Not the mix of ground steel and burnt insulation you’d get from inside a crash, and not the stuff floating around the ruddy desert outside. I do the same as Hail, leaving a streak across his visor. The dust is dark and tacky, the same oily glaze you’ll find inside any machine, no matter who’s doing the flying. Grease mixed in with tiny paint-chips, metal powder, fuel vapour, and regular old filth. It folds together into a sheen that clings to anything it touches, prone to collecting on any unmoving surface.

Hail and I trade glances.

“You think—?”

She shrugs.

His strange cylindrical helmet lolls to one side, covered in the same strange muck as the rest of him. Nothing strange about that, not on its own. There are times when the company will put you on a long-haul flight, or send you out on a couple of ops back-to-back. You can spend a couple of days in the saddle, catching sleep while the machine takes care of business in between. You always come out of those trips dirty; it’s what you get from being inside a living, moving machine. What’s strange is his gloves.

You can get your fingers dirty, sure, but there’s a pattern to that. Nothing collects on gloves.

There are switches to flip and buttons that need pressing. Even when you’ve got high-sync, even when the whole shell is one big phantom limb, there are some things that need a human touch. The oldest parts of any machine, usually: hatch locks, backup instruments, pressure valves. And that’s not counting the thousand times you’ll touch your visor, subconsciously trying to wipe away the sweat on your forehead, or reaching for an itch you probably shouldn’t be trying to scratch. But his gloves are just as soot-covered as the rest of him.

I lean closer, and Hail gives me an eye. “Let me try something.”

She watches me for half a second more, but doesn’t move just yet.

I feel it too. Like I might wake him up.

I rap my knuckles on the visor. My glove leaves a mark on the glass, moves the helmet. He doesn’t stir. I make a fist and hit hard enough to rock him back in the seat.

I flinch, and Hail frowns at me. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lie. My fist feels like I’ve broken it, like there’s something loose inside.

It takes a second for me to realise why. The Juno and I hit so hard that we broke its hand and sank a Sigurd shell in the process. I’m still feeling the echoes of that moment. I switch hands and shove him back, a little more carefully this time. Something gives underneath the suit, soft and spongy.

I start, nearly fall over myself.

Hail catches him, and looks back at me. “Are you okay?”