Jet shrugs, a fractional lift and roll of one shoulder. It's not the dying that upsets him. It's the fact that the deaths of everyone else were, in his mind, wholly preventable. And yet that's not what the majority wanted, so that's not what was allowed.

He can't say he cares for that.

"Same." That raises the question, though. He glances down at his own hand, flexes the fingers into a fist and out again. Does magic course through the blood in his veins now too? "Think we all have it?"