Lunge said nothing. The sirens had, admittedly, come as a genuine shock after the aching silence of the intercom, and I.R.I.S.'s voice had seemed a gross intrusion, flat and withered and faltering like a run down battery. That said, he'd chosen not to be surprised when the ripple of light coloured the world around him with the pink of what seemed almost to be some sort of force-field, though he had no means by which to test the veracity of his assumption- admittedly, he'd never expected "Code Red" to be so literal, but then if he let every little thing catch him off guard here he'd be dead before he'd even left his room.

But, willfully stoic as he was, even he couldn't deny that there was some undercurrent setting him on edge. He'd tried to avoid any empty speculation on the cause of the alarms to begin with- the failed missions? the meetings with Berg? some outside force finally striking back?- but it was impossible and perhaps even suicidal not to consider what they meant for the future. Why had they set off the force-field, if that was what it was? Interesting, considering that it only appeared to extend as far as his surroundings: as he turned his hands over, Lunge found that they were without the same reddish glow. Why were they protecting the building? It seemed to imply that an attack had taken place or was expected to take place later-- but then, he supposed he would find that out when he left.

Of course he was going to leave. He had to meet L, after all. Part of him, the more sympathetic side of his nature, calmly agreed that he was being reckless, but pointed out that it would have been ridiculous for him to simply sit and wait for answers to come to him. The specific sort of danger he would end up in, after all, would be revealing in itself.

When Dent left, he calmly began to change. If there had already been an attack, who was it on? Presumably the higher-ups- maybe even Aguilar himself. By whom? Perhaps a mole. Berg had been reluctant to discuss Lydia, for one thing, so there was a chance that she'd decided to make a comeback of sorts.

He paused when he got to the shoes. As much as he'd rather have worn his loafers, it seemed more sensible to be prepared to run or fight on tonight of all nights: with a little effort he pulled his military boots back on, tucking the legs of his pants into the tops. There. Much more practical. The radio went into his trench coat pocket.

With that set, he took his hunting knife and flashlight- it wasn't needed with the red glow, but who knew how long that would last?- and left for the night.