Looking at the devastation in front of him Craig's first thought is that the council is going to be very unhappy with him. He scratches his head with a belch caused by an entirely inappropriate breakfast of chicken kebab in pitta from a street vendor whose exact location was probably the pool of bubbling plastic next to the charred lump of rock.
The helicopter flies in low. The scratch of sky on the horizon widens with the dawn. Craig looks behind him, wiping the faint, greasy ash from the undamaged wall and sits down to wait for it. No point trying to run, they have him tracked thanks to the sub-cranial implant oozing microwave data through a small aerial drilled through his skull.
"Look." He sub-vocalises, knowing his remote handlers will pick it up, "I really had no idea. Check my memories. I mean, what kind of idiots keep that kind of fissile material in a populated area?"
He already knows the answer to that. Ever since arriving he has been constantly surprised by the twists and depths to which that stupidity can reach. Besides, whether he know or not, his actions were a little over the top.
The helicopter drops noisily into view, blowing dust into his face. He feels the sparkle of radioactivity against his skin. The door slides open and masked, NBC-suited goons jump down, armed with sprays and clicking measuring devices. Craig stands, his hands held up, palms out.