Abhorrent imperative. The phrase comes to mind, like the echo of a half-remembered song. The Exo's optics are fierce and bright as she thinks through Natasha's words. A war machine knows about ruthless calculations; a Guardian knows about sacrifice.

She nods, slow but decisive, and holsters the sidearm.

"Well, then," she says. "That's as good as it gets. That's what counts." Not the death she'd choose for herself. Not again. But at least she can believe it worked. Her death would have made a difference, this time.

Some of the tension goes out of her armored shoulders, and then she offers Natasha her hand. "Friends?"