Clara Vance clawed desperately at the braided copper patch-cords biting into her throat.
The stiff wires hissed with static electricity, smoking against the collar of her blouse.
Her breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps as her heels kicked against the iron rungs of her switchboard stool.
Elena Rostova raised her heavy surgical shears at the edge of Station 3, her boots poised on the boundary line.
Marcus Cole’s stainless-steel prosthetic arm tensed at Station 4, pneumatic fluid hissing from the wrist gasket.
“Hold your stations!” Julian Vance roared.
His voice cracked across the sales floor like a whip.
Julian did not step off his rubber mat.
