to be stuck in a standoff for eternity. Then again, Piero could simply call her bluff and slit Edison’s throat.

She wondered if that would matter. Well, of course it mattered, but in the abstract . . . Piero looked to be held together with a prayer, yet his strength was overwhelming Edison’s. Even Foxfire couldn’t survive a severed head, she thought with a shudder.

Rosalyn slid the multi-tool into her suit pocket and sighed. Then she reached with both hands for the seal clasps on her visor. Edison and Misato made a sound in unison, one a gasp, the other a groan.

“Don’t,” Edison whispered. “Rosalyn? Don’t.”

She met Edison’s eyes, blinking once, calmly, hoping he got the message. Not much of a message, but she did at least have a brain cell or two to rub together. She fidgeted with the seals, letting the thickened pads of her gloves rub uselessly over them. Grunting, she yanked and yanked, throwing in a theatrical twist of her hips for good measure.

“Shit,” she muttered. “It’s stuck.”

“It is not,” Piero growled. “You’re stalling.”

“It is! Ugh.” This was rolling the dice, she thought, knowing she could easily slip and actually release the seal and blow it all in spectacular fashion. Misato took a few shuffling steps toward her.

“No. Do not assist her. Stay where you are.” Piero leapt to his feet, one hand still gripping Edison by the nape, but his stance was considerably less menacing.

“Christ, I should’ve had a maintenance check on this thing months ago. Procrastination is a real bitch,” Rosalyn chattered to herself, still pulling at the seal knobs, letting her fingertips slide off at the last second each time. Putting some real muscle into it, she screwed up her face, the actual, very not-pretend sweat on her face adding to the performance.

“It’s not coming free,” she whined. “Shit.”

“Enough. Mother is impatient.” Piero lunged toward her, annihilated arm swinging grotesquely as he barreled in her direction. His better arm lifted, long fingers stretched out toward her as he slammed into her, sending them both crashing to the ground. She felt the floor hit her tailbone with a crunch and she winced, crying out, pushing against the dead weight of Piero’s body as he crushed her into the tiles.