Rude relinquishes the grog without a fight and when her arm is free, she slings it loosely around her partner's shoulders. Maybe it would have been harder if Red had been in the pile, she's not going to think on that too hard. She's content to be grateful someone has her back, someone who wasn't going to shrink back from the idea of showing these damn phantoms exactly what they think of their bullshit.

It's a noisy sort of defiance, a lot of sound and fury to cover up the fact that it still hits home no matter how cold-hearted and level-headed they are. They can pretend they don't humor the monarch's insolent nonsense, but that doesn't change the fact they've got a funeral pyre burning for the brothers and sisters beyond their reach, who might end up just like this while the Queen has the two of them running circles. There's no crying for the lost, Turk protocol.

Rude watches the flames licking after the shapes of her boss and her comrades, but there's nothing really there to catch light, and soon there's only smoke and ashes. The ghosts may come back, they probably will considering what she's been watching on the vine, but they'll meet the same fate all night long. She and Reno may be covered in blood and mold from hefting their carcasses into the blaze over and over again, but that's where they belong and that's where she'll see them stay.

"Now it's a party," an idle murmur.