"We're down to five jets," was the first thing out of his mouth as he pushed open the door and then let it slam closed behind him. He - didn't look great. His jacket was torn, and though he was dry (now) the cut on his forehead had started seeping blood again. The nanites unable to keep up with the demand, with the imPorts dying in droves. His hand went to his collar, pulling the first few buttons of his shirt open to free his throat. There was blood on it. His blood. Not much, but enough.

"I'll be on the first flight out tomorrow."