Relay knows he's not supposed to go to the disaster scene itself.

He knows he can work just fine from afar.

He's fed up of losing people, of not being available to see what they can, of having the latency where he has to ask them to do something and negotiate if they're busy and consider something more important, and they're not trained to listen to him when he needs them to, and it doesn't work.

He has a couple of people, a couple of people who trust him, who talk to him practically all the time, who keep an open channel through their life and who he knows inside and out, and they help, they work to let him feel as though he's there in near-realtime, and they make informed, sensible decisions – but they're not instantaneous, they're not extensions of him, they're external nodes that report back to him and listen to him and act out what he wants slowly.

He's fed up of losing people.

So he's here, at the site of the event itself, having asked a helpful nobody with flight to convey him there without needing to check with someone else.

It's a weird disaster. Most of it causes people to have issues with their powers, causes them to overshoot or have to resort to manual control, and the ground is shaking, the buildings are slowly crumbling, it's otherwise like – like a cartoon version of a disaster, where everything acts how you vaguely visualize it acting, but feels off because you know it's not how things go.

He's watching, communicating with – quick tally – ninety three people right now, conversations dropping and starting up and asking him for trivial things but it's okay he can handle that, it's better they ask him because he can organize them appropriately and request the information for them and have it available the next time someone asks. He's tracking the scene, identifying the individuals and where they are and where they need to go and what happens next, what's happening around the area, what they need to do. Get away from that building, your invincibility won't hold, powers are fluctuating in the area; go shore up that other building, it's set to take the whole block with it when it goes; tell those civilians on the ground where to go, he can't get a proper read on them and they'll be scared if he orders them from afar.

And it's all going brilliantly. It's not as good as it could be, people are slow and the latency is still strong, but it's less than two thirds what it was before, he doesn't have to ask them to move their eyes and fetch the data for him and send it, he can get it himself as necessary.

Then things blur around him, and he's near a building, and it's one he was just directing people away from a minute ago, and it's collapsing, and he's suddenly cut off from everyone, his range cut from global to less than fifty meters, and he can't do anything but watch and try to run as the building falls and he gets hit by a brick and he trips over some rubble and then his legs get crushed.

And his last thoughts, his last thoughts are that he just knew it would happen, he knew they were fed up with him and the info he had, and he should have known they would try something.

Relay knows he's not supposed to go to the disaster scene itself.

He knows he can work just fine from afar.

He's fed up of losing people, of not being available to see what they can, of having the latency where he has to ask them to do something and negotiate if they're busy and consider something more important, and they're not trained to listen to him when he needs them to, and it doesn't work.

He has a couple of people, a couple of people who trust him, who talk to him practically all the time, who keep an open channel through their life and who he knows inside and out, and they help, they work to let him feel as though he's there in near-realtime, and they make informed, sensible decisions – but they're not instantaneous, they're not extensions of him, they're external nodes that report back to him and listen to him and act out what he wants slowly.

He's fed up of losing people.

So he's here, at the site of the event itself, having asked a helpful nobody with flight to convey him there without needing to check with someone else.

It's a weird disaster. Most of it causes people to have issues with their powers, causes them to overshoot or have to resort to manual control, and the ground is shaking, the buildings are slowly crumbling, it's otherwise like – like a cartoon version of a disaster, where everything acts how you vaguely visualize it acting, but feels off because you know it's not how things go.

He's watching, communicating with – quick tally – ninety three people right now, conversations dropping and starting up and asking him for trivial things but it's okay he can handle that, it's better they ask him because he can organize them appropriately and request the information for them and have it available the next time someone asks. He's tracking the scene, identifying the individuals and where they are and where they need to go and what happens next, what's happening around the area, what they need to do. Get away from that building, your invincibility won't hold, powers are fluctuating in the area; go shore up that other building, it's set to take the whole block with it when it goes; tell those civilians on the ground where to go, he can't get a proper read on them and they'll be scared if he orders them from afar.

And it's all going brilliantly. It's not as good as it could be, people are slow and the latency is still strong, but it's less than two thirds what it was before, he doesn't have to ask them to move their eyes and fetch the data for him and send it, he can get it himself as necessary.

Then things blur around him, and he's near a building, and it's one he was just directing people away from a minute ago, and it's collapsing, and he's suddenly cut off from everyone, his range cut from global to less than fifty meters, and he can't do anything but watch and try to run as the building falls and he gets hit by a brick and he trips over some rubble and then his legs get crushed.

And his last thoughts, his last thoughts are that he just knew it would happen, he knew they were fed up with him and the info he had, and he should have known they would try something.

Relay knows he's not supposed to go to the disaster scene itself.

He knows he can work just fine from afar.

He's fed up of losing people, of not being available to see what they can, of having the latency where he has to ask them to do something and negotiate if they're busy and consider something more important, and they're not trained to listen to him when he needs them to, and it doesn't work. He needs to get the information faster, he needs to be able to see the scene, he needs to be able to pinpoint the people as they send him what they sense and track the area as a whole.

He has a couple of people, a couple of people who trust him, who talk to him practically all the time, who keep an open channel through their life and who he knows inside and out, and they help, they work to let him feel as though he's there in near-realtime, and they make informed, sensible decisions – but they're not instantaneous, they're not extensions of him, they're external nodes that report back to him and listen to him and act out what he wants slowly.

He's fed up of losing people.

So he's here, at the site of the event itself, having asked a helpful nobody with flight to convey him there without needing to check with someone else.

It's a weird disaster. Most of it causes people to have issues with their powers, causes them to overshoot or have to resort to manual control, and the ground is shaking, the buildings are slowly crumbling, it's otherwise like – like a cartoon version of a disaster, where everything acts how you vaguely visualize it acting, but feels off because you know it's not how things go.

He's watching, communicating with – quick tally – ninety three people right now, conversations dropping and starting up and asking him for trivial things but it's okay he can handle that, it's better they ask him because he can organize them appropriately and request the information for them and have it available the next time someone asks. He's tracking the scene, identifying the individuals and where they are and where they need to go and what happens next, what's happening around the area, what they need to do. Get away from that building, your invincibility won't hold, powers are fluctuating in the area; go shore up that other building, it's set to take the whole block with it when it goes; tell those civilians on the ground where to go, he can't get a proper read on them and they'll be scared if he orders them from afar.

And it's all going brilliantly. It's not as good as it could be, people are slow and the latency is still strong, but it's less than two thirds what it was before, he doesn't have to ask them to move their eyes and fetch the data for him and send it, he can get it himself as necessary.

Then things blur around him, and he's near a building, and it's one he was just directing people away from a minute ago, and it's collapsing, and he's suddenly cut off from everyone, his range cut from global to less than fifty meters, and he can't do anything but watch and try to run as the building falls and he gets hit by a brick and he trips over some rubble and then his legs get crushed.

And his last thoughts, his last thoughts are that he just knew it would happen, he knew they were fed up with him and the info he had, and he should have known they would try something.

Relay knows he's not supposed to go to the disaster scene itself.

He knows he can work just fine from afar.

But he's fed up of losing people. Of not being available to see what they can, of having the latency where he has to ask them to take an action, of needing to negotiate if they're busy and consider something more important. The people aren't trained to listen to him when he needs them to. The current setup doesn't work.

He needs to get the information faster: he needs to be able to see the scene, be able to pinpoint the people as they send him what they sense. He needs to be able to track the area as a whole, to be able to oversee everything.

It's not just that, though. There are a couple of people in his life, a couple of people who trust him, who are in touch with him constantly, who keep an open channel through their life, who he knows inside and out.

They help, they work to let him feel as though he's there, in near-realtime; they use him to make more informed, more sensible decisions—but they don't respond instantaneously. They're not extensions of him, but instead external nodes, nodes listening him and reporting back to him and acting out what he wants, but only doing so slowly.

Ultimately, though, he's fed up of losing people.

So he's here, at the site of the event itself, having asked a helpful nobody with flight to convey him there, not needing to check in with anybody else.

The situation is weird. It's a weird disaster. Not only is it not consistent throughout – not unheard of, but rare – but it's got the wrong feel. It's like a cartoon. In most of the area, the fliers who are helping the locals are struggling: they're having issues with their powers – overshooting when zipping around, having to resort to manual control. For those on the ground, it's not much better: the bulk of the problem is the constant tremors in the earth beneath them, knocking them over as they try to help evacuate the buildings that slowly crumble around them. But there's something wrong, something he can't put his finger on: there's no single point he can put his finger on, nothing that sticks out as wrong, but it builds up to a picture of wrongness.

He's watching, communicating with – he quick tallies the numbers – ninety three people. Conversations drop and start back up, not all useful, with some people asking him trivial things, but that's the right way to err, that's okay, he can handle that. It's better they ask him. He can organize them, he can request information from them as they wait, he can store it away in case it's useful, have it available if someone asks.

He's tracking the scene, identifying individuals – where they are, where they need to go, what will happen next – and fitting it against what's happening in the area, providing them with what they need to do. Away from that building, your invincibility won't hold. A moment later: Shore up the building to your east: it'll take the whole block with it when it goes. And all the while, he's directing the ground crew around obstacles and blockages, helping get the civilians out.

For once, it's all going pretty well. Not perfectly – the problems are still there, people are slow and the latency is still strong – but it's so much faster, this time: when he needs data on a location, he can look at it with his own eyes, patch in the gaps himself, taking on a lot more responsibility himself instead of needing to request it and wait for the response.

Then, between one moment and the next, things blur around him. He's near a building, now, one he was just directing people away from a minute ago. It's collapsing, small chunks of brick falling from above, and suddenly, he's cut off from everyone: his range is cut, reduced from spanning the globe to less than fifty meters—and he can't do anything but watch, and try to run, as the building falls.

He gets hit by a brick while still desperately screaming out for anyone to help him – he trips over some rubble a moment later, not able to see where he's going – and then his legs get crushed.

His last thoughts, in the fragments of time before he passes out, are simply that he knew it would happen. He'd suspected he was going too far, he'd known the risks going in, and – he had known that it would only be a matter of time, before he would die in a suspicious accident.

Relay knows he's not supposed to go to the disaster scene itself.

He knows he can work just fine from afar.

But he's fed up of losing people. Of not being available to see what they can, of having the latency where he has to ask them to take an action, of needing to negotiate if they're busy and consider something more important. The people aren't trained to listen to him when he needs them to. The current setup doesn't work.

He needs to get the information faster: he needs to be able to see the scene, be able to pinpoint the people as they send him what they sense. He needs to be able to track the area as a whole, to be able to oversee everything.

It's not just that, though. There are a couple of people in his life, a couple of people who trust him, who are in touch with him constantly, who keep an open channel through their life, who he knows inside and out.

They help, they work to let him feel as though he's there, in near-realtime; they use him to make more informed, more sensible decisions—but they don't respond instantaneously. They're not extensions of him, but instead external nodes, nodes listening him and reporting back to him and acting out what he wants, but only doing so slowly.

Ultimately, though, he's fed up of losing people.

So he's here, at the site of the event itself, having asked a helpful nobody with flight to convey him there, not needing to check in with anybody else.

The situation is weird. It's a weird disaster. Not only is it not consistent throughout – not unheard of, but rare – but it's got the wrong feel. It's like a cartoon. In most of the area, the fliers who are helping the locals are struggling: they're having issues with their powers – overshooting when zipping around, having to resort to manual control. For those on the ground, it's not much better: the bulk of the problem is the constant tremors in the earth beneath them, knocking them over as they try to help evacuate the buildings that slowly crumble around them. But there's something wrong, something he can't put his finger on: there's no single point he can put his finger on, nothing that sticks out as wrong, but it builds up to a picture of wrongness.

He's watching, communicating with – he quickly tallies the numbers – ninety three people. Conversations drop and start back up, not all useful, with some people asking him trivial things, but that's the right way to err, that's okay, he can handle that. It's better they ask him. He can organize them, he can request information from them as they wait, he can store it away in case it's useful, have it available if someone asks.

He's tracking the scene, identifying individuals – where they are, where they need to go, what will happen next – and fitting it against what's happening in the area, providing them with what they need to do. Away from that building, your invincibility won't hold. A moment later: Shore up the building to your east: it'll take the whole block with it when it goes. And all the while, he's directing the ground crew around obstacles and blockages, helping get the civilians out.

For once, it's all going pretty well. Not perfectly – the problems are still there, people are slow and the latency is still strong – but it's so much faster, this time: when he needs data on a location, he can look at it with his own eyes, patch in the gaps himself, taking on a lot more responsibility himself instead of needing to request it and wait for the response.

Then, between one moment and the next, things blur around him. He's near a building, now, one he was just directing people away from a minute ago. It's collapsing, small chunks of brick falling from above, and suddenly, he's cut off from everyone: his range is cut, reduced from spanning the globe to less than fifty meters—and he can't do anything but watch, and try to run, as the building falls.

He gets hit by a brick while still desperately screaming out for anyone to help him – he trips over some rubble a moment later, not able to see where he's going – and then his legs get crushed.

His last thoughts, in the fragments of time before he passes out, are simply that he knew it would happen. He'd suspected he was going too far, he'd known the risks going in, and – he had known that it would only be a matter of time, before he would die in a suspicious accident.