“Be sure to let them know where you’re going,” I said, after him. “They want to be able to find you as soon as they need you.”

He ignored me, walking away.

I walked over and closed the door.

“Dickbag,” Natalie said.

Why had I wanted to say that? Pettiness? To make sure he knew he wasn’t supposed to be walking away like that? To inject some civility, however backhanded, and ensure he knew we weren’t wholly bad guys?

I wasn’t sure. I looked over at Lookout, who was exchanging murmured words with Swansong. She walked over to Capricorn, who had been largely absent from the conversation.

He was staring up at the television screen. The show had started, our part wasn’t up for a bit, and he was following it with an almost unblinking stare, his jaw tense, fist clenched at one side.

“Capricorn?” I asked.

“I thought someone should watch, make sure we knew what we were going into,” Byron said, in a voice that was quieter and softer than his usual. “And if I looked away, I’d do something stupid.”

“Okay,” I said. “That makes a lot of sense.”

He looked at Lookout, who drew a step nearer, and reached out, hand on her shoulder. He pulled her close, until her helmet knocked against the armor at the side of his body, and he used one arm to hug her against the side of his body, tight.

She nodded, like she was answering a question.

The show was playing out with the narration of a true crime documentary. Laying out the facts. Kidnapped, tortured, no justice. It wasn’t Lookout’s case, but as images lined up, showing victims with faces blurred out, silhouettes identifiable as her parents appeared.

A part of me ached to check online, make sure that the sky wasn’t falling while we were tied up with this. We had too few people with far too little in the way of effective experience keeping an eye on things. Chris and Sveta were handling the organization.

That part of me didn’t have any motive force. I watched the episode, steeled myself. More words appeared on the screen. A golden flash. A silhouette.

The door opened, and Kaylar the staff guest organizer poked her head into the room.

“You’re on after the next commercial break,” she said. “Come on, hurry. Last chance to spruce up. Get your microphones.”

Microphones clipped to our belts, my own threaded up through my armor like I tended to do my earbuds, we made our way into the hallway. Swansong couldn’t wear one, so Lookout lagged behind, fiddling with her phone and periodically tapping at the projector plate. As Capricorn and Lookout caught up with me, I put a hand on Lookout’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. She put her hand over mine.