Ichante watches philosophically as Al and Becky drive off to their doom.

“Null persp,” she says reassuringly to Jazz and Preston. “Worse comes to worst, I’ll have my spirit pluck the compass out of Becky’s cold, dead hands and fly it back to us.”

She looks around, the psyche simultaneously making her detached and hyper-aware. She’s tempted to create some illusions to pass the time, but figures that distracting Jazz and Preston might inhibit their combat-readiness.

“Anyone want to place bets? Who’s going to piss them off first, Al or Becky? Seems like even odds to me.”