His voice is low, almost lost under the rotor wash. The question hangs there, simple. The memory of the ride here hangs heavier: the confined space, the jostle of turbulence, his knee bumping yours. The way his eyes kept finding yours in the dim red cabin light and then darting away.

Chris leads the way toward the rooftop access door, the rest of the BSAA squad falling in behind him. Piers doesn’t follow immediately. He’s still looking at you, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, waiting.