This far uptown, the streets are eerily still. To be sure, frantic presences scream out their panic from the buildings around him, but people have largely cleared the streets. Everyone is being ushered into basement shelters. He ignores the shouts that beckon him inside as he pelts southward. Sirens pierce his skull from all sides. He can hear the approaching whine of fighter jets. Just like the last time (the stink of bodies, the stink of metal, the stink of fear), only – there’s a strange tremble in the air, a cracking hum that draws him like a magnet.
A distant explosion rocks the pavement, and he nearly loses his footing. He needs to move faster. The explosions, the sound of gunfire – this is all going on far longer than a terrorist attack. What nation could be insane enough to unleash a military assault on Manhattan? And what strange airplanes could make those noises?
He slips through a line of rapidly appearing police barricades at 96th, and his heart sinks at the close call. It will only be harder from here, as he approaches New York’s newest Ground Zero (as he gets ever-nearer the fire and the fear). He thinks he could navigate the rooftops, but he’s kept the acrobatics to a minimum for the last decade and he needs to save his strength for the final stretch. He can cut across Broadway’s diagonal, and once he’s south of Columbus Circle…
But then there’s a full line of vehicles that might as well be tanks at 71st. Behind them, a crowd of people stand with their phones in the air. Matt slows and mimics their pose to catch the conversation.
“...like a giant metal snake, what the hell?”
“The beam on Stark Tower, what the…?”
“Fucking Iron Man! Fuck that guy, I always said! Don’t fuck around with robots!”
A man next to him dissolves into hysterical giggles. “Is this literally a robot attack? Are we all going to be killed by robots? Robots, oh my God!”
Robots? Snakes? This information is as incomprehensible as the alien buzz in the air from whatever is swarming Midtown. Apparently it makes no more sense to people who can see.
Matt senses the awful rending of pylons before the screams began. A building is collapsing to his south and east, right in the gleaming heart of the city. He thinks of all the landmarks that stand between him and Stark Tower – of all the people – and bites back a sob.
“That’s it, we’re getting you off the streets,” an official-sounding man barks from the line of massive vans. “Let’s move!”
Matt takes a couple steps back. Perhaps, if he’s smart, he can cut through the park and emerge where people need help. But… This is bad. This is very, very bad. This isn’t a single suicidal fanatic leaving carnage in his wake. This is a full-out attack on his home – an attack by, by terrorist robot snakes? And he has no idea if the chaos will stay contained or if will make its way uptown.
Maybe this is where he’s supposed to be, preparing for whatever is to come. Maybe he’ll be just as needed right here. He wishes he could have at least made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, back to the streets that are truly his, but the Upper West Side will have to do for now. He lets himself be herded into a Trader Joe’s below street level.
This is a mistake.
The subterranean concrete box is packed with panicked bodies, all adrenaline with nowhere to run. Things are reasonably quiet, all considered, but the thrum of anxiety emanating from below is as bad as any shouting. Halfway down the stairs, he tries to reverse course, to escape this pen of trapped animals waiting for their deaths.
“Hey, buddy!” a thin man shouts as Matt elbows him.
“Hey, hey!” A cop this time, judging by the authority in his voice. He’s standing at the top of the stairs. When Matt keeps moving against the current, he places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Sir, you need to get below ground. We’re clearing the streets.”
“I can’t,” he stammers, “I can’t go down there. Claustrophobic.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but better cramped than dead.”
“I need to get out!” He isn’t helping the situation. Heartbeats around him spike to a fever pitch at the threat of a further disturbance.
“Sir, we need everyone to work together right now. We can’t protect you out there. Now turn around.”
“Come on, dearie.” A matronly woman grabs for his shoulder and he flinches away. “Let’s get you seated somewhere. I’ll get you something to drink downstairs.”
And what option does he have? To fight his way up a crowd of civilians, past an irate cop and into a line of military vehicles? The strange sky calls to him – but he doesn’t dodge the woman’s second grab at his arm. He lets her guide him downward.
She’s trying to chatter something soothing, and he can feel her regaining control over her own body at finding someone else to help, but he ducks away from her as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs.
People are whispering, praying, crying. There’s not much room to move, but he stumbles towards a corner where he hopes the press of terror will be muted by the earthy smells of the produce displays.
He parks himself at the base of a container of onions, arms clenched around his knees, and he tries not to shake himself apart as the ground rumbles around him.
Re: FILL 2/?: "The Incident"? Is that what we're calling it now?
This far uptown, the streets are eerily still. To be sure, frantic presences scream out their panic from the buildings around him, but people have largely cleared the streets. Everyone is being ushered into basement shelters. He ignores the shouts that beckon him inside as he pelts southward. Sirens pierce his skull from all sides. He can hear the approaching whine of fighter jets. Just like the last time (the stink of bodies, the stink of metal, the stink of fear), only – there’s a strange tremble in the air, a cracking hum that draws him like a magnet.
A distant explosion rocks the pavement, and he nearly loses his footing. He needs to move faster. The explosions, the sound of gunfire – this is all going on far longer than a terrorist attack. What nation could be insane enough to unleash a military assault on Manhattan? And what strange airplanes could make those noises?
He slips through a line of rapidly appearing police barricades at 96th, and his heart sinks at the close call. It will only be harder from here, as he approaches New York’s newest Ground Zero (as he gets ever-nearer the fire and the fear). He thinks he could navigate the rooftops, but he’s kept the acrobatics to a minimum for the last decade and he needs to save his strength for the final stretch. He can cut across Broadway’s diagonal, and once he’s south of Columbus Circle…
But then there’s a full line of vehicles that might as well be tanks at 71st. Behind them, a crowd of people stand with their phones in the air. Matt slows and mimics their pose to catch the conversation.
“...like a giant metal snake, what the hell?”
“The beam on Stark Tower, what the…?”
“Fucking Iron Man! Fuck that guy, I always said! Don’t fuck around with robots!”
A man next to him dissolves into hysterical giggles. “Is this literally a robot attack? Are we all going to be killed by robots? Robots, oh my God!”
Robots? Snakes? This information is as incomprehensible as the alien buzz in the air from whatever is swarming Midtown. Apparently it makes no more sense to people who can see.
Matt senses the awful rending of pylons before the screams began. A building is collapsing to his south and east, right in the gleaming heart of the city. He thinks of all the landmarks that stand between him and Stark Tower – of all the people – and bites back a sob.
“That’s it, we’re getting you off the streets,” an official-sounding man barks from the line of massive vans. “Let’s move!”
Matt takes a couple steps back. Perhaps, if he’s smart, he can cut through the park and emerge where people need help. But… This is bad. This is very, very bad. This isn’t a single suicidal fanatic leaving carnage in his wake. This is a full-out attack on his home – an attack by, by terrorist robot snakes? And he has no idea if the chaos will stay contained or if will make its way uptown.
Maybe this is where he’s supposed to be, preparing for whatever is to come. Maybe he’ll be just as needed right here. He wishes he could have at least made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, back to the streets that are truly his, but the Upper West Side will have to do for now. He lets himself be herded into a Trader Joe’s below street level.
This is a mistake.
The subterranean concrete box is packed with panicked bodies, all adrenaline with nowhere to run. Things are reasonably quiet, all considered, but the thrum of anxiety emanating from below is as bad as any shouting. Halfway down the stairs, he tries to reverse course, to escape this pen of trapped animals waiting for their deaths.
“Hey, buddy!” a thin man shouts as Matt elbows him.
“Hey, hey!” A cop this time, judging by the authority in his voice. He’s standing at the top of the stairs. When Matt keeps moving against the current, he places a hand on the gun at his hip. “Sir, you need to get below ground. We’re clearing the streets.”
“I can’t,” he stammers, “I can’t go down there. Claustrophobic.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but better cramped than dead.”
“I need to get out!” He isn’t helping the situation. Heartbeats around him spike to a fever pitch at the threat of a further disturbance.
“Sir, we need everyone to work together right now. We can’t protect you out there. Now turn around.”
“Come on, dearie.” A matronly woman grabs for his shoulder and he flinches away. “Let’s get you seated somewhere. I’ll get you something to drink downstairs.”
And what option does he have? To fight his way up a crowd of civilians, past an irate cop and into a line of military vehicles? The strange sky calls to him – but he doesn’t dodge the woman’s second grab at his arm. He lets her guide him downward.
She’s trying to chatter something soothing, and he can feel her regaining control over her own body at finding someone else to help, but he ducks away from her as soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs.
People are whispering, praying, crying. There’s not much room to move, but he stumbles towards a corner where he hopes the press of terror will be muted by the earthy smells of the produce displays.
He parks himself at the base of a container of onions, arms clenched around his knees, and he tries not to shake himself apart as the ground rumbles around him.