[color=D6FFFF][b]Swathe Street Commons[/b][/color]
[color=D6FFFF][b]Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl[/b][/color]
[color=D6FFFF][b]April 1, 2065[/b][/color]

The staff radio network came alive with activity all at once, catching Howland’s attention as he changed back into his own outfit and fixed his hair color and style back to normal. An urgent call for medical assistance. The reporter would have to wait, it seemed. That wasn’t a problem - indeed, the bomb going off while Howland was rendering first aid would actually be more convenient. Medical emergencies always drew curious onlookers, for some reason, which meant lots of witnesses to affirm he was elsewhere. Good.

Even better, that call explained the cameras, too. That suggested coincidence after all. And if it wasn’t, he had an innocuous reason to scope out who it was. Even better. He keyed his radio. [color=C0C0C0]”This is Dr. Howland. I’m on my way. Have the subject sit down!”[/color] At that, he dashed off, first-aid bag in hand.

Running wasn’t strictly necessary. The refreshments area couldn’t be more than two minutes away. But anyone heeding the also-unnecessary speaker broadcast asking them to leave would be moving in the opposite direction. People wouldn’t move aside for someone walking in the opposite direction - but someone [i]running[/i] in the opposite direction naturally had the right of way. 

He took a deep breath as he began to move into the crowd. Speaking from the diaphragm, he projected his voice authoritatively. Screaming just made people panic - a commanding tone induced compliance more rapidly in a confused event like a crowd. [color=C0C0C0]”[b]Make way![/b] Medical emergency!”[/color]

He made his way into the refreshments stand, where an armed event security contractor was standing. Samsara Washington, one of the candidates, was there too, to Howland’s surprise. And on the floor, a messy woman with garishly-dyed hair was curled around the candidate’s leg, in obvious distress. [color=C0C0C0]“I’m a doctor. Let me see our patient.”[/color]

He quickly assessed the situation, scanning the room and thinking over the other two standing there. He didn’t need some corrupt politician  worrying about his image right now, so he turned to the security contractor. She might even have basic first-aid training. [color=C0C0C0]“I’ll need your assistance, miss.”[/color] Howland kept his tone calm, and his words short, direct, and to-the-point. Now wasn’t the time to be vague or verbose. He looked down at the garish woman, already reaching to take her wrist to check for a pulse. [color=C0C0C0]”And you, ma’am, are you alright?”[/color] He didn’t really stop to listen to the answer - if she answered at all, it would confirm her airway and breathing were clear.
[hr]


[color=lightgray]”Come, dear Theresa. We should leave her to the authorities,”[/color] Ms. Ramana was saying. Theresa nodded, following her new employer outside. Theresa caught the implied rebuke - it didn’t look good to have an assistant order their boss around. Stupid. Surely she’d forgive a few minor slips on her first hour of the job, though…?

[color=00BB77]”Yes, ma’am!”[/color] Theresa replied, as though it had been Ms. Ramana’s idea. The acknowledgement came quick with two years of SFROTC having drilled the instinct into her. Someone was shouting on the other side of the crowd - wait, was that her dad? It sure sounded like it.

As they made their way through the din of activity outside, Ms. Ramana flipped the glass in the air, scrambling to catch it. An odd thought suddenly occurred to her. Was Ms. Ramana intoxicated?

Theresa blinked, distracted. No way - this woman was a professional, this wasn’t a social event for her, this was her at work. And no way could she have handled that drunk lady so cooly and professionally if she weren’t sober! But...the more Theresa thought about it, the more it started to explain a few things. Ms. Ramana seemed flushed, distracted, and she barely caught that glass. And she took the bottle of vodka Theresa now held in her arms from the bar - that meant it was hers, so she brought her own. A woman of discerning tastes, to be sure, and that meant she’d intended to drink at the bar, maybe with work contacts. But the bottle was unopened, so she must’ve been served at the bar-

Remembering her daiquiri, things clicked into place. The bartender had poured a much stronger drink than Theresa had expected, so maybe he over-poured Ms. Ramana’s drink, too. That wasn’t good - she might have underestimated how much she’d had to drink, and Theresa was sure a professional like her would want to keep her faculties intact at a political event. But now she held out her glass with an 
expectant look. Theresa couldn’t defy her boss now, not after having shown her up just a moment earlier in the bar, right?

But just a moment ago she had quoted regulations and managed that confrontation so fluently. Maybe appearing slightly off her game was an act - meant to make political rivals drop their guard, or something. Yeah, that made sense. Theresa smiled, twisting off the cap on the bottle of vodka and giving a perfect, practiced, precision pour. [color=00BB77]“You won that argument so hard that poorly-dressed lady went into cardiac arrest,”[/color] she joked. [color=00BB77]“Well done, ma’am!”[/color]

Now if only Ms. Ramana had grabbed two glasses, they could celebrate her victory together.