A conspiracy to start. They weren’t even explicitly supposed to be here. He had raised the subject of going after Paris again with Mr. Vaughn, and he had been given unofficial, deniable permission.

“We were scouting areas where we knew Paris might turn up. From our research, we know some of his patterns,” Tristan said, his voice still mechanical, hollow. “It was strict recon. His reconnaissance got us before ours got him.”

A conspiracy. Mr. Vaughn knew part of it was a lie, but he wouldn’t press. Reach would get in trouble with the likes of the Youth Guard if it sanctioned minors going after professional killers, as much as it wanted the credit for arrests. The rest of the team knew that part or all of it was a lie, but they didn’t want to get in trouble with Mr. Vaughn or Reach.

Both sides would want to keep this quiet for selfish reasons. Both sides would want to go to Tristan if they needed to keep the story straight, which would let him control the story.

“Byron got killed,” Furcate said.

“It was Paris that did this?”

“Later into the fight. He started hitting a lot harder. He had a trick, shooting giant nails like cannon blasts. Byron and I were in sync for a lot of the fight, and then we weren’t. I don’t know if he got disoriented, but he stayed a second too long. I can’t change.”

“Don’t you dare blame him,” Moonsong was heated.

“Calm down. It’s okay,” Coiffure shushed.

“I blame—” Tristan started. His voice quavered, and he had to steel himself. “I blame myself. I should have pushed to run.”

“You utter asshole,” Moonsong said.

“Come on, Song,” Coiffure said. “Let’s—we won’t say anything we regret.”

Moonsong shook her head.

“Capricorn,” Mr Vaughn said. He put hands on either of Tristan’s pauldrons, the elaborate ram’s head armor panels at Tristan’s shoulders. A light shake communicated the touch through the armor. “Why don’t you get in my car? We’ll talk privately there. Dr. Wall is waiting at the office, I’ve called your parents, and they’re on their way.”

“And Paris?” Steamwheel asked.

“Paris,” Mr. Vaughn said, and his voice hardened. “We’ll call the PRT. We’ll let other teams know too. He crossed a line. Intentionally?”

Tristan hesitated. Paris—Paris had been in the back of his mind as he’d made the decision. He’d known Paris would come up and the community’s way of dealing with Paris would change.

Thinking about it rationally, though—

He thought of Nate, miserable and vulnerable in the hospital room. Of Furcate getting hurt. Of the innumerable people who Paris might have interacted with in his day to day. The ‘little’ acts of hate.

“Intentional,” Tristan lied.

Mr. Vaughn nodded, his expression grim; none of the usual professional warmth was visible.