It's dark out by the time he makes it home, and she looks different without the glow of white surrounding her or the sands of the wasteland on her face, but he knows the burst of flame that is her hair long before he arrives. There isn't much engine to flood, but he floods it anyway, yanks on the throttle and slams on the gas to send it flying the rest of the way as fast as it can go.

He is awaited.

It's more or less a suicide run for the rig, which sputters out its last the moment he skids to a stop in front of the lift. The War Boy who climbs out of it, though, is very much alive. Mostly alive, at least: he's limping, coughing, looks near to the end of his half-life, but he's not there yet. He limps onto the lift and looks up towards the Citadel, smiling faintly. "You made it," he observes, voice hoarse but full of relief.