Furcate bodily collided with Tristan. Their arms wrapped around him in a hug. Again, as it had with Figurehead’s half-hug of support, the armor prevented Tristan from feeling the body contact.

Furcate moved their mask, pulling it so it sat sideways. The side of their head pressed against Tristan’s.

“I’m so sorry,” Furcate whispered.

The words shook him. Everything seemed to.

“Me too,” he murmured the words. They were honest ones.

He would have to explain to everyone. He would need… explanations. Expressions. Tones of voice. He couldn’t act. Acting could be seen through. He knew that.

It required something else. Tapping into real feelings and letting them show, as he had before.

Baring his soul, when he wasn’t sure he could bear to.

He was lost in thought, and he didn’t even realize that Furcate was stroking his head until they stopped. Cars were pulling up, navigating the potholes and other damage from Paris’s bombardment.

Mr. Vaughn had a driver, which he normally reserved for events and for emergencies. It let him get in the car immediately, getting ready in the back while the driver focused on the road. A touch of makeup, a change into nicer clothes, and preliminary phone calls.

Oh, this probably counted as an emergency.

Tristan accepted a hand in getting to his feet. He had the support of most of the team, Moonsong excepted, but Coiffure was looking after her, and she needed looking after.

He’d never, even after his trigger event, ever felt any emotion quite so terrible as what twisted in his midsection.

“Do you want me to handle it?” Figurehead asked.

Tristan shook his head. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Tristan said. The words felt overly mechanical in his mouth, at odds with what he was feeling inside. He had to insist, because he couldn’t imagine coming to terms with any crisis by letting others handle it.

Head on.

He had to take on the issue starting with the man at the top. If he could sway Mr. Vaughn, then others would follow.

The issue was with swaying Mr. Vaughn. The guy wasn’t stupid.

“Something happened to Byron?” Mr. Vaughn asked. “Are you okay, Tristan?”

“I’m not hurt,” Tristan reported.

“You didn’t tell him?” Figurehead asked. The question disoriented Tristan, until he realized it was aimed at Tribute.

“Tribute explained it,” Mr. Vaughn said. “I wanted to hear it from you all.”

He looked so grave, so serious.

Which wasn’t to say Tristan wasn’t also. He’d always related to Mr. Vaughn; Tristan had even imagined that if Byron hadn’t fucking strangled him and if they hadn’t gotten powers, he might have ended up in a similar position, doing similar work.

“Sir,” Tristan started.

“No need for anything fancy, Capricorn,” Mr. Vaughn said. “Tell me what happened, if you can.”