A team of reds, neatly uniformed, wearing covers over their shoes, drives up and spills out of their truck to take the bodies and do a first-pass cleanup.

One with burgundy hair puts her hands behind her back and slowly approaches a living Elf on the scene. "Sir please excuse me I don't wish to interrupt but may I ask how you prefer the bodies of Elves be handled?"

"I - Prince Nelyafinwe'd be the one to know, and - can you wait a few minutes, we've told family, they're coming - if the chips survived we need those back -"

"Yes sir, we can wait. How will you want the chips cleaned, sir?"

"I don't know - uh, sorry, not upset with you - don't do anything to them for now, rather offend the Tapai than lose some data -"

And a shuttle arrives, and more Elves spill out. They stand there, very still, for several minutes, even though they've already seen it all from several angles on the way there, and then they rush over. They are not at all appropriately careful of the bodies.

Someone directs him at the red with questions, since he's a prince and not one of the one's who'll be mourning a brother. "Hi," he says. "I think none of your cleaning agents would be a problem for the chips but let's not risk it, can you just rinse them with water and then package them and return them?"

Her thumb flicks a corner of magazine sticking out of her pocket. "That's... not an approved procedure for returning valuables, sir... I don't wish to inconvenience you but we might be in very serious trouble if someone found out and we hadn't been expressly told by our mediating officer..."

Sigh. "Who's your mediating officer -"

She gives him a name and an email address.

"I'll ask them, then - just please don't lose track of them, if we have the chips we can get them back -" he notices the magazine. He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes sir, we'll be very careful with the chips. Is there anything we need to know to remove them safely?"

"They're - fairly attached to the spine - you won't break them trying to pry them off -"

"They won't be scratched?" She tries to stuff the magazine cover more discreetly into her pocket; it uncrumples wrong and falls out. She snatches it up before it can blow away but not before he gets a look at the photo of Macalaurë kissing Peka.

"Hard to scratch." He smiles weakly at the picture.

She shoves it back in her pocket. "Yes sir."

"You know her?"

"- yes sir."

He closes his eyes. "We're gonna - gonna get you all out -"

"...thank you, sir?"

"Findekáno."

"- I don't know any Quenya, sir -"

"It's my name. What's your name - I can tell Peka I ran into you -"

"Kesa, sir."

"How do you know her?"

"- we used to date, sir..."

For some reason he's crying.