Cassandra frowned and tugged the hem of Simon’s poncho. The tattered, faded garment was patched and frayed, weathered by the relentless elements of countless planets. Scraps from what seemed like a dozen different fabrics were sown roughly across its surface, undoubtedly mending the tears and bullet holes and plasma burns inflicted in one firefight after another. She couldn’t help but imagine that each patch and stain told its own story: this blood stain marked a time he’d needed a hasty bandage, while the faded floral pattern on this next scrap was from a time where he’d had to make do with a set of curtains for fabric. There were even a few shimmering patches she recognized as Kig-Yar fabrics, evidence of a time the Chancer V was undoubtedly caught in a spot of trouble inside Covenant sp