"Miss Gertrude?"

Nearly frightened out of her skin, Trudy turned abruptly to face a young intern, pushing a metal trolley stacked with coffees and teas. "I...I'm sorry to interrupt. Tea or coffee?" Trudy hadn't realised the foul look on her face until the intern stammered, so she schooled it into relative calm, sweeping her hand down her face. "No thank you. You frightened me." Unfortunately, the intern seemed to believe her lack of interest was because of the latter, and with an apology, they scurried off. Trudy watched after, a little guilt mingling with the unbearable nervousness still writhing in her gut. Even worse, she somehow caught the attention of a couple of coworkers who were now sauntering over. "It's... Gertrude, isn't it?" A tall woman asked. Trudy knew her name as she knew the rest of her colleagues. Her brain liked to latch onto that kind of information, despite her desire to distance herself completely from anybody else.

"Just Trudy." She told Fatou, who didn't seem to care either way. Fatou nudged her partner – a stout-looking man named Oliver – and beckoned Trudy to lean in. "That new intern. You see the backs of her calves?" Trudy tried to look over the desks, but the intern was turning the corner to leave, backs of calves fully obscured. She looked back at Fatou and Oliver, clueless. Fatou tutted once. "Nevermind. She has these weird like... things..." she tried to shape said 'things' in the air. Oliver batter her hand down and spoke. "Spikes of some sort. Long story short, she's one of those Themars." The word was little more than a whisper, but still her desk neighbours turned their heads.

"Not that we're against it or anything." Said Fatou. "It's just... in the office? I mean, it's unprofessional, really." They watched Trudy expectantly, so she nodded, opening her laptop as if eager to start working and stop chatting. Neither person took the hint. "I don't blame you for refusing. We've all decided to. She shouldn't be on this floor." Oliver leaned on the top of Trudy's desk, shattering her personal bubble. She glared. "It's definitely irritating." Oliver tapped his fingers on her side of the wood, still oblivious to her venom. She sometimes felt bad, acting so rudely as to preserve her own comfort, but not in this instance. Deciding so, she picked up a pencil and prodded his intruding hand. "If you don't mind." He removed it, holding his hands up. Fatou raised a brow.

"Eager to get on?" She asked. "It's an important issue. We can't just ignore their presence. I mean, Hell, they've been attacking the city outskirts lately. If nothing is done, they'll kill us all." Trudy's nostrils flared at the mention of attacks. Fatou caught on to her surprise. "Didn't you hear? They're murdering humans for no good reason. Worse – they're getting away with it. Those IBOT agents are useless, aren't they Olly?" – who nodded his head in eager agreement – "Monsters – oh, excuse me, Themars – they're all one and the same; you can't expect them to fight their own, no matter how institutionalised they are." Trudy would fantasise about shooting at witty remark back at Fatou and Oliver's brazen prejudice later – but for now, she picked up on a new piece of information. Less new, more that she was just now letting it sit. Earlier, when she'd read about the IBOT agents in the news, she'd been too preoccupied with the footage of her wild escape. Now she clocked on to the reality of her situation. It was direr than she'd been hoping. Getting that moped had transitioned from a slightly difficult task to a completely impossible one. Her hand went to her throat.

"See. It's not something we can just let sit." Fatou tapped the top of Trudy's monitor and walked off, Oliver in tow. Trudy flicked on her laptop screen and navigated past all her work, immediately to the news. No updates since earlier. Office gossip was flowing with Fatou's influence though, and what hadn't yet been reported by her coworkers was being fed on for gossip. People matter most my arse, thought Trudy, though she listened in attentively, twiddling with the dry end of her plait.

"Look, there's little to no evidence at the scene. As it's been put, two of them vanished. It's likely the other one did too."

"Yes, but they crumbled like ash. The police searched the whole area, dimwit? There weren't any pieces of monster hanging around."

"It was raining, stupid. Maybe the leftovers were washed away."

"Actually, I'll think you'll find there was some evidence." A tall woman - Emily, the Operations Manager - rounded the corner into the office, waving a stack of papers. "Tip offs from residents nearby. Some say they saw one of the bikers pull up late and enter the building. Minutes later, the attack occurred."

Crud.

"We're going to need one of you lot to take one for the team. Nobody up or downstairs wants to get involved down there, and a vast lot are off due to collectively cited 'paranoia'." Emily sighed, slapping the papers against the photocopier. "Any takers?"

Trudy launched to her feet, bashing her knee on the table in her haste. All eyes turned to her.

If there was any opportunity to sabotage the crime scene, this was it. "ME! I mean... I'll take it. I'll... take one for the team." Those last words may have been the last thing she had ever wished to say, but it was necessary in the moment to behave like a team player instead of a guilty party. Luckily, it was worth it. If it hadn't been, Trudy was side eyeing the window and wondering how strong the glass was.

"Perfect." Emily approached, shoving the papers into Trudy's hands. "Get your things. We leave now."

It wasn't long before the hastily assembled crew of Trudy and some tech people she'd never once seen clambered into a PP News van and were racing down the busy morning streets. Trudy's meagre apple breakfast shook in her belly the whole way. There was a reason she didn't like small vehicles, one that was making her press her face against the window, refusing any potential conversation. Besides, it's not like she'd ever see these people ever again, so who cared what they thought? Trudy wasn't technically the right person for this job. She went out into the world and wrote pieces for the newspaper, usually observational journalism focusing on Themar-human issues. She had some liability to report case in that respect – obviously she had knowledge she didn't wish to disclose – but never had she been handed a microphone, and a set of question prompts to fire like a gun. She gulped. The car sickness was doing wonders for her nerves, forcing her to focus on the desperate condition of her stomach, but she knew it would all crash down for several reasons when they pulled up to the supermarket.

Which it did, as they screeched to an abrupt halt that nearly sent Trudy's insides out her mouth. "Alright, let's get set up." Said one of the men responsible for some techy-thing that was beyond her care. She was prodded out of the car, landing on wobbly feet beside the over-complicated crime scene she had accidentally caused. A surge of reporters was already standing, who shrunk back slightly when they saw the impressively branded van. "Out of the way, please!" Yelled a crew member, dragging Trudy through the crowd to the front, her bag swinging aggressively into her side the whole time. "Right. When the police come out, shout them over, and read off the questions. Make sure you get the microphone – here, look –" the exasperated crew member yanked her arm up and shoved the microphone into it. Trudy gripped it with white knuckles. "Get it close. We need clear, concise answers, you hear? Now – where are the questions?" They sighed. "Why were you sent again?"

"Because I eagerly volunteered?" But an answer wasn't warranted, because her colleague was already striding off, yelling at the others to hurry up, or we'll miss our spot.

This was her chance. Her single opportunity. From where they were standing – behind the police tape splitting the small car park in half – Trudy could just see her moped from where it had somehow inched left and fallen sideways into a miraculously dense bush. It was nearly enough to give her faith in God. She hadn't time to consider what wonder had given the bush an early-spring amount of leaves in mid-January, however. It was time to move. She flashed a look back at the blue van. The frustrated man was yanking two others outside, one with a camera at the ready, the other holding the prompts she'd discarded on the floor in her sickness. In his eagerness to get going, the questions were dropped, splaying themselves out across the floor. She would have heard him spit a string of crude language, should she not have taken her opportunity. Trudy barged through the crowd, careless to apologise, until she popped out of the nosy audience with a gasp, wheeled to her right, until she was behind the bush that held her moped hostage. From this side, she could just see its cream-coloured body between sticks and the few leaves that clung to them. She scrutinised the area. The police would be exiting the building soon, surely and – there it was. Frustrated man had lost Trudy, was scouring the crowd. Luckily, it wouldn't be easy to spot her even if she was there. She thanked the God she didn't believe in once more for having her wear this coat. The amount of brown-haired, brown-coated people would buy her time. As would the newest development, being the horde of police now departing the building. One or two cautiously, reluctantly approached the swarm, their hands up and demeanours meek. Trudy skirted around the back of the bush. Her moped was just over an arms-length away. She couldn't grab it from where she crouched, and she couldn't risk inching forward further. She scrunched her face up, straining to reach anyway. If only she was a Themar with stretchy limbs, or one that it forth with sheer force... what was worse, was that the police seemed rather fed up with journalists today and were already starting to wave them off. Soon, her opportunity to save herself would be lost. Then they'd come for her. They'd throw her in that cell she'd thought about. As she was straining to extend her arm by force of mind, fingertips waggling in the air, a great CRACK sounded from across the car park, nearly toppling Trudy off her carefully balanced crouch. The crowd spun as one, a gasp rising as a great tree branch disconnected from its trunk and came crashing into the lot. It sacrificed the blue PP van, sent sparks flying as it collided. The crowd stumbled back, tearing the police tape, as the police themselves struggled to ease the chaos. In that time, Trudy pounced forth. She dragged her moped out of the bush and onto the pavement behind, standing it up to go. She revved it once – it was unresponsive – twice – no, come on, she couldn't be stranded with a scratched up moped, a now surely raging van-man and a horde of agitated police – thrice, it was alive. So alive that it started to go without her. Trudy leapt onto the seat, took a moment to regain composure and adjust her very heavy bag across her body, and then she was off down the road. Slightly wobbly, but off and victorious all the same. Maybe she even let out a 'whoop'.