He’s in the library when he feels the first impact in his bones. It’s a sensation that he hasn’t felt since he was 15. He didn’t know what it meant, at first, but he can never forget it. Now he knows (the whole world knows) what such an impact in Manhattan can mean: death, chaos, war. It means a city on lockdown, a city in shock and bereavement. It means the stink of hot metal and blood and tears and fear – months of strange dust choking his lungs and settling into his skin.
Seconds later, another impact near the first. Somewhere downtown, somewhere dense with skyscrapers and fragile human lives. God have mercy. God have mercy. He sits there a moment (once he stands, he knows the world will never be the same again), his mind racing through where Foggy might be. Lounging around their apartment, probably, unless unless unless he had gotten bored of the sleepy university and slipped away to lose himself in the press of his native haunts in midtown.
He fumbles for his phone, orders it to call Foggy. Heads around him whip up and someone makes a disapproving snort. The phone rings once, twice, three time. Matt can barely breathe.
Then he picks up. “Matt, buddy, what’s up?”
“Foggy, where are you?” (“What the hell?” the woman next to him hisses.)
“I’m just in the room with con interp and Adventure Time. Is something –”
“Stay there. Don’t leave. Please. I’ll see you…I’ll see you soon. Just don’t go anywhere.”
“What the hell’s going on? Are you okay?”
Across the reading room, someone gasps out a sudden sob. “Holy shit! Everyone, check the news. There’s an attack happening! Here! In Manhattan!”
The pressure in the room skyrockets like in a shaken Coke bottle as everyone’s fight-or-flight responses simultaneously engage. There’s a mad grab for phones, the frantic fluttering of fingers across keys.
“Oh no no no no no, a plane into a building –”
“Christ, not again –”
“Dad? Dad? Are you there?”
(Matt, Matt, Foggy is shouting on the other end of the line.)
“Looks like Midtown –”
“My fiancé works in Midtown!”
“Wait, look at this picture on Twitter! What the hell is that thing?”
Outside, an alarm begins to sound. Matt stands, tells Foggy to be safe, hangs up his phone, and makes his way purposefully towards the doors. Out on the street, people are screaming, crying. The cars on Amsterdam have all come to a stop. There are strange vibrations in the air, somehow more sinuous that the rumbling of planes – but they are all to the south of where he stands. He feels another screeching impact. Downtown, people are dying. Buildings are coming down, and people are doubtless trapped under the rubble. They won’t have much time to be found.
Matt hates the noise, the panic, the sharp chemical smells. But he knows that he’s better than any bloodhound at finding people. He’s needed.
He slips his glasses into his pocket, drops his cane, and begins to run.
FILL 1/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
Seconds later, another impact near the first. Somewhere downtown, somewhere dense with skyscrapers and fragile human lives. God have mercy. God have mercy. He sits there a moment (once he stands, he knows the world will never be the same again), his mind racing through where Foggy might be. Lounging around their apartment, probably, unless unless unless he had gotten bored of the sleepy university and slipped away to lose himself in the press of his native haunts in midtown.
He fumbles for his phone, orders it to call Foggy. Heads around him whip up and someone makes a disapproving snort. The phone rings once, twice, three time. Matt can barely breathe.
Then he picks up. “Matt, buddy, what’s up?”
“Foggy, where are you?” (“What the hell?” the woman next to him hisses.)
“I’m just in the room with con interp and Adventure Time. Is something –”
“Stay there. Don’t leave. Please. I’ll see you…I’ll see you soon. Just don’t go anywhere.”
“What the hell’s going on? Are you okay?”
Across the reading room, someone gasps out a sudden sob. “Holy shit! Everyone, check the news. There’s an attack happening! Here! In Manhattan!”
The pressure in the room skyrockets like in a shaken Coke bottle as everyone’s fight-or-flight responses simultaneously engage. There’s a mad grab for phones, the frantic fluttering of fingers across keys.
“Oh no no no no no, a plane into a building –”
“Christ, not again –”
“Dad? Dad? Are you there?”
(Matt, Matt, Foggy is shouting on the other end of the line.)
“Looks like Midtown –”
“My fiancé works in Midtown!”
“Wait, look at this picture on Twitter! What the hell is that thing?”
Outside, an alarm begins to sound. Matt stands, tells Foggy to be safe, hangs up his phone, and makes his way purposefully towards the doors. Out on the street, people are screaming, crying. The cars on Amsterdam have all come to a stop. There are strange vibrations in the air, somehow more sinuous that the rumbling of planes – but they are all to the south of where he stands. He feels another screeching impact. Downtown, people are dying. Buildings are coming down, and people are doubtless trapped under the rubble. They won’t have much time to be found.
Matt hates the noise, the panic, the sharp chemical smells. But he knows that he’s better than any bloodhound at finding people. He’s needed.
He slips his glasses into his pocket, drops his cane, and begins to run.