<span style="font-weight: bold">Naomi Thompson</span><br/><br/>I burst into the briefing room. Xarces… excellent, the new guy, Cee-something, a couple of others. “Hey boys, got a hot one!” I shouted.<span style="font-style: italic">Technically</span>, we’re not<span style="font-style: italic">quite</span>on shift yet, but the day-crews have had an exhausting one, and the senior field responders who manage it them will appreciate being able to clock off on time, rather than starting a fresh call that could last hours into our shift. The sole vorish daughter of a mundane couple, I always felt a little out-of-place amongst the thoroughbreds, no matter how many stockboys we downed at the bar together after a hard shift’s work. It<span style="font-style: italic">mattered</span>for me to go the extra mile, not just now and then but every time. “Move your tushes,” I called over my shoulder as I ducked back out of the briefing room and ran for the response car. They’d be hard on my heels, if they knew what was good for them...