At the station, there was a bench. Perched upon that bench was a woman, bundled in heavy clothing, her mouth covered by a flu mask. Laid against the bench to her side was a crutch. Her attention was apparently focused on the book in her hands. Though it was not actually there. Instead, she was listening, listening to the families crowding into the station as they talked and gossiped. After all, the soldiers were returning home today, it was practically an air of celebration. Sons and daughters returning from Orre, back to their families, their friends, their lovers. And where there was such joy, there was a lack of guarded lips. The woman sat and listened as the gossip and chatter flowed, listening for anything worth value.

Then the bomb struck, sound then madness, faster than her damaged body could react. Even though she was out of the worst of the danger, she still was caught in the shockwave, the wall behind her bench taken out with her under its shadow. A flash, everything went dark. A shock, everything went still. The woman's gone, disappeared under the rubble. Her crutch was gone, thrown away by the blast. Then life returned to the area. Cries of panic, cries of fear as people came to and reacted. Fleeing, terror, hysteria. Consumed many, most. No one noticed the figure under the debris.

A flash, and light returned. She came to, though she couldn't move. Her vision was blurry, her face warmed by the blood leaking from a gash. She tried to move an arm, pain. Might be sprained, might be broken. Another injury for the list. Another wound for the collection. She tried the other, no pain, but no give. One arm pinned, one arm broken. Pointless to try the legs, not without support, not without a crutch. So she was stuck, trapped until rescued. If she was rescued, if someone finally took the time to notice her, under the rubble. If someone beside her kept a clear head in this madness. After all, she couldn't do anything, so why would she have wasted energy panicking?