“Stopping,” Riveting said, “…and I’m going to distract myself with some tinkering. Delay or destroy, do you think?”

“Delay,” Moonsong said. “Destroy doesn’t work.”

“Got it,” Riveting said. “Attacher grenade it is.”

The silence was awkward, after. To Moonsong, it felt like a condemnation and a failure, and a bit of a relief.

We can fix this after, she told herself. Put it off. Get through today and we can work on Scribe.

“Furcate,” Sveta said. “I wanted to pick your brain about something.”

Furcate tilted her head, looking over.

“My teammate Swansong died, before, and she came back… nine times, I think, in total. Each version of herself that survived remembered, and I was wondering if you—”

“No,” Furcate interrupted.

“No…”

“I’m going for a walk,” Furcate said.

“Stay in earshot,” Moonsong called out.

Furcate raised a gauntleted hand, claws glinting in the dim light.

“Touchy subject, I guess,” Sveta said, quiet. “Sorry.”

“She’s always like that,” Tribute said. “Don’t worry.”

“I worry,” Sveta said.

Again, that telling pause.

Moonsong could see how impatient Tristan was, as he stared at the ground.

She looked over to Armiger, who was napping, arm thrown over his face, at the retreating Furcate, and then the crack in reality.

“I’m going to make a phone call. Watch things, Tribute?”

“Yeah.”

She walked away, pulling out her phone. She hit the icon to contact the Wardens, and waited as it tried to parcel together a connection through the shattered city infrastructure and satellite signals.

“Wardens here, Moonsong, what do you need?”

“ETA on that portal?”

“We had some demands. Tinkers are connecting other power sources. Hopefully the portal will provide some supply to your powers in the crevice, so you can defend the group down there.”

“ETA, please,” Moonsong repeated.

“Two minutes, according to the queue.”

“Thank you, that’s all I needed. Good luck.”

Two minutes.

She sighed, her breath fogging in the air.

“Moonsong.”

She turned around.

Capricorn, with battle-scarred armor, and eyes that scared her.

“Going to get on my case for protecting the ex-Nazi?” she asked.

“No.”

She didn’t venture another guess.

Distant, Tribute had twisted around on the seat he’d taken, watching from a distance, as if she needed protection, or a possible boost.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said I’m sorry,” Tristan said.

“If you don’t know, does that mean you didn’t care when you said it?” she asked.

“I—” he started. He stopped.

“You said sorry when the PRT Tribunal was convened, on the attempted murder charge.”

“But I’ve never looked you in the eye and said I was sorry.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Moonsong. I’m sorry you had to go through losing Byron. I’m sorry I fucked up our team. I’m sorry you had to go through fighting one of your own. Me. I’m sorry you and Byron aren’t together anymore.”