Still getting stuff written out of order, sorry.
As Head Pilot I was one of the ones in the air, and I was the closest when the Redacted gave us more information. Dry coolant tanks in the fusion plant and a toxic gas discharge: two dead, six injured, and thank God the plant itself didn’t implode. They didn’t have to tell me to come in hot to pick up their most wounded, but they did it anyway. I don’t take it personally.
There’s an old folk song called Bat Out Of Hell that my grandma used to sing to me; I’m not sure why a bat, but I could almost hear the music as my hauler screamed its arc through the sky. I’ve never danced so fast or so hard on the wind, either. Reactor gas accidents are nasty; we’d be lucky if the victims were all still alive when I got there.
Which reminded me: I punched the emergency broadcast channel with one foot as I barrel-rolled through three barely overlapping safe zones. “Tanaka to Redacted: Running extract,” I gulped (inner-ear discomfort, not fear). “Running extract. No passengers, no securing. I repeat: no passengers, no securing.” And never mind that getting passengers or securing the wounded would take minutes. We didn’t have those to spare. I wasn’t even going to God-damn well stop.