Poll workers pour out of the building. None of them, even after they've slowed to include only stragglers, seem to be worrying about anyone left behind.

Hotter, faster, the fire helicopters are here now and Bell slams on the heat, it has to make sense for the suppressants they're dropping to do no good. Burn, burn, burn, they have to be unable to use the dome. Wreckage starts falling; there are gaps in the burning roof now, and she can't control non-contiguous parts, so those behave as fire naturally does inside, burning booths and ballots and the roped-off indicators of where to stand in line and the insipid little cheese platters. Bell presses the fire down, to ground level, so if any of the separated pieces get overexcited and spread, she can regain control.

There is no longer any conceivable way that there will be voting accomplished in the Memorial Dome today.

But it's not yet implausible for the fire not to have spread.

So she goes on just a bit longer before she lets it succumb to insistently sprayed suppressants, and lets out a breath, grinning.