Ten hours in: Stark Penthouse
The interior decorator would have had a fit.
The vast majority of the furniture (lovingly chosen, supposedly inflammable, shoved to the far wall) had been moved out of the way to accommodate the demands of the new guests. The space next to the screens themselves, tracking little blips all over the Eastern seaboard, was reserved for the respite area. A number of doctors, white-coated and rubber-gloved, and medical supplies were clustered to one side and a (significantly necessary and possibly as important) station with coffee and cots, was clustered to the other.
They had ceased to be bright and buoyant on the comm lines. Voices had become clipped, terse with exhaustion and fractured with pain. The background noise was something Pepper had strained to hear before giving up; it was more worrying and frustrating to try and work out who was injured and who wasn't when they all were pushing through. But it was into the tenth hour of fighting that seemed non-stop. Practically, they couldn't go forever.
Pepper sat behind the bank of screens, in a clean shirt over the dirty jeans she'd been wearing on the slaver ship and a cup of coffee steaming on the desk, her comm muted for much of it as the various news reports scrolled in real-time.