The Press


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Scene Title The Press
Synopsis A press opportunity at the border of the Dome is interrupted by a spectacle.
Date February 5, 2011

The Dome: Roosevelt Island

A silver car comes ambling down the Roosevelt Island north bridge, a sleek creature that doesn't need to be stopped for security reasons. Sleet makes needling tracks of ice-water on the window beside Bradley Russo's face as he sees the grey surroundings of Roosevelt Island unfold around them as they drive the short distance for the barrier. Georgia Mayes is pulling on a pair of lambskin gloves, her coat a simple, woolen thing rather than excessive furs. "Nervous?" she asks of the most recent DoEA recruit, flashing him a glance past a streak of silver hair, eyes the same colour as arctic ice.

It's the day of the appeal. The one that will be made to the sympathy of the Dome-creator. Or so goes the idea.

Only one set of people on this winter morning require umbrellas. On one side— because make no mistake, there are sides— several of the domeish bat-wing like contraptions bob on long handles against the sleety fall of weather from the sky. For those further south, they have a huge umbrella already. On the first day, it had been pristine. Invisible. In the progressive turns of the clock, it's become a little filmy with urban grime — cleaner the closer down the bottom you get, with the odd finger mark, the build up of slushy snow on the outside. But further up, it takes on a gritty, grainy tinge, curving all the way until the circle of snow capping the top can be seen blocking the sun, with smog beneath that rendering it brown-grey.

To the east, the sun is still rising up. It's an ordinary winter sunset to some. For those who see it behind an increasingly dirtying lense, it has an oily quality to it, red in the centre, wobblingly clear around the edges, like egg white.

The PMCs on either side are coordinated. Three stand to attention on either side, with the ones within the Dome more haggard than their counterparts. They aren't stopping people from approaching the walls, more concerned with the slowly growing crowd than anything. A contraption has been installed, on the outside — a boxy machine that roars like a fan, said to help improve the ventilation within the Dome, casting off only the slightest of breezes through the wall that shimmers blue when touched. It's not the only equipment present — camera crew of a few different networks gather along the border, casting the hollow black eyes of their lenses towards the Dome's interior, capturing film and snapping pictures both.

Not just of the inside, of course. Escorted by— it's difficult to say who these people are. Invariably DoEA in their professional clothing, perhaps social workers of some form. Escorted by these, a small gaggle of people who have been separated from loved ones within the Dome are led to approach the wall, and they come to loosely line up along the dirtying barrier.

Inside, word spread quick, and some are ready to receive them. A woman pushes ahead of the crowd so as to try and touch her husband's hands through the blue shimmer of barrier. A mother and father both try to reach for their son, who plays it cool and keeps his arms folded, even if he looks like he might cry. More so due to his predicament than anything else.

The media has arrived to observe what's happening inside the Dome. Odessa Price has come to observe the media. She has no loved ones on the outside to truly speak of. That isn't to say that she has any loved ones on the inside, either. Far from it, and the sleepless nights are starting to get to her.

She tries to play aloof, however, regarding the growing spectacle, from which she considers herself separate, through the half-lidded gaze of her single blue eye. Odessa has to wonder if it's her destiny to wind up in cages. At least the last ones only threatened to suffocate her metaphorically. A glance skyward has the young woman wondering if this one might do it literally.

"I wouldn't say nervous is quite the right word," Brad murmurs with arched eyebrows in reply, widening his grey-blue eyes in the process. He raises a hand to adjust his grey-blue tie that nearly exactly matches his eyes (which peers out from underneath his black trenchcoat)— it's all very strategic. The clothes they'd picked, the practice he'd had in front of the mirror, even the act of coming out here— the strategy isn't lost on him. In many ways it's a strategy he employs when choosing a panel, purposely appealing to various members' senses, ideals, and sometimes principles to achieve his ultimate purpose: thought-provoking, sometimes funny, nearly always controversial, entertainment.

Again he adjusts his tie.

"Assuming you're right on this one, and it is some evolved influence who is carrying this out purposely," like a good philosopher, he always lays out the assumptions, "then this is a hostage situation except the hostages aren't being shot in the head one at a time, No, we get to watch them starve, possibly kill each other, and be at each other's throats. In a lot of ways this is worse." Although perhaps not as dire. "So no, I'm not nervous. I've spoken in front of cameras before." His chin drops and his head turns to face Mayes, "I do it nearly every week." His head turns back to the window and his eyes focus on the victims, the supposed hostages, "I'm worried. I know people in there. And I think I have a grasp on human nature more generally." He shoots her a smug smile, confident, but feigned. There is no real confidence here. Not this time.

When the car comes to a stop, he takes a deep breath and then tugs the handle on his door. Carefully he slides out, using a single hand to smooth the lines of his coat after doing so.

The dome has been a point of curiosity for the residents of Roosevelt, no doubt; Delilah knows that it has been for her. She's breezed past it to touch a couple of times, maybe vaguely hoping her hand might slip inside. It hasn't. So instead of another moment of that, she has waited until she knew the press would be coming in. The sleet weather hasn't dampened her mood too much, thankfully. She has one of those absurdly U-shaped umbrellas, clear plastic. Walter is with her, as he always seems to be, tucked inside of her coat to watch the goings on from a perch inside of the baby wrap. Marien has started calling them kangaroos for this, maybe it is fitting.

Delilah has a white flip camcorder with her, periodic in her taking pictures and snippets of film. This is the only time so far that she has been able to observe the dome with multiple people and objects around it; maybe she hopes something is going to happen because so many people are poking at it, who knows. Might as well be around for it, if it does. Dee meanders ever closer to the gathering, pausing a moment to fidget things around to make sure that her colorful knitted cap doesn't fall off of her head.

There's a few teenagers amongst those within the dome who'd decided to gather at the walls, Devon happens to be one of them. He wasn't excited about hearing of the media. They aren't animals on display for this twisted trick. But word of family visiting as well, if it can be called visiting, cut through the surliness and replaced it with trepidation. His family had to be out there, because it wasn't in here with him.

Leaving the task of hunting down more supplies, at least temporarily, Devon had joined the gathering at the walls. Worry has written itself well on his features, mixing with the weariness and weight of being cut off from the rest of the world. The teenager, with hands placed deeply in his coat pockets, has staked out a place against the barrier, one shoulder just touching and giving off the warm blue glow. There's a tightness around his eyes, anxiety mostly, and fading hope, as he scans over those gathered just out of reach.

A few nights ago, Soleil Remi Davignon got a rather difficult-to-hear phone call from one Jaiden Mortlock, her ex who she just met up with after three years of no contact. Normally, she wouldn't come to something like this, but…well, part of her hoped that he might be here. He probably won't be, but it's still worth a try to see him, isn't it?

She's part of the group that has come in the hopes of seeing their loved ones, her eyes traveling over the barrier that cuts those within off from those without. An umbrella rests over her shoulder, the woman wearing her standard designer winter clothing. She doesn't own anything that doesn't have some major brand name on it. Today, it just so happens to be an outfit from her mother's company.

Quietly, she watches, a frown on her face. This is an unfortunate situation, to say the very least. For now, she stands off to the side, out of the way, focused on keeping a clamp on her ability.

Out on the river, there's only one boat asail — the same rescue vessel that had been dragged across the thin sliver of island to help carry people back and forth between Queens, with the more industrial boat under the employ of civilians docked somewhere more south. Though the area above has been made into a no-fly zone, the birds never really got the memo, a few spatters here and there far above despite the build up of grime.

Mayes flows out the door on her end, slamming it shut and taking a moment to primp silver hair as she rounds around the end of the vehicle to fall into step with Russo. "But then again," she says, and she doesn't take his elbow she might have done with such a ~handsome~ celebrity. No need to touch these people more than necessary. "If you fuck up your segments on your panel, all you have to worry about is bad ratings." She casts a stare towards the Dome itself, peering through the crowd and onwards, towards the residential buildings.

Her tongue clucks against the roof of her mouth, but she holds back her comments. Her poor little Evo village.

"Just try to remember what we've talked about," Mayes says, as policemen around then move to keep the nedia at their distance, coming to a halt some severel feet from the Dome edge. "Appeal to the bastard's sense of empathy or whatever it is he has in place. You, too, have a power only just within your control. If this is a mistake, he will have our forgiveness, don't be frightened, blah blah blah. The only people capable of intimidating the bugger are the people in there, after all."

The crowd on either side is slowly beginning to grow, undulating together as people press for priority. The rifles held dampen any potential for crushings to occur, and so it's not too hard to try and pick out faces. Or not pick out faces. Jaiden Mortlock may have other things he needs to handle or not caught word of the conference. Devon Clendaniel can recognise his employer, but no Mildred Kay Henry. Not yet.

Odessa's eyes alight almost instantly on Georgia Mayes. It's always good to pay a particular interest to one's purported higher-ups. Not that she actually answers to the Department of Evolved Affairs, but she does rather enjoy the use of their resources, and so it seems only fair that she should play the part of dutiful employee. Even if she rolls her eyes in private.

Despite better judgement warning her away from the prying eyes of the multitude of cameras, Odessa wanders closer to the barrier, if only to have a better view for what may happen here. Things always seem to happen when cameras and crowds are concerned.

"I can't remember the last time I fucked up a panel, Ms. Mayes. Oh wait! I can. And I'm pretty sure both times we got some of the best ratings we've seen— " Mayes wins that same tight lipped smile from Brad, curt, polite, but not genuine. His hands comfortably tuck into his pockets until the cameras near him when they are dropped to his side. Posture is everything. His shoulders straighten, his expression neutralizes, and his eyes narrow in on the cameras themselves. There's no producer to track back to for support, no disembodied voice talking to him in his hidden earpiece feeding him questions if he needs them, and this is not his set. He clears his throat. They're rolling.

"Good morning," he begins. There's an unusual seriousness in his voice while his sharp blue-grey eyes settle on the cameras. He swallows hard, clearing the growing lump in his throat as best he can. "I'm Bradley Russo," the introduction has little pride, little glimmer, and little sheen. There's a quietness about his very countenance that reflects through the cameras. "I'm here, on location, at the Dome." He clears his throat again. "On behalf of the DoEA, myself, and the families of those trapped inside, I'd like to speak to whoever is responsible. And so here I am."

Now there's a flicker of a smile, a three second soft appeal to his watchers, "In case you don't know, I manifested a few weeks ago. Like many people who first manifest I have little control over what I can do." His tongue rolls over his lips while the seriousness overtakes his face again, "If this is what's going on with you, please there are people that can help. They want to help you. I promise there is a way to control your ability, you just need to come forward."

His hands are held in front of him in a pleading motion. "There are so many lives being effected by this phenomenon. Imagine a life where you're physically separated from the people you care about— " he motions towards the families who are off to the side. "— please. Please reunite these people with their families. Children and parents have been separated on both sides. These kids need their parents to look out for them. Imagine being eight years old without your mother's touch. Not because she's gone, but because you're physically blocked from it, destined to see her as an image on another side of a wall."

"Too many lives have been lost so far. Please. Please come forward so we can make sure more aren't effected. Contact us. Contact me if you want. We can straighten this out without more people getting hurt." Brad swallows again as his gaze trails over to Mayes again, somewhat unsure.

It doesn't take terribly long for Delilah to insert herself in the goings on, if just barely. She watches the more notable car pull in and discard its passengers; Russo's being there doesn't surprise her much. He will probably have a hand in something or other, she supposes. And probably that miss Mayes as well. Dee settles amidst the crowd as best she can, Walter peeking around at all the fuss in a bleary haze in between naps.

The redhead sets her camera on as Russo begins, wanting to catch his speaking for the purpose of disseminating it- it might help if people do that, right?

Except for swaying with the ebb and flow of the crowd on the inside of the dome, Devon keeps to his post. It would be the best thing to do with the number of people pressing, trying to gain an inch closer to those gathering outside. Hope slips away as the families outside come and go with no sign of his aunt amongst them. Already the lack of contact had been worrying, even understanding that phone signals in and out of the dome aren't the best. But with no sign of Milly even now has the teenager's mind slipping toward his worst fears.

Continuing to look over the heads and shoulders of those coming to make contact, Devon spots Russo. For the moment, he watches his employer in silence. At least one person he knows is out there. Eyes flick away again, a slow breath drawn in as he pick up his nervous searching of the crowd.

Blue eyes turn toward Mayes and Russo, still hanging toward the back of the group of worried people. Her eyes skim the faces on the other side of the crowd once more, a frown on her face. No Jaiden. No familiar faces. It was worth a try; maybe she'll be able to get in touch with Jaiden later, have a conversation with him through the wall or something.

Then, as Bradley Russo begins to speak, Remi's blue eyes turn toward him, a frown on her face as she clutches the umbrella to her chest as she quietly nods along with his words.

A thin lipped smile dealt right back, before Mayes becomes a watchful, avid audience, becoming neutral as his appeal progresses. Her mouth twitches as there is talk of mothers and all the correct sentimental things that Americans seem to spew so easily, before she reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a piece of paper. She swallows as she unfolds it, before sidling just enough to hand it to Russo, unfolded. It's an ordinary list of names, if lengthy, printed in black.

As she passes it off, she sends a chilly stare across the crowd, snagging briefly on Odessa's rather distinct face, her expression one of taking stock of what one might have to work with.

Fwoomf. She triggers open her umbrella and swings it up to stand beneath, getting out of the way and mingling with the group that watch on.

Odessa's head inclines fractionally in that universal acknowledgement of you see me, I see you. She doesn't smile at Mayes, like most might be inclined to do when they catch the eye of someone familiar to them. This situation doesn't call for smiles. And the two women are not friends.

The expression Doctor Price wears as she watches Bradley Russo speak is not necessarily so much inattentive as it is dispassionate. Having spent quite some time as a marionette, she recognises a fellow when she sees him.

Brad lets his words stand alone— his plea quiet, sentimental, and hopefully enough to stir empathy in whoever is behind the Dome. Taking a moment's pause following his plea to the cameras, his eyes track over to his assistant whom he shoots a small reassuring smile, silently offering whatever comfort he can to his intern. It may be minor, but it's, at the moment, the best he can do.

The list is accepted and Brad scans it carefully. His brows becoming more and more furrowed while he moves along the list of names. His face pales, his grip loosens, and his lips part. His eyebrows furrow further as his head turns sharply back to the dome only to recall that the cameras are still rolling, drawing his attention to the viewers on the other side.

He clears his throat, and takes a deep breath again, but it hitches in his throat almost awkwardly. He forces another and urges the words out, he can't leave this job undone. "Many lives have been lost in vain," his face pales. "Many families have lost loved ones." His voice catches in his throat now as he attempts to keep his voice even. "Among those we know have been lost are Charlotte Perkins," he leaves a slow moment of silence for his audience, "Gregory Gilman," another moment of silence, "Nancy Forthwright," another pause, "Robyn Ascott," he bites his bottom lip, "Henry Martin, Wren Bates, Libby Peterson," there's a longer pause over this name, as he takes another breath, his skin paling even more, "Mildred Henry…" this name particularly has his voice caught in his throat.

Hands come out of his pockets and press against the barrier as Devon rises up onto his toes for a look farther out. With the number of people out there, it could be he's simply not seeing his aunt, too many faces to go over, she may just have not made it near the front yet. As Russo's voice picks up again, names of those lost when the dome came up, the teenager's attention is unwillingly turned back to his employer. Each name read off is a name that Devon doesn't know. And unfortunate though it may be for another family, it's a tiny mark of comfort for himself. Until…

"No," Devon chokes the word out, his aunt's name reaching through the barrier. It's a lie, it has to be. "No," the teenager states again, pleading, fighting back the sudden attack of anguish and panic, disbelief etched into his expression as he stares up at Brad. It's futile, somewhere he remembers it being useless, but he begins striking the wall open handed and closed, each hit accented by a sharp, quiet denial of those names on that list. His aunt's name on that list.

Remi frowns at the list. No names that she knows, thank goodness. No names that ring any bells for her. However, she does notice the teenager's outburst, the visual anguish on his face. A frown creases her features as she moves over toward the barrier, not too far where so many others stand, reaching out to quietly press her hand up against the dome.

There's a murmur through the crowd as the list of names takes effect, although it seems to be Devon being the only one directly impacted by the news. Most eyes on the north side remain fixed on Russo, although attention drags too to where blue light shimmers at each protesting impact of Devon's hand, and unease captures the crowd on his own side. The same eerie light flashes gently beneath the soft press of Remi's, and as if on cue, some others move and follow to do the same themselves only a few moments after the woman thinks to do so, touches flaring bright light over the translucent wall in a sort of expression of sympathy.

Grief. Mayes takes a deep breath in, squinting to see past the points of light to assess the group beyond it. It's different, when you've been trapped here, for what's going on to be five long days of small bursts of violence in the wake of destruction.

Sidling along the wall, one of the PMCs reaches out a gloved hand to lay it on Devon's shoulder. "Hey, easy," he says, not without sympathy, only for someone to push his own shoulder, nearly colliding back into the barrier. The rifle swings without impact, leveling at the man's stomach in warning. "Back up. I'm gonna ask everyone to step back three feet from the divide." His two companions echo this sentiment, but the crowd murmurs. Buzzes, like an angry hive.

A thrown rock up ahead makes the barrier flash blue in sharp impact, and someone else's hand flies to impact the barrier, barely half a foot from where Remi's touched the wall. "Just get out out of here!" cries a woman, and that murmur picks up, fragments into shouts. "Let us go!" "Do something!" "Help us!" all chant up in protest, the insider-crowd pushing forward. The three PMCs bark orders for them to get back or they will shoot.

"They will do no such thing," Mayes hisses, mostly to herself, as she takes a step back — even if the wall would naturally hold strong.

When Devon cries out and starts beating against the Dome, something actually stirs inside of Odessa. And when the first PMC's rifle comes up, she swiftly steps back from the crowd strictly so she can encompass as much of it as she can in her view. Her arms are outstretched at her sides, fingers twitching, ready for some crowd control of her own. The kind that doesn't result in people getting shot. She doesn't share Mayes' opinion that they won't fire into the crowd.

The Stillwater men are just as scared as the rest of the crowd, and scared people with weapons do scary things.

There's no stepping away on Russo's part, in fact, he turns around to face Devon, stepping closer to the dome instead of exiting. "Kid, I'm sorry I just…" his hand reaches out towards Devon only to retract as it reaches the actual Dome. The change in the crowd brings a weary furrowing of his eyebrows. "No," he whispers. This is exactly the kind of thing he'd feared. The lump in his throat grows while the crowd becomes angrier and angrier inside the Dome.

He turns back to face the cameras, an instant as if to see if they're rolling. "Everyone you need to just— calm down…"

He pivots back to face the camera, "Just… please. People are scared, please let them out… Please…"

Delilah almost pulls the camera down when there is a reaction to the names being read, but the series of rippling effects from the different touches distracts the eye enough to make her not lower it. She is more mesmerized than anything, as things progress into the shield simply pulsing with faint blue amidst the different people. She does sidle back quite a bit, just in case, to skirt the crowd rather than take proper part of it. She and Walter become definitely more visible on the edge of things now.

"Nobody is going to get anywhere like this. They need to be looking inside." Delilah talks seemingly to herself. Or to her baby, maybe. She's not talking to anyone else, at least.

Reactions on the outside of the dome aren't noticed. Inside they're met with something else. That first act of sympathy is met with a threatening look, hard and concise, as Devon confronts the PMC. Grief holds fast, clouding thought enough to consider making good that unspoken threat though he stands unarmed against their rifles. It's their fault, theirs and those the soldiers work for. But the task is made for him, some nameless fellow taking his place on the business side of that rifle.

First one, and then the second hand return to the dome, merely pushing against the unyeilding surface as Devon meets Russo's gaze. Leaving threats for those inside the dome, the teenager looks in silent pleading, lost, forehead coming to rest against the wall while those around him teem with anger and frustration.

Despite the fact that there is a barrier between herself and the flying fists and rocks, Remi can't help but jerk back with a bit of a frightened squeak, edging away from the wall with frightened eyes. Everyone is going crazy, and someone who was once very close to her is trapped in there. Perhaps even more than just one formerly close friend are trapped in there.

And she's worried.

Clutching her umbrella tight, Remi edges away from the violence within the dome, as if she fears that the structure will give in to the onslaught and unleash an angry mob right in her face.

Cameras compulsively turn to take in the scope of what's going on, though some remain on Russo steadfast. One his final pleading word, one of the cameras lowers its angle, only for Mayes to sharply swat the cameraman on the shoulder. "What are you, a journalist or a mouse? This is news," she reprimands, with fiercely whispered conviction out of range of the boom mics.

The crowd on the outer-side of the wall are shifting back despite themselves like a herd of cattle catching wind of a predator, watching with growing unease at the tension building on the other side. Sympathy for Devon and people like Devon is superseded for self-pity that herds and crowds forward, jostling the teenager in a manner that makes his lean against the wall less willing than it was just a few moments ago, bodies bumping into the back of him. A thick arm intrudes, then, diagonal across his torso and shoving him viciously back along with two frames behind him, and there's a sharp yell as the butt of a rifle clocks someone's jaw.

It's going to get bad. In a few seconds, it's going to get bad. A few seconds might be all Odessa needs to make sure it doesn't get worse, but then—

The explosion crackabooms from the river that slithers between Queens and Roosevelt, getting first flinches from those who happened to be looking that way— Georgia Mayes among them, shying back beneath umbrella and mouth opening to an 'o'— and confused ducking from those that were not. A mushroom of fire blooms upwards like a fast growing flower before dispersing, and the rescue boat remains adrift on the water even as the entirety of its deck and cabin goes up in flames, blackened, burning pieces flung up and out into the river. Smoke belches upwards to only add to the smog gathering under the curving underside of the field.

"Holy crap, did you get that on film?" is the first coherent sentence to break through.

"No!" barks one of the Stillwater men, gripping his radio now. "Leonard, Andrew, hello? Do you copy?" Silence only on the other end, smoke unfurling like a scroll. The explosion has the effect of cutting through the growing chaos like a gunshot in a brawling saloon, but only at first. "On the ground!" he growls at those nearby — and some do, getting to their knees and hands up, shock written on their face. Most of them simply flee in stampede. "Harris, get the trucks around, block off the main road, there's been— the boat— "

«We see it.» As does the world, under the careful eye of the cameras.

On the other side, the PMCs are horrified, but more in control of a more willing crowd who move as announced, if at a wary, unbalanced jostle. A megaphone barks tinny and noisy. "Residents, please return to your homes. Guests, move calmly for the checkpoint. Please, get those— goddamn news vans off the fucking road."

Rather than freeze time, knowing that her little stunt will be witnessed by on-lookers and cameras alike, Odessa takes off away from the crowd as quick as her legs will carry her, attempting to duck and run the old fashioned way, for as long as that works out for her. She, however, doesn't have a home to go back to, lest one counts the Suresh Center. And she isn't, thank you. For now, she intends to linger as long as she can to see how the situation plays out.

Frozen. Still. Stiff. Brad's eyes remain on the s cloud of smoke and fire. His stomach turns. His face pales further. And then there's the tug on his arm, he turns to face Mayes a moment before reaching back to the Dome, "Devon!" he uses his intern's name for once. "Get to a checkpoint! Try to sit tight, I'm going— " but he's being pulled away, unable to really fight against the people tugging him back to the car.

"I'll call!" tonight. It's a promise, even if issued in the silence.

His feet drag as he's tugged away. There's a heaviness about him, formed at Mildred's name, weighted further by the fire and cloud of smoke. "It happened," he whispers quietly. "it happened," he repeats. "It's going to get worse. People- " he swallows as he's tugged at the car. He's nearly shoved into it as the shock wears on. "We shouldn't have gotten that on camera… the fighting… the fear… evo island encapsulated… we shouldn't have… that wasn't… I… we shouldn't have…" he's trembling now while a hand rakes through his hair. "That kid.. it's not.. " he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Very slowly. The trembling stops, his stage face is cast. "Next of kin should always be alerted first," he hisses.

Delilah's coat is mostly soundproof when it comes to little ears; the sound doesn't bother Walter as much as his mother's tensing does, and he wriggles against her with a bit of a vocal protest. Her camera tracks wide over to get a shot of the river, pausing long enough that she gets the plume on video, and some subsequent seconds afterward. Not much more, however- she lowers the cam to hold it around her torso, leaving the device on, but not pinning its eye on anything in particular. It will be getting the sound, primarily, and now shots of people walking past, and the people ahead of her as she tries to sidle around the crowd that's now making its own fuss.

For a moment she debates flagging her arm at Russo- and while he would be able to see it, she highly doubts the idea's effectiveness. Instead, she does her best to get back more, unzipping her coat a bit to let Walter see her whole face, umbrella wobbly above her. She trails after the flow of people that are going to be led away. "It'll be alright, now. Just a boat. I suppose you'll get used to it, huh?" Delilah's voice has a very dry laugh in it. "Home sweet home…"

Arms and legs alike flail in the brief time that Devon's bodily moved away from the wall, enough that when he's pushed back he actually stumbles and falls. There's little intention of getting up again, serious consideration being given to remaining sprawled upon the ground. It's reflex when the explosion goes off that draws the teenager upright and then to his feet while others are following directions and going to the ground. Instinct as much as fear turns his attention toward the rising plume of smoke.

Somewhere in the back of Devon's mind he registers his employer's promise, filtered through the noise of confusion and chaos. He takes a look back toward the departing crowd, stricken that his aunt was never there to begin with, that the bubble is still there, that more troubles continue inside the walls. The teenager watches until Brad is in the car he arrived in, then begins walking toward the river, and the explosion.

As the explosion happens, Remi lets out another shrill squeak, ducking slightly. She doesn't like these things! They're actually quite terrifying. She turns to stare with wide blue eyes at the explosion, her mouth opening slightly. And then, people are talking, telling them to move back. To leave. She casts one last worried look to the barrier. She'll have to try and call him soon.

Soleil really doesn't need to be told twice. She is extremely happy to get the hell away from the chaos within the dome, though she's quite worried for those within. Still…she's glad it's not her stuck in there.

«Get the civilian boat out, and see what the fuck's going on,» is order over the radio, the PMCs moving through the crowd that both cowers, flees or variously wanders away. «Cover the F line for now, make sure no one's found a way through. It— » And the radio cuts off, mostly because the soldier is switching it off himself, disdain for the orders of the outside, the people who phrase things like getting away, or the capacity to control anything within the Dome is as easy as they make it sound.

Fire is reduced to flaming tongues that glimmer on the morning river surface, smoking continuing its spew through windows and broken framework. By the time they've put it down, started hauling the wreckage to the Queens coast to investigate, it'll be nearly noon.

In the car, Mayes fusses closed her umbrella before slamming closed the door, shaking her hair free of errant snowflakes and wetness as she levels the item across her knees. She watches what's going on in the rear view mirror before them, her expression difficult to read, if sharply inquisitive, and it's with great distraction that she glances Bradley's way.

A hand clasps his wrist, and squeezes, leather creaking. "You did splendid."

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