They're ambling along comfortably, bantering. They eventually reach their handlers, the agents standing on the street beside an armoured van and another overturned truck, conversing amongst each other with some muffled chatter over the walkie-talkies. Space and Rumor line up, rattle off their battlefield report. Backs straight like they'd once reported at the Academy, a familiar rigidity in their military-perfect composure and discipline — but with the difference that, unlike back home, as soon as it's done they relax.

Like a pair of big cats no longer on the prowl, all languid grace and coiled power but knowing that they no longer have to use it. Letting themselves come down off that bloodied adrenaline, the buzzing in their veins of another fight done and survived and excelled. This world doesn't do do-overs. They don't have Five to rewind the clock, they don't have a working Porter to undo death. It means each battle is particularly ferocious, another championing over death. They're not kids anymore — they're old enough and wise enough, they know they're not invincible — but god, it's still so easy to feel that way when they're by each others' sides. Unstoppable.

At least this one, they won.

Home? he mouths to her, an eyebrow arched.

And so. They go home.