It was a roaring city of lights, skyscrapers reaching up with their metallic limbs to climb to the heavens. People's voices rattled off of the alleyways, the streets, the buildings, muddled and mixed together until one voice couldn't be distinguished from the crowd. Car horns blared, shoes clicked against the concrete, chair legs scraped the pavement, and door chimes rang and shivered. It was a normal day like any other, the sky clear blue and wide and open, with planes making their daily runs through the air. As people hustled to get to their destinations, others strolled down the sidewalks and streets, going nowhere in particular. Life was pretty good, and Alfred Jones agreed with that statement completely.

At 7:32 in the morning, the young, blonde-haired and blue-eyed American pushed through the crowd, earning a few glares and he promptly mumbled an apology once in awhile. Jeeze, city folk could be pissy sometimes. Unlike some who were reluctant to walk any faster than an inch an hour—blame it on the shitty office jobs—he was in a hurry. He cursed his stupidity for staying up until three in the morning watching horror movies, alone, after coming home from a world meeting hosted by England the day before. Now he was going to be late to work because of his alarm clock, which had conveniently decided to bust on him that said night. He didn't even have time to stop by McDonald's for a quick bite, which was a sort of ritual for him. He didn't even get coffee. Coffee. How in the holy hell did anyone expect him to stay awake during the business meetings now?

Then again, if he could survive the world conference meetings and the, for lack of a better word, chaos, he could handle a few more business meetings about upcoming projects, the new data and file system, wages, stocks, complaints, overview of data, business deals...

Heaving a sigh, he adjusted his glasses and attempted one more final and slightly aggressive hand through his hair, trying in vain to settle that one lock that wouldn't stay down like the rest of the hair on his head. When that failed he simply shook his head before pushing the doors open, walking into the clean lobby. As always, he greeted the front desk clerk, who was casually typing and peering at the bubbled screen of the computer from behind her glasses.

"Morning."

"Hello Jones."

Ah shit. He'd never remember her name, though she had remembered his every time he came in. Deciding to work on perfecting his people skills, he climbed up the stairs and hustled to the meeting room.

It was 8:05 a.m. on a relatively normal Tuesday morning, America busy and bustling as always. He would attend the business meeting and start an argument with a grin; but hey, that was normal. He meant good by it, anyways. He'd probably receive a few suggestive looks from his coworker and look anywhere but in her direction. Maybe the pen in front of him was interesting. Yeah. Black, medium ink with a clear casing. He glanced out of the window, looking out at the World Trade Center and admiring the twin towers absently. His country had come a long way.

It was a calm day, nothing new and everything set in stone. Nothing exciting so far, but nothing to worry about. Alfred knew in about a half hour he'd make up an excuse to get out of the meeting room and grab some coffee across the street.

What he didn't know, was that in forty minutes the great nation of America would collapse to its knees as the ground trembled and the towers burned.

Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he peered past the line of people leading all the way into the coffee shop, weaving out the building and down a block to where he stood.

Well.

He glanced down at his watch. 8:42 a.m. It would take at least twenty minutes to get his coffee and hurry back to the meeting before he was busted for ditching that long. Of course, it didn't bother him though. With a grin he pulled out his cell phone. He wouldn't be missed too much, so why not make the best of his time? He dialed Amelia's number and placed the phone to his ear, checking his watch again. For some reason, he was getting anxious. Why? Something in the back of his neck crawled and he tried to shrug it off.

"Hello?"

Smiling at her voice, he pushed away the worry away to the back of his mind.

"Hey, 'Melia~! How are you?" He grins.

"Bored as hell over here. I don't see why we have to deal with all this business stuff. Jones, whatever did you get us into now?" She scoffed, but he heard the sarcasm and a grin in her voice.

"Let me guess: You sneaked out and got some "coffee" as well?" He clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk, miss Amelia. I do believe that's a sneaky move right there."

"Oh hush it, you," she retorted, "as if you're not doing the same! What was that at the end, something along the lines of "I am taking a coffee break as well so I decided to call Amelia to pass the uncanny amount of time I have?"

"Meh."

"I'll take that as a yes good sir."

Hearing a laugh at the other end he just rolled his eyes with a smirk. He glanced back down at his watch; 8:44. Sighing, he shrugged off the shiver that ran up his spine. His head snapped up suddenly and he glanced around; he could have sworn he heard crying...

"Al? You there?" There was a pause. "…Are you feeling okay?"

"Huh? Oh uh..Yeah. I'm alright. Listen, I'll see you in a few days. I just have to wrap up this business deal with the company, and then I'll get a flight back to Cali."

Another pause, before he heard her sigh. "Alright then. Take care of yourself Al. Don't do anything too crazy."

Alfred chuckled and nodded, before remembering she couldn't see him.

"I got it, Amelia. Right back at ya."

"Bye, Alfred.."

"Talk to you later."

He hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket, absently glancing up at the clear, blue sky that seemed to match his cerulean eyes so well. His gaze caught sight of a low-flying plane, a Boeing of sorts from what he could tell. It seemed way too low, flying almost unsteadily but with intention. It had been years since he had flown anything with wings and an engine, but he could tell there was something wrong. Another shiver ran through him. Tearing his eyes away from the plane for a second, he looked back down at his watch and his heart skipped a beat.

8:45 a.m.

At that moment he heard something that made his blood grow cold in his veins. Tremors wracked through him. His heart pounded in his chest and suddenly, he could barely breathe. He only dared to take in a shaky breath before looking up. His eyes widened, fear, shock, emotions almost unbeknownst to him surging through him. The towers, the north building; it was burning. There was the barely distinguishable shape of the tail of a plane, a Boeing, jutting out from the side. Flames and smoke billowed from the impact site. His mind grew empty, and his heart seemed to stop.

Chaos reigned. Like a dream, he slowly walked towards the two magnificent towers, others standing frozen in shock, some screaming, tears running down faces. Alfred barely noticed; he could only just keep walking towards the buildings until he stood just blocks away, staring up as the flames reflected in his eyes. He trembled, shook. Clenched his fists. Unclenched his fists.

Five minutes passed.

Alfred felt numb as he stared up at the building, too shocked to move or think or speak. Ringing reached his ears; his phone. All his arm did was twitch. He still couldn't move. He heard sirens in the distance. Time passed. Police and firefighters and ambulances came screeching to a stop around the area. Take in a breath; he gagged and coughed, doubling over and trying to regain his breath. He felt an eerie weightlessness, like he was flying, falling—

People screamed in anguish. Alfred's head snapped up in time to see the body of a person falling, falling towards the ground. The distinct flapping of a leather coat in the air. He noticed the whites of the man's eyes, and Arthur's voice rang through his mind, irrelevant to anything that was happening. Irrelevant. Nonexistent.

Don't shoot until you see the white's of their eyes—

A strangled scream tore through a woman's throat and he whipped his head away, shaking. He couldn't watch. He just couldn't. No, no. No. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.

What the hell was going on?!

An accident. That was it. An innocent, tragic, horrid accident that no one expected to ever occur. That was all it was. He desperately tried to convince himself of it. That was when he heard the distinctive rumble and whine of a plane engine. Cargo. Carrier. Passenger.

At 9:03 a.m., with its twin burning and billowing smoke, the second South tower was struck, the explosion causing his heart to clench and his lungs to contract. Gasping and coughing; surrounded by screams, feet pounding against the street as people ran in disarray. He heard his blood surging through his veins, ringing in his ears. He would feel heat, burning and aching and then a numbness, cold and hollow. He was shaking and he couldn't stop.

This was no accident.

As time passed, firefighters and military personnel and civilians working to save people from the buildings, he stood there, unable to move. Helpless. He watched on in a daze. He couldn't move, couldn't think. In his head, he heard people crying, praying, and panicked. He felt their pain and fear. He felt their fear of the death that hung over them like a shadow blanketed over the landscape.

He inhaled smoke with them. Trembled with them. Wept with them.

Alfred looked on as unknown tears streaked down his face, feeling as helpless as the millions who looked on with him.

Why couldn't he move? He should do something; this was his people for Christ's sake. And he was just standing there like an idiot. He had fought wars, bloody and full of death. He didn't fear death or burning buildings. But then why couldn't he move and do something to help?! People were dying—his people in his country—and he wasn't doing a damn thing!

Move, damn it! Just fucking move! I hear them crying, they're scared! There's children! Move, move, MOVE!

Fifty-nine minutes passed since the South Tower was struck. The ground trembled, and his legs weakened. Debris and dirt and dust kicked up, rolled outwards, engulfing everything in ash and rubble as the tower shook, groaned. Fell. Collapsed down, the structure snapping like bones and crushing bones as well. Alfred knew that much. He knew that the building was collapsing, soon its twin would do the same, and the people inside would most surely die. And him? He hadn't done one goddamn thing to stop it from happening. He hadn't done one godforsaken thing to save the people inside.

Thousands of casualties. Civilian casualties, law enforcement, first responders; all dead. This wasn't a warzone; his homeland had once hosted wars for independence more than once, but that was centuries ago. It was always overseas: the wars that ravaged country sides, filled the graves, destroyed the cities. That was war. That was where civilian deaths were. It wasn't loved, it wasn't what he or anyone really wanted, but it was war. It was logic. It made sense.

Not this. Not this attack, this act of terror that made his stomach curl and his hatred grow—

—as his ignorance fell.

His country was vulnerable. Anything could happen. He had turned his back from any warnings, tell-tale signs, the skeptics. His people were at risk; in that moment, they were already dying.

America the great. America the brave. America the fool.

September 11; the year is 2001. The approximate time: 10:28 a.m.

In a relatively clear and wide and free sky, smoke blackened a piece of that cerulean. It tainted the air; it tainted hearts. As the North Tower collapsed next to its brother, Alfred felt his knees buckle and hit the pavement hard, probably breaking bone by the agonizing pain that shot through his system. He could not stand or move, brought down to the ground by some unknown force. But he didn't care. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the mess; the sight that would haunt him like the faces of the dead haunted his dreams.

This… It made him furious. He felt the anger and the fury of the people. His mind pounded and churned with thoughts of vengeance, or agony, of loss and emptiness.

Tears. Tears were being shed like rain. He felt the cold liquid splatter onto his hands, running down his cheeks and blurring his vision. Yet the image of the towers falling was seared into his mind. Never would he be able to erase the memory from his mind.

The weakness he felt.

On his knees, he stared blankly at the ruin. Cried in silence amongst the calamity. Like a weeping angel he remained still, though no one saw him. All eyes were turned towards the burning buildings of majesty. It reminded him of fallen brothers in combat; one lying beside the other, sometimes over, as if to protect their charge. Dead, broken and bloodied; forever entrenched in the memory of time.

Never would he forget.

September Eleventh.

Four attacks. None would be forgotten.

Terrorist attacks on the people of America.

He would not forget.

9/11.

2,977.

He had 2,977 bastards to kill.

One for every civilian, loved one, man, woman, and child who died that day.

And he would be damned if he didn't "repay" the terrorists in full.