Locke remains close at Evie’s flank, opposite Roscoe. His rifle remains close at hand, safety on, held at parade rest, but thumb on that button, coiled and ready to spring into action. He’s alert, on a swivel, or as well as he can be, given how this journey has gone.

The localized miasma of sorrow and grief sat heavy in his lungs, challenging him to stay lucid and awake… But he’s been through the wringer before, awake for days, even literal weeks at a time while surrounded by enemies. He could hold out a little longer, especially if it’s to protect his squad and friends.

The visor of his helmet gazes emotionlessly at the throne perched individual… all high and mighty like. Left a bad taste in his mouth. Reminded him too much of those archaically governed segments of Frontier Space, holier-than-thou tyrants in charge. Underneath the visor, he’s contending with a strange mix of emotions and neurodivergent thought patterns, whether it’s the mist or the past, he couldn’t tell.

All he could do is hope the diplomatic approach works, so that they can all get out of here quick and breathe clean, free air again. Failing that, put up a hell of a fight and hope they can still complete the quest without losing their sanity…

Regardless of the circumstance, he remains quiet, standing loyally and protectively at Evie’s side, while letting her take the lead here. Far be it from him to interrupt a medic when she’s trying to get through to a potential patient…