The fluorescent glare of the wall-mounted television danced across the faces of the gathered scientists, students, and sundry staff members. The journalist was babbling excitedly into a microphone that Jehan thought was too big for her.

Behind her, you could see pieces of shattered walls, jagged fragments of glass mixing with concrete, and metallic shards rising from the debris like tiny blades dotting the landscape. Parked firetrucks could be spied on the peripheries of the screen. Policemen, firemen, and volunteers ran around – sliding in and out of the frame – their expressions ranging from horror to exasperation.

“I’ll bet it’s the Zanyars again,” someone said from deeper inside the room. Jehan didn’t immediately recognize the voice, so it probably wasn’t anyone on his team. Not that it would have surprised him if it was. He had stepped on his fair share of toes during his time at the institute, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this was one of the tiny, petty ways someone decided to get a bit of revenge.

“Oh please,” scoffed another voice that sounded suspiciously like Mehr, Jehan’s secretary. He looked around, trying to locate her; but the room was packed and Mehr was too tiny to be visible amidst the crowd. “This has Birhani tactics stamped all over it. Birhani guerrillas were the ones who first targeted the railways during the war. They have a history of attacking public transport hubs to disrupt communications and steal cargo. I see no reason why these vile terrorists shouldn’t be taking a page from the book of their predecessors.”

The air crackled with tension, as it always did during such discussions. The civil war might have ended decades ago, but some of the scars it had left were still oozing blood.

A fight was about to break out, Jehan could feel it in his bones. He braced himself. Violence, even the possibility of it, still made him dizzy, nauseous. But he could handle it better now than he had during those first few grueling years at the institute.

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“Zip it! And give me a report of all the volunteers we’ve sent out so far, and the ones we’ll be sending later. And keep an eye out for reports of any new attacks.” Dileep’s voice rang out, powerful and assertive, cutting the chatter and speculation short. A few of the younger interns ran out to carry out his orders.

Jehan sighed with quiet gratitude, the tips of his fingers tingling with receding adrenaline. He was reasonably sure he could handle a little scuffle in the office without losing his composure, but he would rather not put his resilience to the test. Not like this, anyway, and definitely not now.

“You alright?” Dileep asked, pushing through the crowd to come stand by his side.

Jehan nodded, torn between gratitude and exasperation at his friend’s persistent protectiveness. He had been a teenager when he first met Dileep. And for some reason, Dileep could never seem to see him as a full-grown adult.

“How many?” Jehan swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Thirty and counting. You know what this means, don’t you? They’ll want to start running controlled trials. Get the first batch ready as soon as possible. We’re not ready, Jehan. Amven isn’t ready yet.”

Jehan closed his eyes and breathed, sucking in the musty air of the overcrowded room. Was that a hint of panic he detected in Dileep’s gruff voice? Well, if there was ever a time when panic was warranted, this was probably it.

The double doors leading into the TV room swung open, the wood panels hitting the walls on each side with a resounding thunk.

The floor receptionist stumbled panting into the room, panic and excitement fighting for dominance on his pudgy face. His eyes swept wildly over the room, before landing on Jehan like a falcon homing in on its prey.

Jehan lifted a brow, waiting for the man to speak. This was it. The moment of reckoning had arrived at last. “Yes?”

“The Prime Minister’s Office called. Dr. Jehan Fasih is to report to the Parliament House as soon as possible. An emergency meeting has been called, in light of…recent events. Dr. Fasih’s presence has been requested personally by the Prime Minister.”

As the young man left, the murmurs and speculation that had subsided after Dileep’s intervention rose again like a tide around the room, threatening to drown him.

Expressing succinctly Jehan’s feelings on the matter as well as his own, Dileep muttered, “Well. Fuck.”