If and When

A Devil Wears Prada Story For the Bards Academy Halloween Challenge

All mail is answered at Kamouraskan@yahoo.com

Chapter 11

Miranda's statement of guilt still hung over them both, regardless of Andréa's attempts to dispel it. Both women continued to stare at the door that seemed to have ended all of their hopes.

Finally, Andréa stood up and put her hand out to the CEO. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I'm not standing in front of a steel reinforced door as if it held any answers. We have to go back up.”

“You know how much I love to repeat myself. But to where?”

“Any where but here. And I will repeat myself. Come on.”

Miranda's ankle and foot were throbbing. Riding down had been painful enough, but as much as she detested weakness, she was not prepared or capable of moving any distance up flights of stairs. But she could understand the girl's need to do something to shatter the melancholy and as one last gift, it was worth the pain. She took the proffered hand, and arm and arm, they picked their way through the rubble up the first flight, stopping at the landing to rest. Under the emergency lighting, she examined her companion. There was a grim set to her face, the lovely eyes were darkened, and the scarf bandage had slipped. Almost as upsetting, was the fresh rivulet of blood running from the scarf down to her eyes. To her poignant amusement, Andréa was still lugging the garment bags in her free hand, and she reached inside for one of the bottles of water.

“Your head must be pounding,” she told her. “Sit. Let me fix your bandage.”

Silently, the reporter hooked the bags over the rail and slumped down.

They hadn't needed the filter masks for some time, and the back knotted portion of Miranda's was relatively clean, so she wet it and carefully cleaned her partner's face. The wound seemed uninfected; there was redness, nothing darker, but the bruising had spread. Most of it, she was satisfied to note, was hidden by the mane of hair that she unconsciously found herself stroking.

Andréa tried to ignore the sting as the wound was cleansed and focussed instead on their surroundings. She looked about the staircase, thinking how much had changed since she had been crouched on a stairwell just like this one, now obliterated, the smashed walls coated in blood. “I keep thinking about that boy, what sent him here.”

“I told you, you can't save everyone.”

“I know, I know that, but… at the end of the article I sent in, just before everything went boom, … I closed it with a verse from the Koran. They probably will edit it out, but, it was… God shows unto all that seek His goodly acceptance the paths leading to peace and, by His grace, brings them out of the depths of darkness.”

“Oh, Andréa”

The building shifted once more and they both tensed until the shuddering stopped. “Do you know what terrorist theory is?”

In their time working together and even afterwards, Miranda would occasionally initiate a surprise conversational thread that seemed designed to challenge Andrea. It could be art, history, the latest application of some technology. Andrea had always given as good as she'd gotten, determined to show Miranda she was capable of arguing on an almost even level, despite the decades of experience the older woman had on her. Strangely, if the conversations were a challenge to Andrea, they were somehow comforting to Miranda. So the question out of the seeming blue did not ruffle her.

“Yes, we covered it in a Poli Sci class. I remember not being sure what shocked me more. That there was a tactical point to all that death and destruction, or that it worked so often. I get so furious every time I hear some politician going on after an attack with the explanation ‘they hate our way of life.' When I know they must at least have been briefed on terrorist theory.”

“So what was it you learned?” The older woman asked.

“That the point is not the bombs or the people killed, but how the establishment, the government responds. If they respond with full authoritarianism, they will abuse the rights and lives of people, radicalising more followers to join the cause of the terrorists.”

Miranda nodded. “I wonder if some people just stumble onto it. Like Manson. He thought disguising his murders as blacks killing whites would provoke a race war where he'd end up on top.”

Andrea thought for a moment, for an appropriate example. “Did a certain group of freedom fighters need to know the theory when they tossed the tea into Boston Square ? But it angered the British enough to make responses that radicalised tens of thousands to rebel.”

Miranda contributed, “In Quebec they had planted bombs for a generation with little reaction. Then they killed the Deputy Prime Minister and the Canadian government sent in the army, suspended civil rights and locked up hundreds without due process. Six years later many of those arrested were being elected in a separatist government.”

Andrea nodded. “ Ireland , bombs killing Mountbatten, nearly killing Thatcher, brought in more army and six years later they are signing the Good Friday Accord in terms no previous government would have agreed to. It does work.”

Miranda sighed. “And of course, the most successful attack of all. 911. Bin Laden or whoever was in charge of that probably couldn't have believed their luck. Talk about getting a reaction? The coalition invaded Iraq for no reason associated with 911. And radicalised millions of Muslims. How many attacks would never have occurred if we had followed the rule of law?”

“But that's the theory. The greater the shock value, the more likely the overreactions. But now it has changed. Every attack now, has us fearing our neighbours, immigrants. Meaning they will never integrate, never feel at home. And that separateness is creating home grown terrorists, extending the cycle. Hatred and fear leading to fear and hatred.”

Miranda sniffed. “Worse, the government is taking advantage of the history ignorant Americans, who know nothing about the crusades or basic geography, that many Muslims see the invasions as the first strike to justify reprisals.”

Miranda knew that Andrea was seeing that boy again, and this was confirmed when she said, “They are lying to these kids. All sides.”

“Like your parents did. About their happy home.”

That startled Andrea. “What, no! Okay, maybe yes, I am a bit sensitive about lying to children because of that, but it's hardly a bad thing for me to feel that way.” She cocked her head to consider. “My parents fake happiness hasn't killed anyone yet. These kids…” And then she heaved a sigh and deflated.

Miranda asked quietly, “What do you want to change, if you could?”

The words came resolutely. “I don't want one single more Muslim kid to be harassed at school because of this.” She waved her hand at the broken walls. “Not one more kid having to see his parents cursed in the streets… because I died. I don't want more bigotry, any more alienation or hate in this world in my name.”

The CEO nodded, and said as firmly as she could, “Then the best way to do that, is to get out of here.”

Andréa didn't move.

“You said, come on.” Miranda looked at Andréa, hating that despair was stealing her strength and tried to keep the brokenness out of her voice. “Andréa…” she began.

“Thank you, Miranda.”

They looked into each other for a short moment, and Miranda nodded as they stood and began to slowly ascend again. As they'd noted on their way down, there had been more serious damage to the walls at this level, and they had to pick their way up the stairs around and under structural supports and broken original decorative mouldings which had been hidden under the plain refurbishments. The door into the 10 th floor had been crumpled near the ceiling and pushed out a few inches, and the doorframe had collapsed into a pile of rubble. To Miranda's eyes, it was still an impenetrable barrier, but Andréa dropped her hand and began climbing up the pile of cracked to peer through the gap at the top.

Miranda held back her worry that the younger woman was straining herself and called up, “I realise that neither of us is a six, but even Twiggy would not fit through that space.”

“We don't have to, we just need to drop something down and hit the whatever you call it, the bar, make it release the catch and open the door.” It was on her lips to ask what difference it would make, but the return of enthusiasm on the other woman's face had her quickly on her knees in more ways than one. She selected a few sections of moulding that seemed thin and heavy enough and passed them up to Andréa. The reporter broke off a few extruding pieces and managed to slip them through the gap. There was a crash and the door shuddered, but nothing more.

To Miranda's consternation Andréa jumped down, but her look of concentration stopped her again from expressing concern. The girl was tapping her fingers against one of the walls, when she asked, “I need something thin and metallic, maybe… the battery panel from the phone?”

“If you will explain what you are thinking,” she stated.

“I don't think dropping large hunks of breakable plaster will move the bar down. We need a gradual press of weight, and that means tying up the plaster and lowering it.”

Miranda looked about them even as she found the phone and slipped off the battery cover. “I doubt if even what's left of that… cloth you have on or even my dress would tie anything or be long enough.”

Andréa nodded and took the offered metal panel. “Yes, but all this wall has been recently panelled, and there should be metal corners we can dig out.” Using the cover's edges, she cut into the wall plaster near the sides of the doorway, revealing a metal mesh. The girl was soon panting with exertion, and Miranda patted her hands and removed the tool to take over the task. With a few additional blows with pointed concrete, the mesh was exposed as an inch wide corner of flexible metal running the length of the doorway frame. Powder sprayed them both as they pulled on the freed section, stopping only when they reached a few tacks that kept it in place. By now Miranda could see the plan and said, “We'll need two to balance.”

Andréa's face lit up with a grin and renewed her attack on the remaining trapped sections. It took another ten minutes, but they soon had two thin strips of metal over six feet long. They were also entirely covered with plaster once more, and both of them were breathing unevenly. A five-minute break was agreed upon. With no furniture, somehow that meant they needed to rest against each other. One of Andrea's long arms pulled Miranda closer, so that they rested with their heads touching, cuddled in the midst of the destruction.

“You know what is strange?”

Miranda stated airily, “I could provide a list.”

Andrea tried to glare, but there was little energy in it. “This is really, well, right.”

Miranda chuckled sadly. “It is. I just wish we had the time to become used to it.”

“So, you and me, it's not just a sort of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I think that would have us bonding with the building, not each other.”

Andrea looked about. “I hate to say it, especially as it was a glorious structure once, but no, I do not have any affection for this building, not anymore. But I have to think, here we are, together, but how much of this is the event, working together like this?”

Miranda leaned closer to Andrea's ear, which tingled with each breath. “If you must know, this is something I have considered for some time before this.”

Andrea leaned back further. “How far?”

“Oh, way back.”

“Since the Chanel boots?”

Miranda pretended to think for a moment. “Well, if you replace the word considered with the proper word.”

“And that would be?”

She drew the word out into several syllables. “Fanaticised.”

Andrea's eyes widened as did her smile. “You really are the greatest motivator I've ever met.”

It took only a glance, and they both were up again, Andréa laying the strips a few feet apart, while Miranda selected a weight. Together they placed it on the metal strips and rolled them until the strips could raise the thin slab of moulding. Andréa climbed up once more, and waited for Miranda to pass their construction to her. Once more she slipped the plaster through the gap, and with Miranda's help, began lowering the weight on the other side of the door. The mesh caught on the top of the door several times, but with trial and error, they found an angle where the drag was reduced. “I feel like a very crude puppeteer up here,” Andréa called down, as she jiggled the strips forward and back. The girl was joking, but Miranda could see the exhaustion and was about to call for another break, when they both heard the sound of the catch moving on the other side.

“I need to have a firmer and smoother drop, and then you need to pull on the door before it catches again, okay?” The straps were aligned, Miranda reached as high as possible to get her fingertips in the lowest part of the gap and… it worked. The door opened a few inches, stopped by the grit and plaster, but it had opened. Andréa collapsed in relief, sliding down the piles of rubble. Miranda leaned forward, grasped her hands and raised her into a grateful hug. “I have no idea how getting in here will help us, but you are a genius.”

Andréa gave a happy if exhausted smile, and shook her head in denial.

“How many compliments do I ever give anyone, you should accept the few that are given, as they are always meant.”

“Sorry. I liked the hug more than the compliments, that's all.”

“That was never in question.”

Miranda raised the cell phone light ahead of them and ventured gingerly in. The smell of old, cracked concrete was thicker inside, but the space seemed much larger than they'd had on the other floors, though there was no discernable light.

She turned to Andréa. “So what are we doing here?”

“We each take a phone and explore, carefully. First things we need to check…”

“Any signal on the phones.”

“Any access to outside to signal anybody.”

“Not likely. I'm not seeing any light at all. We're possibly even more covered by the upper floors.”

“I know, but we look anyway.”

There was a pause until Miranda called out. “No signal here.”

“Check it as we move around, we might get a bar. This is a storage area, let's see what they have.”

Miranda tripped over something unseen but dense and muffled a curse. “What are we looking for?”

“Whatever might be an asset. If you see any explosives, that would be nice.”

Miranda's soft voice drifted across the space, the sting intact. “Yes, let's finish off the building ourselves, shall we? Explosives are like mushrooms, if you're not an expert, leave them alone. I'm not getting any bars, and it's closed in entirely. No windows, no access to the rear elevators.”

“Same. You go right, I'll take the left, let's see what they store up here that we can use.”

For several minutes they opened the few doors that were available, calling out their discoveries.

“More water, but no food.”

“I know you do almost all of the building shipping from here, but a million plus Styrofoam peanuts?”

“Not enough for ten story drop, though.”

“Not unless they were in a big bag or something. Even then… A human body would simply cut right through them and still smash into the ground. Piles of bins with recycled cardboard boxes, about a million of them.”

Miranda chimed in. “Bubble wrap, if you're still considering flinging ourselves out the nonexistent windows.”

“Still ten floors to drop.”

There was some muttering before Miranda called out, “Forklift, with a fully charged battery!”

“I've always wanted to drive one!” Miranda chuckled at Andrea's enthusiasm.

“You are not driving that little thing through any walls. Unless you feel confident it wouldn't collapse the rest of the ceiling.”

There was spurt of noise that shocked them both, until Miranda called back, “Found a radio with working batteries. But I refuse to show you until you agree we are not listening to talk radio again.”

“Fine. Put on NPR, they should be covering this.”

“And end up listening to Car Talk?”

“I love Car Talk!”

“Suddenly my earlier doubts about this relationship are making sense.”

“As long as you're calling it a relationship, I can live without Car Talk.”

They worked in silence for a while, until Andrea asked, “How come there are so many rolls of material?”

“Back drops, as you might expect, also several designers have located themselves in the building and use our departments in exchange for our early previews.”

Andréa examined the rolls, and tore a few sections from them. Miranda was scandalised. “You realise that that roll alone would cost almost one hundred thousand dollars?”

“It's completely valueless now, especially if it couldn't support our weight.”

“You've got an idea?”

“Nothing that works, I'm afraid. Unless we have a lot of time, and we could somehow tie the rolls,” She shook her head. “Even if we had the time to make a rope with them, none of the material could take any weight for any length of time. They'd need to be knotted or sewn with another material and that would take days. There's a solution in here, but I haven't seen it yet.”

The CEO could see that a change of subject was again needed. “Let's see the elevators.” They both moved to the centre, once again in front of a bank of elevators.

“The main ones to the loading areas in the rear are on the side of the building that is closed off to us. The only lifts are these and they require a key.”

“More security?”

“Supervisors let in staff after they clock in. If they aren't using the loading elevators, they shouldn't be transporting anything out of here without permission.”

Andrea shone her light one of the locks. “Instead of prying the lock out, maybe I could…”

Miranda saw where this thought was going. “Any forklift driving will done by me.”

At Andréa's look of inquiry, she replied, “If there is a job in this building that I haven't done, I do not know of it.”

“So, not always the Queen.”

“I miss neither the calluses nor the positions. But I value the experience and knowledge.”

“And we need to look down that elevator shaft.”

With an impressive competence, and almost no false starts, Miranda had the forklift angled and forced between the doors. The machine groaned and complained for a moment, but the small lock had little chance against the hydraulics and the doors cracked open. In the light of the cell phone there was nothing to raise optimism.

“No ladders, even if we were both capable of using them. I can't even see the elevator box. I assume it's smashed up somewhere down in the sub sub basement. So plus two, that makes it twelve stories to jump.”

Andrea frowned. “Okay, my turn to call break. Maybe the radio will give us some ideas.” They slumped down and leaned heavily against each other, and one hand finding the other. The comfort was short lived, as a news report came over the airwaves.

-We take you now to our reporter on the scene, Brenda Cavalios at the Elias Clarke building in central Manhattan .”

-Brian, I'm standing within the vigil outside the former Elias Clarke building.”

“Vigil? There's a vigil? For us?” Andy stared at Miranda, who was speechless.

-There are several thousands people down here with candles and waiting with hope, that somehow a miracle will occur and the heroes of this great tragedy will emerge from this ruin. As the vigil reaches its tenth hour, even the most faithful must be realising how unlikely that might be. Most of the people I've spoken to are employees who escaped the building, and have returned, some with their families, to wait for a most unlikely rescue. Police and emergency crews have forced the group further away from the building as it continues to send down sections of concrete onto the plaza. Earlier on, I was speaking to Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine, someone who knew both Miranda Priestly and Andy Sachs from work and in their personal lives.

-Serena, it is now over ten hours since the first bomb exploded, and yet the police estimate there are over five thousand people in this crowd. What are you waiting for, what could you possibly be hoping for?

-Inside that building are two of the most amazing women I have ever known and I would have said that long before they saved all of our lives tonight. Where else could any of us be, but as close as we could be to them? For them. And,” Here Serena's voice cracked and she paused, “We all need to be with others that might understand how we are feeling.”

-I've noticed you are not allowing bouquets or flowers of any sort to be laid here, why is that?

-We are not here to mourn anyone. This is vigil of hope and prayer.

-For now.

Both women stared, tears gathering in Andrea's eyes, when Miranda broke the moment to grump, “Why is it, just when I feel I can fall into a relaxed calm acceptance of our situation, something comes along to make me feel some sort of obligation to push on?”

Andrea broke into laughter. “Please do not ever change. I love…” She caught herself.

Miranda's eyebrow had risen higher than almost humanly possible. When Andrea stalled and stuttered, she closed off and stated, “Stephen had trouble saying certain things. He also told me he didn't want me to change. Until changing me became a project.”

“Stephen?” Andrea blurted, outraged. “You have all these lists, well do you want mine of how many differences there are between Stephen and I?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“I have seen you at your best and your worst, and everything in between. And I still…”

“Yes?” The older woman prodded.

A long deep breath created a pause, but she managed, “I still fell in love with you. Yes. I love the Dragon, I love the mother… and I love those girls. Stephen,” and the name was spat out with disgust, “…couldn't tell them apart most days.”

“And I should believe this declaration, because?”

“Because… My God, Miranda! Look around. Who would lie, how could I lie at a time like this?”

“And as you asked, how do I know this is not a declaration founded on this situation?”

“Because I knew I was falling hard in Paris . When you sat there, with no make-up, in that grey dressing gown, and you were so, so beautiful.”

“And I pushed you away.”

“I came back. Please don't push me away this time.”

Miranda looked down at her hands. Then whispered, “If and when…”

The radio had been prattling away throughout this, but it was white noise to them, until they heard their names once again.

-More news on the terrorist attack at Elias Clarke. Hope that the heroes of the day, New York natives Andy Sachs and the queen of fashion, Miranda Priestly, might survive has received another blow. Fire has broken out on the fourth floor of the building. And according to sources, burning unchecked. It is believed that the fire is too unpredictable and will cause further collapse of the building, risking what little chance there was that these women could have survived the bombings. The fire spokesperson has told us that they believe a strategic operation to put out the fires will allow for a more controlled collapse in a more enclosed area. Though police and fire departments emphasise that they had been hoping to enter the building to find the heroes of this terrible attack, they will be releasing a statement that the risk to nearby property is too great to ignore this latest fire, and that the full attention of the fire department must be brought to bear. They make their sincere regrets to the families of the heroes, but most experts agree that the extremely small chance that either could be alive is not worth the destruction to property that would definitely occur if this action does not take place. Their prayers are with the families and friends. John Elkhart, NPR, in New York .

Miranda snorted. “Prayers, how generous. That and a fiver will get me a barely decent cup of coffee, and that's only when there was an Andréa about.”

She looked over to her partner, unprepared for the verbal explosion that was unleashed.

“Fuck! FUCK! Jesus! What the HELL?”

“Andréa?”

There was no sign of the optimistic woman who'd fought with her all these hours. Miranda had wondered when the breaking point would be reached, and she found absolutely no joy in the desolation she saw in Andrea's eyes. “We get so close, and then…” She stood, then spun about. “This building really wants us dead! Why is this fucking building trying to kill us? What did we do to it? Now we're going to burn? If we make it through this, will there be plagues of boils? What did you want, God?”

Andréa held up the bits of fabric she'd been picking through and flung them at the wall. “You said I was a genius.” Hot tears streamed down from her eyes. “A genius would be able to figure out how to make explosives from the vats over there. Or rig up a communication system with a coconut.”

Miranda quickly raised herself, stepped over and pulled the reporter into her arms. “Please don't tell me that I need to slap you, now. You are not Macgyver or the Professor from Gilligan's Island . I have spent the past dozen delightful hours in your company continuously under the impression you thought you were immortal, and this, this is what brings that brilliant mind to a boil? I have no intention of suffering through these desperate attempts to stay alive and have them mean nothing. Do you understand?”

Andréa withdrew from the embrace to stare, disbelieving, into Miranda's eyes. “You are ordering me to find a way out of here because you've had to put up with so much?”

“Exactly.”

Andréa shook her head. “It doesn't work that way.”

“It does, my working life is a testament to one fact. Demand the best and you will get it. Andréa? You are the best, and if we survive this, you know I will be like this all the time. Demanding, pushing, prodding you to be the best. Unless you don't think you can handle it.”

There was still some fight left in the younger woman. She tightened their hug. “You mean handle you? I can handle you.”

The CEO looked down to their joined arms. “Manhandling is not the same thing. When I am virtually crippled.”

Andrea ignored her complaint. “I am not going to be pushed and prodded every minute. You are going to have to learn to relax.”

“Do you realise who you are speaking to?”

“Yes, yes, and that's part of handling, manhandling you.”

“If that is all decided, I need to get out of this building. That's all.”

At the familiar command, Andrea let out a watery laugh. “I don't have a way, not one that…”

The Dragon waited. “Yes?”

Andrea's fingers began to tap. “All the ideas I have, need time, and we just ran out.”

“But…?”

Chapter 12

Andy turned to face her former employer.

“I have lots of ideas, but… you won't like them.”

Miranda straightened and frowned. Despite the remnants of the bee suit, despite the blood staining her couture and the speckles of grit coating them both, they suddenly might as well have been back in Miranda's office a year ago. “And why would that be?” she whispered.

Andy tried not to stutter at the unpredicted appearance of the Dragon. “None of them will work.”

Lips pursed. “Then they hardly count as ideas.” Miranda petulantly glanced at her watch. “I know I might have been harsh on you about being rambling in the past, but right now that lesson might be pertinent.”

Andy gathered herself. “First, I do love you in all your dragon glory but cool it down, or I'll never be able to explain! How about if I talk while we work?”

Making an attempt at ‘cooling it, Miranda muttered, “Acceptable.”

“Okay, what I am thinking requires all the packing materials and especially the cardboard boxes moved to the elevator, and since you claim to be the only one allowed to drive...?”

While Miranda very stiffly got in the forklift, something Andy was never going to get tired of seeing, she began pulling out the massive but extremely light bags of Styrofoam peanuts to drag over to the open doorway of the elevator.

“We also need to look at the packing crates. I remember S&R claiming they had very specific ones for the ancient vases you had us bring in.”

“They were amphorae,” the CEO corrected.

“Miranda?”

With a small note of apology, she sniffed, “Yes, well.”

“I was worried about their safety. Shipping claimed the boxes they had could be dropped from airplanes and not shatter the contents.”

“I think that might have been hyperbole.”

“Of course, and anyway, the human body has moving parts.”

“Like spleens. I am given to believe they often separate with large falls. Where would these cases be?”

“I'm sure we can find something expensive, in our size, with some flare.”

That brought a small smile to both faces and the tension reduced accordingly.

There was a complete room filled with cases, mostly aluminum-framed, with a series of layered foam inside, which was to be cut into the shape of the chosen contents. They came in a variety of sizes but few were as large as the ones they needed. One was over six feet, and about two or more feet deep, with special impact foam in three layers. It was still light enough for them to carry over to their loading area.

Meanwhile, Andy continued to explain her terrible idea. “Here's what I was thinking. We can't walk up and even if we could, it was a fluke this floor was accessible.”

“Not a fluke, ingenuity and sweat.”

Andy allowed a small smile at the compliment. “No way to contact or get through to signal from this floor. So I think, the only way out is down. “ She paused, waiting for Miranda to process the information. She could imagine the mind behind those eyes scanning information databases she could only dream of accessing, until there was a curt nod, which exhilarated her as much as it depressed her. “So the only way down at all, is this shaft. Even if there wasn't a fire between the lower floors and us, the material on the rolls out there is too flimsy to slide, rappel or climb down, even if we were in shape to do it. Even if we could knot it together, and that's if we had the time, it wouldn't take the weight of a large dog, much less one of us.”

Miranda took the time to consider each point productively, by driving away, then returning with another load of cartons. Once she had returned, Andy continued. “I thought of somehow trying to get down a few floors, but once we're in free fall, the impact won't change if it's ten stories or eight. “ Miranda had cringed slightly at the word ‘impact' but otherwise was stoic. “Swinging from floor to floor if several are on fire won't work. We have to get right past the fire on the middle floors.”

“On the good side, what we do have is a shitload of bubble wrap and some high tech safety containers. If we create a whole series of layers, with the peanuts and the cardboard, piling it up in the space between the lobby floor and the sub basements, it might absorb the impact enough.”

“Ten stories.”

“Please tell me you can think of anything else, because that's all I got. AND, the crate has to land flat, not spin around, or hit any of the sides of the shaft as we fall in the crate. I haven't figured that out. But I know that any impact on an angle might still preserve your beauty, but scramble our internal organs like eggs. The other problem, is that if we do survive, even if by a miracle we're unhurt at all, we're gonna need help to get out of the case. If we're badly hurt but alive…”

“Needing splenectomies.”

“…we'll need even more help. To open the elevator doors down there, to get out before the Styrofoam peanuts catch fire and roast us in the case.”

Both were silent for a moment.

“I told you I didn't have any good ideas.”

“I thought you were being self-deprecating as usual.”

“Point for future reference? Life on the line? I get a bit serious.”

“Ah future reference. You seem to have recovered some optimism.”

“Only if you're with me on this.”

“I see no alternatives. We have three adversaries, the fire, the firemen and the building, which will succeed in killing us in a few minutes. Possibly between the two of us we might make an impossibility possible once again.”

“That sounds like optimism from you.”

“Andréa. We are going to either burn, or fall. A large fall and I am actually hoping we will not be alive to feel it, because I doubt it would be difficult to feel anything but a cage of pain before death. But I see no other possibilities. ”

Andy raised her fist to half-heartedly pump it. “Yay! That's the spirit.”

While they worked, the building continued to whine and complain, but other than the larger crashes, they were unaware of anything other than putting their mad plan into effect.

When Miranda had hauled another load, Andy was using their little light to make some calculations. “The space down there is about twelve feet by almost fourteen. Each bag should cover about one foot. If we throw down three bags, and then drop two loads of cardboard we can probably fit in eight layers before we reach the lobby level. Then we throw all the couture, bubble wrap and peanuts we have left on top.”

“And we need to find a way to position it somehow and then drop ourselves into that pit.”

Andy nodded. “I know, we need more time.”

“And we still need someone to get us out of our coffin once we land.”

“I know! We don't have the time to do half of that!”

Andy stared at Miranda, who closed her eyes and said. “I'll get more cartons.”

It was just as she was about to turn on the forklift, that the radio interrupted with another Elias Clarke news bulletin.

-We take you back to Brenda Cavalios, Brenda, what is going on there?

The reporter is silent for a moment, allowing the chant from thousands to pour through the speakers.

“ Get Mir-an-dy out! THEN. Put the fire out! Get Mir-an-dy out! THEN. Put the fire out! Get Mir-an-dy out! THEN. Put the fire out!

-Brian, the vigil here is threatening to turn violent. The many thousands of supporters are refusing to give the fire marshals access to the scene. I have Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine once again, Serena, what can you tell me about this protest?”

-Brenda, the fire marshals have told us that their concerns are solely that if the building falls in the wrong direction, it could damage and block the streets and sidewalks before they can be cleared for rush hour. They are risking the lives of those two women because of possible property damage!

-But Serena, you have to know your people can only delay the forces of law.

-If we gain fifteen minutes then that's… something. Or we can force them to get somebody with structural knowledge and the right equipment to enter that building finally and search at least a few floors, then maybe, they can still be rescued.

Serena's name was heard.

-I ' m sorry Brenda, but I need to get back

-Thank you. That was Serena Bundchen, the Artistic Director for Runway magazine and apparently a leading organizer of this attempt to hold off the combined police and fire departments. The fire trucks are now stalled in the streets surrounding the former Elias Clarke building, after several attempts to enter by various routes were stymied by the protesters. The police are trying to reason with them but I think, yes they are calling out to sit on the ground to make it more difficult for the police to clear the area. It is quite the scene. Amongst the white collar staff are many celebrities, models, members of the business elite dressed in finery that would be more suited for a dinner party than a protest, and I don't know if you can hear that Brian, but they have begun to sing, We Shall Not Be Moved.

Both women were frozen in shock. “Holy Cow! We just got ourselves a miracle!”

Miranda got into the cab. “Considering our luck for the last 24 hours, this is only well deserved recompense. We've been granted a few precious minutes, Andrea, let us not waste them!”

Slowly they completed each layer of cardboard, dropping them slowly to get as many as possible to lie flat. Then followed with bags of packing peanuts. Then cardboard again.

Andy rested her aching arms and said, “This is just like making a real terrible lasagna.”

“I'll have you know, I make exceptional lasagna,” Miranda retorted.

“Of course you do, and after our ice cream with sprinkles,”

“I had hoped you were comatose at that point!”

“Nope, first thing, we get the girls and I buy us all ice cream, and you make your exceptional lasagna.”

“It's a date.”

The Lobby doorway, despite how many miles away it seemed to be, could be discerned from the sub basements ones, and they seemed to have reached it with their last layer. All but one roll of bubble wrap was thrown down with the last of the peanuts, “ to give it some stability, ” Andy claimed. They were both completely out of their depth in trying to work out dispersal of impact, but it seemed to make sense. The lobby doorway was almost covered, and now it was time to finish their crate.

Andy looked at it with misgivings. “I feel like we are measuring ourselves for our own coffin.”

“And we're not?”

“I always knew you had a dark sense of humour.”

“Yes, well, if it wasn't dark, there wouldn't be any humour at all right now.”

Andy smiled wanly in agreement. The younger woman looked exhausted, what little was left of the bee suit was covered in a mix of various forms of filth, Styrofoam and dotted with bloodstains. Miranda thought it was time for something she might consider good news. “I believe I might have found a solution to your first problem. The case is five feet by six and a few inches. You say the shaft is twelve by fourteen. If we could fall in the center, we would have three and a half feet on each side, which for a fall of seconds, should keep us clear.”

“And how do we fall from the center?

“This forklift has a remote so that individual workers can use it while not in the cab. Not something the National Safety Council would recommend, but it means we can secure the crate, park the forklift as close to the edge, then extend the forks as far as possible above the shaft. That should be enough to place it in the, uh, drop zone. We can climb into the crate while it is secured, release the clamping with the remote, and… we simply lean back.”

Andy swallowed. “Yes. Lean back.”

“Yes.”

Andy forced a smile. “It's brilliant and all I could have hoped for.”

“Now for our other problem. Having someone out there to open up our coffin right after we lean back.”

Both paced about and Andy brought the only cell phone with any battery left. “If this damn phone would work!” She dropped it on the ground and kicked it in her frustration and despite the debris covered floors, it managed to skitter right across the room. She turned away, holding her head in her hands, when she heard a pinging sound. One eye opened in between her fingers and she turned, tilting her head. Miranda mirrored her position, both looking in the direction of the sound, neither quite believing what it could be.

As if it were a wild animal, Andy approached the mobile phone on the floor cautiously. Miranda, held her arm and cautioned in a whisper, “Don't move it an inch. That might be the only place a signal…”

“I know.” Andy whispered back.

She knelt down several feet from its location, like a supplicant before an altar. Above, there was another concrete slide, but she ignored the screeching noise, the falling dust and waited. Once it was over, she very carefully positioned herself above the phone. Miranda was also holding her breath. “I can see a bar,” she reported. Holding the phone steady on the floor, she pressed the phone button and heard the most perfect music of her life. A dial tone. She could see Miranda's eyes widen as she could hear it as well. Andy swallowed and very delicately pressed the 9 and then the two 1's. There was a ringing tone, a connection made, and voice asked, “Nine One One. What is the nature of your emergency?”

Andy sobbed out, “Oh thank God! This is Andy Sachs, we're in the Elias Clarke building and,” there was a return of the dial tone. Andy cried out, “hello? HELLO?”

Miranda called over, “Did we lose the signal?”

“I think she hung up?”

“Try again.”

She repeated the numbers but received a recorded message that Miranda could not hear. “What is it?”

“It's a warning that making prank or false calls to 911 is a criminal offence and can lead to fines and jail time?”

“What?”

“They've blocked us. They must be getting a lot of people claiming to be us as pranks?”

“Who else can we call? We need someone, downstairs, beyond a police cordon in ten minutes!”

“Do you know Serena's phone number?”

“Only her office extension.”

“Nigel?”

“Call Nigel.”

The familiar number was carefully dialed but before it could be rung, another recorded message came through.

“It says… It says that we don't have sufficient funds to make this call.”

“The Lord seems to enjoy giving and taking away,” Miranda said sourly.

“There's still enough for a text message. Don't say anything that isn't good idea , Miranda. I know this is a long shot but we're out of time and ideas.”

Miranda nodded. “Good idea. You write, I'll make the coffin comfortable.”

Another phrase I never expected to hear. She began to write in text, then deleted it. If this was a last message, it wasn't going to be truncated any more than it had to be. She had space, and if it was their last communication, it might as well be in the long form.

Andy carefully hit ‘send' and waited as the wheels turned. It flashed, ‘message sent' and she felt like a sailor throwing a bottle with a message into the sea. She called over, “I wrote…”

“Whatever you sent, will be fine.”

“I explained what we needed, but in case… I told Nigel to tell the girls you loved them, and fought every minute to get back to them.”

Miranda closed her eyes, breathed, and allowed a single tear to slip under the lids. “See, I was right to trust you.”

Meanwhile, she'd cut out two large body shapes in the inner foam.

Andy called over, “Remember it has to be large enough for us wrapped in bubble wrap as well. And separate figures. When we land, we should bounce. So no matter how much I want to be holding you, when, we need to be wrapped. Apart.”

“I know, though God know how even I can accessorise bubble wrap.”

“Better hope the garment bags are nearby. Because the Devil emerging from the flames is going to be on every paper tomorrow,” Andy joked.

“If you must know, ever since Nigel described it, I have been waiting all evening to see you in that Chanel. If and when, if there's any chance… we might look at photos of this night, I do not want to be reminded of that despicable bee costume or holding it while you… you seemed to be, bleeding to death… in my arms.”

Seeing the anguish that was only slightly under control in the other woman's face, Andy could only say, “Oh, Love…”

Miranda froze. “Love?”

“That's what you took from that?”

“Are we a couple that has affectionate nicknames?”

Yup,” Andy asserted. “Though I think I was just testing that one. Love.” She tasted the word on her tongue, and looked into the eyes of her partner. “Yeah, that's a start.”

Miranda gave her a rare true smile.

Andy pursed her lips playfully. “In fact…”

The CEO rolled her eyes. “You always have to take that next step, don't you?”

“If this works, maybe I get to call you sugar muffin!”

Miranda choked. “Death before dishonour!”

“Stop quoting Nancy Blackett and get our coffin ready.”

“It is done.”

Andy measured the space with her eyes. “Of course if there's no one to open the coffin, I'd like to think of it as a romantic funeral pyre.”

Miranda gave a dark chuckle. “Or the building could collapse while we're burning, and the fire hoses put it out just in time for our burned bodies to be crushed to death.”

“Ah. Like witches then. That's a whole other kink for me.”

“You are so damned determined to be positive, and I could kiss you.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Andrea…”

Andy backtracked, seeing the woman's distress. “Or, I could wait until we're downstairs.”

“I think,” and the older woman stopped. “You are so perfect, so obliging. I know I haven't been properly demonstrative, and despite some occasional innuendo, not truly showing how much I…”

Andy interrupted. “Miranda, I get it. We're under pressure, basically at work.” She gestured about their space, “Sort of in the office. We will always have to be professional about work. For now, innuendo will be fine, as long as the tease ends once we're safe and alone.”

“I look forward to being downstairs.”

The rolls of bubble wrap were laid on the floor, but Andy stopped. “I have to change.”

Miranda threw up her hands. “Thank god! But into what? You can't wear the Chanel with bubble wrap!””

“Not changing everything. Yet. I found a bag of fresh panties in the drawers, I'm gonna change into one. I'm squishing a bit. I think some of the blood from my head puddled down there. Dead or alive, my mother would insist I have on clean underwear. When and if, I'm pretty sure after that fall I'll probably need to change them again.”

“That is, fine, I will wait to change after, if and when, myself.” She stopped and watched as the other woman shimmied out of her pants without any shyness. “Do you often strip in public, Andrea?”

She stopped to grin. “Public? Only friends here. Very close friends.” The Eyebrow rose. “Friends that apparently take off and occasionally leave underwear behind.”

Miranda chuckled. “One swallow does not a summer make.”

“You can consider yourself welcome to leave underwear at my apartment at the soonest opportunity.”

Miranda mounted the cab. “I do not recall visiting your apartment and yet I can picture it somehow…”

“Hey! Stop denigrating my home in your imagination. There's nothing wrong with it that a pair of your panties on the floor couldn't fix.”

The moment was broken as a sharp scent eased its way up the elevator shaft. Andy tensed. “Not good. I can smell smoke.”

Despite all their preparations, it took another five minutes to get the crate mounted and secured on the lift, and then move the forklift so it was almost hanging over the elevator shaft. Andy rolled herself in the bubble wrap, which was flexible enough she could stand and shuffle up to the elevator. Miranda took her place with the wrap. “I'll need to keep one arm free for the remote and to close the door once we're in.”

Andy clambered up the side of the lift to where their box waited. “You're not going to push me over once I'm inside, are you?”

“We're going to drop together.”

There was nothing Andy could say to that, other than, “Wow.”

“Yes, wow. I believe this is truly what some would call a leap of faith.”

“And if not, we fought till the end, right? And I can't imagine anyone else at my side, at the end.”

“I was about to say that you shouldn't read too much into it.”

“That you want to die with me, you mean?”

“Yes that. I was going to correct you before you became over dramatic, but to my…”

“Horror?”

“Surprise,” Miranda corrected. “I realised that would be a lie. We may be here under circumstances I wish anything could have been avoided… but I know there is truly no one I would want to rush into battle or certain death than you.”

Miranda straightened her shoulders. “Let's do this.”

Soon they were both snuggly pressed into the molds of the crate. Miranda's free hand held the remote. Perched above the ten-story drop, neither woman could look at the other. Andy said, “I think my anticipation for this moment was underrated.”

The smoke had begun to thicken. She added, “There better be someone down there soon.”

“This is madness, but I truly hope to see you there, or perhaps in another place.”

“We just lean back, right?”

“WE do it on three,” Miranda instructed.

“See you downstairs, Love.”

“I hope to…darling.”

“All in, Miranda.”

“All in, Andrea.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

And they leaned backwards…

And fell.

dwpdwpdwdwpdwpdwdwpdwpdwdwpdwpdw dwpdwpdwdwpdwpdw dwpdwpdwdwpdwpdwdwpdwp

Fifteen minutes before, at Miranda's townhouse, Emily had been hanging up the phone. “Cara's here. I was thinking…”

“Serena's right. What she said on the radio. We all need to be with people who might understand.”

“I'll call Roy . He'll know someway to get us close to the vigil.”

The car arrived, and the two coworkers slid into the familiar seats, all three occupants trying not to mention the massive void of the missing passenger. They were on their way, when Nigel's phone buzzed with another text message, and he groaned.

Emily looked over and suggested, “Ignore it. It's just another of the five hundred messages from the press, crazies or more spam. Do what I did. Delete them all and anything important will be resent tomorrow.”

He rubbed his eyes before nodding agreement. He opened up the text window, finger hovering over ‘delete all'. He rubbed his eyes again, and asked, “Andy's parents have your private number, right? I won't be losing anything from them?”

“No worries.”

“Okay.” Then he hit delete.