[b]Orange:[/b]

They haven’t run away. They haven’t burst out into indignation, condemnation. They aren’t calling the police on you. They came because they trusted you. You [i]admitted[/i] to this, warned them how serious you were. Right now, they’re looking inwards to find any possible explanation, on their own, for reasons that trust wasn’t betrayed. 

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” Fiona asks, and Crystal takes her hand again. 

So there’s one explanation out. 

Just wait this out. The serving staff have pulled a TV out of a backroom to hang on the wall, and it’s glued to the OESN broadcast. You just need to wait for them to confirm what you already know: That there were no casualties. That the situation is under control. That you really are [i]just that good[/i]. 

Count your blessings it’s OESN. They’ll only take long enough to confirm that before they report it. It’s going to be [i]hours[/i] before NBN stops burying that detail in their own reportage. 

[b]Strawberry: [/b]

Alright, now it’s changed. Not even a cop can pull an EMT away in the middle of a resuscitation. That hasn’t stopped some from trying, and if you ever see it, you can quickly see how much the illusion of the uniform fades, and they’re just a power tripping asshole. 

There’s no coming back from it. 

The guy in the red beret changes tact. Behind him, through the doorway, you see other security forces escorting other volunteers, visitors and guests out. That’s out of the question, now, Strawberry is too established. So instead he says;

“We’ll print you a badge, then.” He tilts his head to the other guard, who pulls a mini-printer out of the flak vest. It has a ponytail of lanyards hanging off it. “We’re going to need to confirm you, though. So we’re still going to need some I.D.” 

There’s risks and advantages to being in the SES system without cover. You’ve forced them to compromise, but it’s a suspicious compromise to turn down. 

While this is happening, Mycroft cuts off all comms but her own again.

“Worst case scenario happening after all. All teams stand down and prepare for reassignment.” The station is starting to see the effects of Goat going offline, then.

There’s a pause. She re-activates one comms line.

“Knightly, I said-”

“Posted to our Hubs page a link to switch to alternative channel, all working the Erebus incident-” He gets it out as fast as he can. He’s rehearsed this, he gets the whole sentence out in three seconds, the time it takes Mycroft to react, still being careful to enunciate every word clearly. 

She mutes him again. She tries to go private with his channel, but he’s already muted from his end. The Hub is a very, very open social media post, and people are actively scanning the SES feed for updates on the disaster. It’s not just easily accessible, but there’s going to be no filter as to who gets to listen in there. It’s a power play. 

Knightly’s the only one broadcasting on it right now. “The patient’s already on the table, and bleeding out. We don’t clear out until the sutures are in. If something worse is coming down the pipeline then we need to do this fast. Now, as you were-” 

He starts giving voice permissions to people he trusts, manually, one by one, and the new line of communication overtakes the official one in traffic. 

Crimson Tower? You’re one of the first people he gives moderator permissions to. 

[b]Flood:[/b]

Those cool, screwlike-tires? Maximizes surface area. Fantastic for doing weird maneuvers in loose soil. Absolutely the worst possible thing for thermal resistance. 

They don’t melt, or burst. This is, after all, the post-modern version of a Pinkerton weaponized train. It wouldn’t be worth the black paint if it couldn’t handle a hail of molotov cocktails. Still, they’re beyond operating capacity. They’re sticky, they’re gummed. Instead of churning through the dirt it’s now sucking up clogs of it, jamming on it. 

Another drift and it grinds to a stop. The fixed gunner disappears and seals the hatch behind him as the grenade launcher cooks off. The munitions in the canister scatter and pop against the stuck APC, like if every firework at New Years went off with a boom that made your ribs compress against your lungs and knocked the wind out of you. But they also blow out the external music. 

Down goes the hammer. Now the anvil is going to have to come to you. 

Problem is, the only direction you know for sure is [i]away[/i] from them is still cooking off. 

Spot check against 6 to see where they’re coming from. But you don’t need to see them coming to pick a direction and run again, or prepare to hunker. 

Better news - you don’t hear another vehicle. The rest are likely on foot. 

[b]200 seconds[/b]