There’s an indignant cry, probably from the person I shoved, but thereporters give us space. I guide Lament through an opening in the bodies and he just… lets me. He’s tucked under my arm, kind of leaning into my chest to hide his face. I catch Vera’s eye as she hurries up behind us. She gives me a nod, then raises her hand to draw the reporters’ attention while Lament and I make our getaway.
Vera’s split-wing is closest, so that’s where we go. I stick Lament in the pilot’s seat, then swing around to the passenger side and shut us both in. It’s only when the noise cuts away that I realize how loudly the reporters were shouting, talking over each other to get in their questions. My anger is still there—at the press, their inhumanity—but I shove it down and look at Lament. He’s sitting with his hands in his lap, staring at nothing. He looks shaken. Upset.
And I hate it. I hate everything about this, seeing Lament’s confidence stripped away to reveal this… this person. Just this lost, grieving person who used to have someone to lean on in situations like this and doesn’t anymore. I think about what Lament said, how he doesn’t believe fleet members should be treated like celebrities. The way it distorts our purpose. And while I’m sure there’s some truth to that, it’s also becoming clear to me that Lament has personal reasons for staying away from the press. Which, no shit. That was a madhouse back there.
The silence expands. I’m at a bit of a loss for what happens next. Lament is obviously rattled, and I want to do something about it, but I don’t know what he needs.
So, says the memory of Master Ira’s voice,ask him.
“Hey.” I wait until he looks at me. “What can I do?”
Lament blinks. “What?”
“What do you need?”
He curls into himself, tugging first at his collar, then at his sleeves. His hands are shaking. “Nothing. I don’t—I don’t need anything.”
“You sure?” I dip my head, try to hold eye contact. “Because I can break their kneecaps. Just say the word.”
That earns me a smile, which quickly falls away. “I didn’t…” He looksso small. “I should have realized they’d be waiting. Vera usually goes first. Distracts them. Or Bast… Bast would…” His expression crumples. He drops his head into his hands, and when he lets out a single, muffled sob, I swear my heart cracks right down the middle.
Before I can let myself think about it, I reach out and grip the back of his neck, a motion of comfort, support. A week ago, I’d never have been bold enough to touch him like this. But I’m struggling with this feeling inside me, the one that knows what it’s like to feel helpless and worthless and just so fuckingsad. How you bury everything, shove it deep down, but then one stupid incident brings it all bubbling back up. I don’t know exactly what Lament needs right now, but I think maybe he can use this, because there’ve been times when I could have used it, too.
After a time (a minute? an hour?), Lament lifts his head. He doesn’t say anything as I pull my hand away. His hair has sort of fluffed up, and he pushes it back into place, not meeting my eye. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“It isn’t like me to break down for no reason.”
“Seems to me like you have a pretty good reason.”
He wipes the pads of his thumbs under his eyes, examines the wetness. “I fly fighter crafts for the Legion. I should be able to handle a few reporters.”
“I don’t think there are rules about what you should and shouldn’t be able to handle.”
He sighs. “Ihave rules.”
“So,” I say, “change them.”
His eyes find mine. And… I don’t know. He still looks so brittle, and more unsure of himself than I’ve ever seen, but there’s something else there now, too. Vulnerability, maybe. But, like, the kind of vulnerability that reveals his strength.
“I think some of those journalists still managed to take your picture,” I say.
He looks crestfallen. “Yes.”
“I’ll handle it.”
The other Sixers are still fielding the reporters. They’re standing in a tight triangle formation, Toph and Caspen towering at the back, Illiviamona and Jester on the ends, the rest of the team arranged in descending height order, with little Avi at the tip. She’s pointing at one newsman in particular, her ponytail bouncing as she growls, “—heardyouwere seen leaving the Commissioner’s house at the crack of dawn yesterday. Care to comment onthoserumors?”
As I approach the group, I spot NewsNet correspondent Rudy Rivon. He’s dressed in a navy suit, an earpiece in one ear, his hair gelled into place. He catches my eye and breaks away from the others, looking genuinely pleased to see me.
“Keller. I was hoping you’d be here.” His smile is bright white. “It’s been ages. I heard about your acceptance into the Sixth. Stars, I remember interviewing you as a new cadet at the Academy. You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”
“You could say that.” I try to keep my voice amiable, though my earlier anger is rising again, hot and bright inside me. “I wasn’t exactly expectingthis, though.” I motion around at the frenzy. “Did you all coordinate that ambush?”
“Ah.” He rubs his chin. “Sorry about that. We didn’t mean to startle your partner. This is a big story, though. There are a lot of Determinists gathering in one place, and—hate to say it, Keller—but anytime the Sixth gets involved, the story just gets bigger. You know how it is.”
I do not, in fact, know how it is.
