[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rw5qX4FnUw]S Y S T E M   S H O C K[/url][hr]Zimmy had been considering and performing increasingly acrobatic methods of beer consumption throughout the conversation with the Marshall. They were all legal, all over the Rassvet legal drinking age. The Marshall hadn't even so much as glanced at her throughout the whole conversation, which suited her just fine. More drink for her.

She'd been spinning a beer around its' center axis, catching the slow falling liquid as it oozed out, when the boom from the distance shocked her focus. The mist collapsed at her lapse, and despite her fastest efforts, a generous amount splashed down onto her shirt. "Oh, [i]motherfucker[/i]," she hissed, before searching for the cause of the disturbance. It didn't take long. [i]Damn.[/i] Vacation time had been cut short: she flipped the switch in her head to 'All Business'.

"I'm on it," she said, and leapt into the air. She was sober--mostly--so the mist came easy to her call, and she felt the usual thrill as gravity's hold on her streeeetched, then gave in. At fifteen meters in the air, she took a deep breath, and blinked toward the crash site. It wasn't very intensive, and she ended in the air above the wreck, falling at a snails pace. For good measure, she pushed the fabric of the world away from her, camouflaging with the sky. If a threat was nearby, they'd have to devote a lot of effort to finding her.

With a mental [i]zip[/i] she turned on the standard Rassvet, encrypted comms spell. "Specter here. Not seeing any signs of life from up here. A few bodies. Sensing a [i]shit ton[/i] of residual mist. Ground approach might make spellcasting dangerous. Advising caution." In a few more seconds, she'd have to blink back to a safe distance or face the risk of mistburn.