The fucker's heavy, but Ephemera takes the weight silently, holding tight. He hates this man without knowing anything about him. The one in white armor. He killed Crow and Chica. Barrows, too. Afterwards, Ephemera had watched the security footage. Memorized the Freelancers and their armor. He hadn't drawn them, but he'd made sure to remember their fighting styles so that one day, one day, he'd be able to counter them. His old armor had been too bulky, too heavy to withstand a close quarters fight for more than thirty seconds, so he'd changed. Gotten a new suit, changed his style, adapted so he could take on Carolina and Washington and all of them.

And now he's carrying one of those murdering fucks to get medical attention. Because Washington asked.

Because Washington tried to help Chica. And for a moment - just a moment - she hadn't died alone.

He grits his teeth and doesn't say a word.