Perhaps, Mischa thought, as he flipped switches and depressurized his sarcophagus, donning a mask because the air was thinner up here, he could get through today and mourn Mags in his own way, and retreat to a place like this.

He looked at the numbers. 88.11% current stress. It was dropping. Dropping because people were dying, getting injured, or stopping to rest.

The floor rested at 64.6%.

The Isaiah opened up, the sarcophagus raising up as the upper body folded away from the lower body. The tiny cockpit that had encased him now formed a kind of platform that sat above the rest. Monitors ringed him, each showing diagnostics on different systems.

Saint was doing the same.

“How was your ventilation?” Saint asked. His face and arms were heavily tattooed with crosses, glossy with sweat.

“It’s fine. No problems since we cleared the vents. I need to patch up heating, quick-weld some armor, I want to load in a power core at one hundred percent, and transfer power between the two cores I have at thirty-something percent, get one up to sixty.”

Let’s talk shop, my brother, Mischa thought. Save the feelings for tomorrow.

“Do you need anything from me?” Saint asked.

“Victory I’s hand, to hold things. Conversation.”

“You’re not usually one to talk much,” Saint said.

“For your sake, not mine.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Saint said.

Then, a moment later, Saint punched something. Metal sang. “This fucking paint on my fucking primary camera!”

Mischa was impassive, unflinching.

“Fuck!” Saint punched the terminal again. His knuckles were bloodied. “They had to kill fucking Mags!? I promised her everything would be okay!”

“Aren’t you upset!?” Saint asked, his voice a roar. Then, at normal speaking volume, unsure, he asked, “You liked her, didn’t you?”

“I did. She was a friend and ally. Good company. A good person with a lot of talent and more heart.”

“But you’re not upset?” Saint asked, sounding offended now. Zig-zagging across the emotional spectrum.

Mischa was unsure what to say. They’d taken so many lives today, the lives of well-intentioned but misguided people, and he’d felt… anxious. It was a bad word for something that important, but he did believe in souls and he did believe that no soul could extinguish a life without being intrinsically injured.

They’d taken so many lives today.

So many.

Yet… he couldn’t tell Saint that Mags dying was a relief. A balancing of the scales.

“I’ll be upset tomorrow,” he said.

Saint nodded.

There was something calming about caring for the machines. Problems that could be identified and fixed. Other things, like the death of Mags, or the looming shadow that was Teacher… less easy. Not calming at all.

“The last cable I need for power transfer between batteries got shredded. Can I get your spare?” Mischa asked.