Nothing about this place has been standard. North guesses he shouldn't be surprised when he's bulled out of the way by a kid, of all things, or that the kid can even deposit all of them that quickly out of the blast range.

It's a good thing that plans going sideways aren't close to a new phenomenon, or this might be a problem.

"Gotcha covered," he drawls back to Wash, the quick clip and paradoxical relaxation of a teammate's voice over his comms and a job put in his hands, a reflex trained in bone-deep. He keeps his eyes on Esper, voice pitched low so he doesn't miss a beat in the opening volleys between her and Wash.

"So, how are you two on the offensive?" he asks, stepping back a few paces so he has a clear view of the field. If she takes a shot before Wash can work his magic, he needs to be on it as fast as he sees it, wherever it's headed, and he's ready with that trigger-finger itch to bubble the first target she picks.