"You're full of shit," he says, slowly enough for her to understand. "Respectfully. Boss."

As if Carolina's one to talk about being falsely fine when it looks like she fell face-first into someone's closed fist. He stands, then, shuffling around the camp to crouch in front of her and squint at her face, two fingers under her chin, guiding her head toward the flickering firelight. She doesn't look as bad, up close, some bruising, a little blood. If Maine didn't heartily enjoy watching Carolina kick people's asses, he'd feel sorry for the poor bastard who picked a fight with her. Of all people. Christ. That guy's week is probably ruined.

He sits back once he's examined her face, folding his arms loosely across his knees. It was only hours ago that Maine saw Carolina last, still on the Mother of Invention, but it's nice to have a familiar face around, an anchor in the chaos.

"Seen any tech?" he asks.