In prison, Elodie had a cellmate named Toni, and Toni had a saying: "each surprise is three disasters waiting". Toni (Fen Li originally, before she ditched her name along with everything else) had many sayings like that, each matching her unique brand of pessimistic.

Elodie is currently standing elbow to elbow, in a crowd, without York. York is notably absent from this picture, which is a real pisser because York's the reason she's here at all. She had a plan for the evening. She had dinner ready to cook, she had rearranged the main room in her cramped, two room apartment to have a spot to watch the Pinkerton Old Guard duke it out with the Mumbai Kaisers in the grav-ball game Sasha'd been hyping up for weeks. After, a walk downtown. She hadn't seen her kid for two weeks before and she wanted to make the most of it. And then York fucking shows up with a job that only she can do, and it'll only take two hours. She shouldn't have listened, and now she's here and he's not standing next to her being contrite.

Who she is standing with is an android from NBN, one of if not the biggest news channels, probably here as b-roll for Buffett, and an anxious intern named Ted who'd withered as the crowd swelled. Ted had started talking about who he was (intern for a political comedy site), why he was there (see above), and had worked his way through his life story and it's woes to periodic grunts and mmms from Elodie. She had reframed from glaring because any distraction from NBN goon on her left was welcome: they'd be responsible for keeping her arrest and trial constantly in the news cycle with ghoulish details of structural damage, estimates of how close the bomb came to cracking the station like an egg (not at all, but that'd make for bad ratings). They'd even done a special ten years on, just in case it'd slipped everyone's mind, the shitstains. She'd been itching for a smoke ever since she noticed their logo, but tobacco was expensive and to be savored, not to mention she'd be risking her spot to get to a smoking area. This whole day is a surprise and an unwelcome one, and she can already count three ways it went wrong.

So instead of a hand-rolled cigarette she's got a mic in one hand, the camera in the other, both pointed at Mishka Ardent, who she'd decided was most likely to say something stupid when unknowingly hot-micced. Chunky headphones over her head, one ear covered and one left free to listen to Ted and more importantly York, when he gets back. A canvas duster covers most of her, and enough of her not-legs get blocked out that nobody looks far enough down to see she's got no feet to match the lacking legs. A bag slung over the shoulder that the camera isn't on, leaving her with about thirty kilos of gear, and a press pass clipped on completes the look. She carefully doesn't think of the inner pocket with her smokes and lighter and focuses in on Mishka, perfect smile framed by perfect hair, in a perfect suit with a perfectly retro art-decco arm lending just enough asymmetry to keep him in style. Whatcha up to, asshole? Talking about anything good?