Her hands moved before her brain caught up. She thumbed the charge indicator, watched the little bar bloom green.
"Why?" Iris asked curiously, "They're all dead now."
"For insurance."
Chronos slotted a power cell home with a satisfying chk.
"We're running behind a mecha with four helpless people."
His chin tipped toward Geron's mecha.
"Uncle Geron might be able to swing that fist to block some of the big stuff. But if some comes flying in from the side—"
He tapped the barrel of his own weapon against his shoulder.
"—then it's on us to shoot it out of the way."
He flashed a grin, tired but still sharp.
"Either way," he added, softer, "having a weapon at hand couldn't harm anyone in this kind of situation."
Iris looked at the rifle, then at the gun in her hands and let out a slow breath.
Bryan racked his own weapon beside her—a clean, unhurried k-chak—with an unbothered smile.
"Sounds like a good plan," he said.
And it really was a good, solid plan.
Well.
