“Yes. The other Case Fifty-Threes hate me. Every time I pop up in the news because people know I’m dating Weld, it gets bitter and nasty. For now I want to keep my head down.”

“We keep trying to talk and getting interrupted or distracted, especially about—” I stopped, glancing at Rain.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Rain said.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” I said.

“S’alright. I might need to referee for Tristan and Byron.”

Rain half-walked, half-floated across the room, a camera periodically becoming visible at the edges where his head moved too much. Sure enough, Tristan and Byron were arguing.

“And—I really do want to spend time with you and cover all the bases, get one hundred percent caught up, and make sure there’s no stone unturned—of course, no touching any stones you want to leave alone.”

“You mentioned shopping once,” she murmured.

“I did,” I said, using my flight to make getting under the table to plug my hot roller into the wall. “I was under the impression you didn’t want to talk about any of that stuff.”

She leaned closer, nearly losing her grip as she seized a table edge so she could bend over better. “You’re an exception. You’re my friend. Tristan is pushier.”

“Got it,” I said. “We’ll do something. Get you clothes you like?”

She nodded.

“Something closer to hippie, surfer, bohemian styles?”

“I have no idea what those things are, but yes. Soon?” she sounded almost eager.

I’d been neglecting my friend, trying to juggle this everything thing. I felt bad.

“Soon. I promise.”

“Tell me what you’re doing, so I can learn some of it?”

“Absolutely,” I said. I saw a message pop up on my screen.

Advance Guard: if u want to bite that bullet for the rest of us, is ur funeral

Shortcut’s response, I was thinking it was Shortcut because I refused to believe it was anyone half-decent, was the latest in a long line of general agreement.

In the background, Tristan was in Rain’s company. Kenzie was switching up her costume colors, and Ashley was—I had to look twice. She and Kenzie had moved the camera away from the projected image of Ashley. Now the image was changing clothes and hairstyles.

The thing on the phone—had that been a game? A character customization menu, used to finalize her costume details and look for the projection?

“Your hair?” I heard Byron, incredulous. “So the real reason you’re pushing for me to wear this heavy-ass armor is because you don’t want helmet hair?”

I caught the dubious look I got from Sveta.

“We’ll get the wackiness out of the way now, talk strategy in the car.”

The look didn’t pass.

⊙