Tarn squints down at First Aid when insulted, but ignores it otherwise. That same finger that was pointing now reaches down to prod him in the chest.

“I fucked him you know. That big protective Phase Sixer that you seem to have wrapped around your finger, he’s been making visits to me all along."

First Aid is right, though. Tarn is a mess. A mess barely held together by thin threads of anger and blinding inebriation.