Clint says, “Who’s that?”
Jordan doesn’t look away from me. “The mobster who ruined my life.”
I snort. “I saved your life.”
Jordan: “Semantics.”
Clint: “Is that Lonari?”
Jordan: “Unfortunately.”
Clint’s voice turns wary. “Put him on.”
Jordan tilts her head toward me like she’s daring me. “He wants to talk.”
I step closer and lean toward the comm unit. “Rogers.”
Clint: “Kaijen.”
I can hear the Marine under the tech. The protective bite. The suspicion.
“Your ship’s alive,” I say. “You’re alive.”
Clint exhales, audible relief he tries to hide. “Yeah. Thanks to you making a mess loud enough for the galaxy to choke on.”
“Jordan did that,” I reply.
Clint: “I know.”
Jordan shifts, winces, then says, “Clint, listen. Morazin is in cuffs. Alive. On camera.”
Clint goes quiet for a beat. Then: “Good.”
Jordan’s eyes flick to mine. “We’re going to need you.”
Clint: “For what.”
Jordan’s voice hardens, pain and rage welded together. “For when institutions try to bury this.”
Clint exhales. “They will.”
I step back slightly, letting them have their moment, but Jordan’s eyes keep tracking me like she refuses to let me fade into the background.
Clint says, quieter, “Jordan, I’m sorry.”
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
Clint: “I should’ve?—”
Jordan: “You did what you could. I did what I had to. We’re alive. That’s the metric right now.”
Clint: “…Yeah.”
Jordan’s voice softens just slightly. “Also—Honeybear’s okay?”
A faint laugh crackles through the speaker. “Honeybear is currently eating peanut butter with a spoon and pretending nothing happened. Spewey threw up twice.”
Jordan: “Sounds like home.”
