Yelena makes a quiet noise of agreement, her gaze still fixed on the hollow in the sand.

After a moment, she scrubs her hands over her hair, dislodging a small cloud of grit, and rolls her shoulders. Her armour reassembles almost in real time, locking away dread and guttering adrenaline behind her usual mask of casual practicality.

"If they spin it as some kind of toxic spill, they can probably borrow extra manpower for a little while."

Which they direly need, given how threadbare everyone's been worn by the blizzard-that-wasn't and the endless stream of disasters both petty and genuine.