“Coif and Figurehead,” she said, her voice overlapping with his as he said, “Figurehead and Coif.”

“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Missing them.”

“Let’s do them proud. Come on.”

She walked. Tribute walked alongside. The group was gathered at a ledge, overlooking the hole in reality.

Before they were in earshot, Moonsong told Tribute, “I’m probably going to kick myself for saying this if I end up doing something regrettable, but I’m glad it’s them.”

“Cap and Furcate?”

“Tristan and Furcate, yeah. Not my favorite people, but… I think that’s why it’s important. I don’t feel like a proper leader right now. It’s why I turned down the official leadership and I’m just in charge when we’re on the battlefield. I feel like I have to get past this.”

“I don’t think it’s a mark against you if you say Furcate is offputting in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on there. Being distant, does the ‘walk my own path’ thing, not so into teamwork, that rubbed everyone the wrong way, as nice as some tried to be. And it’s definitely not a mark against you if you’re not okay with a guy trying to murder his brother, after months of acting like he shits rainbows and knows what’s best for the team.”

“His battle sense is solid, he knew P.R., he knows how to market himself and how to make others look good. It’s part of why he got away with what he did for as long as he did.”

“Moon,” Tribute said, putting a hand on her shoulder. They stopped walking, still out of earshot. “You don’t have to pretend their weirdness or the fratricide thing are your hurdle to get over. It’s not about you, it’s about them, it’s not crossing a line to say that.”

She was in the midst of formulating a response when she saw Capricorn amble over. When he had been on Reach, his armor had been painted properly, with a wash of darker red to get in the crevices and make the decorative elements of his armor pop, the highlights painted in red. Now, it looked like he’d given up the effort of keeping the paint intact, and had stripped most of the color off. Pressure washer or sandblaster. The color he’d applied was more universal, paler, a red tint instead of a coating, and he hadn’t had the benefit of a team of people that could buff out the scrapes, scuffs, and gouges, which stood out in unpainted steel or, especially toward his feet, had accumulated dirt and grime, turning into dark slashes and pockmarks.

“What’s the word?” Capricorn asked.

She’d asked for Tribute’s help before, because she didn’t trust herself to keep from being a petty bitch, using anything to hurt him. She didn’t feel safe doing that here.

Here, using all of her recent practice, she put the feelings aside.

Stay professional, stay calm.