Chapter 2: Atlas Shrugged
Pressure squeezed Peter from above. His head hurt and his left ear rung viciously. Almost every inch of his body hurt from the collapse of debris and strain of surviving. Every moment was a very painful reminder that this nightmare wasn't over. Peter gasped involuntarily and coughed, choking on the thick dust in the air. He blinked against his graying vision and felt blood track down his forehead before snaking down his nose. His breaths came a bit faster as he continued to fight his eyes, trying desperately to see what had happened to him. His stomach churned and Peter barely managed to turn his head to the side before he vomited his breakfast burrito. The stench of stomach bile clung unpleasantly to his nostrils.
"Karen," he bit out weakly. It took Peter several moments to realize that it was not his suit clinging to his body but rather his school uniform hanging in tatters on his frame. His friendly AI wasn't there and his webshooters sat in the backpack he had lost back on the bench when the blast went off. With a shaky gulp, the teenager realized that all he had right now was his mind, instincts, and strength.
He lay on the ground for a few moments more before he was finally able to blink open his eyes and take in the world around him. As carefully as his predicament allowed, Peter sat up and craned his head around to see a concrete slab inches from his back, grinding and groaning under the weight of more rubble. He could just hear where the slab was beginning to slip down the pile of debris, dust and pebbles falling in front of it. Frantically, Peter scrambled around for anything to prop it up, take the pressure off the crumbling support. He could barely see anything in the space except vague outlines. There was a horrendous scraping noise and then the slab was slipping down in a shower of dust.
"Ahhhh!" Peter's scream ripped its way out of his throat. He fell back onto his rear, hands raised over his head in protection as he desperately gasped at dust filled air, coughs stealing the oxygen he managed to drag in. For what felt like an eternity, he cowered on the ground in the face of his imminent death.
The realization that he had not been crushed hit Peter like a freight train: all at once and with an unstoppable force. His shaking hands fell limp to his lap as if invisible strings had been cut. He looked back up to where the concrete slab still groaned ominously against its support, lower than before. A disbelieving breathe escaped his tight chest before he was up on his knees again, desperately searching for a way out.
Peter crawled over on hands and knees to where the slab rested. His fingers clawed along the slab and the pile of debris, feeling and assessing as they went. The debris underneath the slab seemed to be crumbling under the pressure and losing stability. He felt along the debris pile to he side, fingers scraping over jagged edges and twisted re-bar as his hands groped frantically. Finally, they stopped on a compact pile of concrete that felt relatively stable. His mind raced, maybe, just maybe he could move the concrete slab over to the more stable pile. But if he got this wrong, it would mean his death. He sat back and listened to the scraping of debris settling and the tinkle of stones crumbling under immense pressure, a constant reminder that his time was running short. Then again, Peter thought, if he did nothing he was dead anyway.
"Alright, come on, you got this," he encouraged himself as he braced his back and shoulder against the slab. He shuffled off of his knees and onto the balls of his feet, squatting awkwardly as he wiggled into a better brace position. With his feet finally set, the boy pressed upwards.
"Come on!" he gasped out. The concrete slab was heavier than he imagined and weighed into his damaged body like a millstone around his neck, threatening to drag him back down. As the slab shifted, Peter could feel debris on top of it shift. He paused for a moment, listening as the debris settled, before starting his slow progress again.
Grinding noise filled his entire space and he yelped as a heavy object connected with the slab on his back. Something wet flowed down onto him from above. Come on Spiderman! Pl-please anyone! I'm down here!
"No!" Peter didn't know if he was screaming at the memory, his rising panic, or the debris that continued to shift and fall above him.
I'm down here! I'm stuck! His words were lost in his throat, tears falling fast as he struggled against the concrete that pinned him. Crushing pain surrounded him as he looked at his reflection in the puddle on the ground. Some hero he turned out to be.
Peter's back screamed at the unholy fire stabbing his lower spine. The muscles in his left arm just above his elbow shook and seized uncontrollably. His neck strained against the weight and his head pounded to the point that it overtook his senses. The boy crashed to his knees, debris cutting through his jeans and scraping his already abused knees. With a herculean effort, he willed his arms to carry the slab forward just a ways farther. It connected with the wall of debris in a shower of dust and a cascade of small stones that clattered around his feet. Every nerve in his body was on fire as he waited for the pain of being crushed.
"Please," he cried between panicked breaths, "please!"
He didn't know who he was begging nor did he really care. Nothing happened. After several steadying breaths, Peter managed to pull himself together long enough to open his scrunched eyes. It was still dark and dust clogged the air, but he could just barely make out where the concrete slab met the more stable debris on his far side.
"Oh my god," a giddy laugh escaped, "it actually worked!"
Peter was in his own private lean-to with the slab that he had moved acting as a roof. As long as nothing shifted too badly, he was at least relatively sheltered. There wasn't enough room to fully sit upright, but the boy couldn't complain as the strength sapped from his body and he slumped down to crouch on the ground.
An elongated groan sounded beside him before the breaths picked up into panicked staccato pants. "Oh my god! Please, god. No no no no no no, please. I don't want to die, please! God no! Freaking hell."
The panting seemed to impossibly pick up speed before they transformed into wet, heaving sobs. Peter jumped at the sound, head whipping around and eyes going wide at the sight of a bloody and dirty park ranger laid out in the space beside him. He vaguely remembered tackling her to the ground before the whole world imploded.
The park ranger moved around weakly on the ground, gasping for breath. Peter stared numbly at her while she slowly dragged her arms around to try and prop herself up. The ranger made a half decent attempt to sit up before her faced scrunched together. She screamed.
Wide eyed and terrified, Peter held his hands out in what he hoped was a placating gesture, "god lady, don't move. Just don't move. I think you're hurt."
He scooted closer to her side and held a hand awkwardly above one shoulder, "please just be okay." She lay on the ground for a while, panting and moaning before Peter's litany of 'you're okay, it's okay' finally broke through her clouded senses.
"WHAT?" the ranger yelled, confusion clear in her voice.
"Are you okay?" Peter called backed, in as loud a voice as his abused senses could handle. His left ear continued to ring painfully at their raised voices.
"You know what they say," the ranger let out a breathy laugh, "better internally injured than dead."
"I'm, er, Peter. Uh Parker. Peter Parker," the teen introduced himself loudly.
The ranger eased herself back onto the ground and took a steadying breath before slightly lifting a trembling hand, "Marie Faust."
Peter took the offered hand and wobbled it up and down uncertainly. The strength in Marie's shoulder seemed to give out halfway through the handshake and Peter carefully draped her limp arm over her stomach. He sat back on his heels to take a better look at his companion, thankful that his eyes had finally adjusted to the dim light in their confined space. Both he and Marie were covered in cement dust, dirt, and pebbles. Peter watched as blood from a head wound trickled down the ranger's temple, pushing the caked gray filth away as it snaked down her face. For a moment, the teenager was reminded of pictures and videos he had seen of the September 11th terror attacks that had rocked his city. Not for the first time, he wondered what living through that day had been like. He wondered what it had been like for this woman who had lived in one of the cities attacked and for a second the question rose to his tongue before being swallowed by a harsh cough. "No," he whispered, this was not to occasion to ask stupid school questions.
The teen sank to the ground next to the injured woman, curling up on his right side. Now that the adrenaline was seeping from his system, Peter became more aware of his pain. His earlier assessment of everything hurting was still accurate, but pinpoints of pain rose above the others. His lower back continued to burn, even while laying down. Peter groaned as the pain throbbed up his spine and into his tense shoulders. He carefully rolled onto his back and was almost immediately rewarded with the fire dimming to a level that was at least manageable. His left arm just above his elbow cried out next and Peter craned his head over to see a piece of metal nearly three inches long sticking out of his upper arm. His head fall back with a dull thud and an unholy throbbing. It hurt to think, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to just lay still. His chest seemed to grow tighter around every breath.
"Great," he murmured hysterically to himself. "That's really great. I have a piece of metal in my arm."
Marie sucked in a labored breath next to him, "kid?"
"I'm good. Totally good," Peter gave a thumbs up with his right hand, scraped fingers curling into his skinned palm with a pull of damaged skin.
For several minutes both he and the ranger lay curled together, trying their best to keep breathing. Peter rubbed his right palm up and down his right leg, relishing in the sting of superficial cuts as his mind tried to find anything else to focus on. His hand rubbed back and forth against the seams of his front jeans pocket. And then Peter remembered his phone.
"Wait!" he jerked upwards. Stars burst in front of his eyes at the sudden movement and his mostly uninjured right hand shot around to cradle where his left hip met his side as he fell back to the ground. Sticky blood and shredded jeans met his fingers and Peter could vaguely feel strands of skin coated with blood through the tattered denim. His mind felt fuzzy and for a few minutes he lay on the ground and floated on the raging river of pain that flowed through him.
"Peter!" Marie screamed. He could hear the wild panic in her voice as desperate tears choked her already unsteady breathing. "Don't leave me alone!"
Peter sucked in a few harsh breaths and turned his head toward the ranger, "my pocket."
Next to him, Marie shifted minutely closer, "WHAT?!"
"In my front left pocket," Peter gasped around the vice in his chest. "My phone."
Marie blinked at him, head lolling gently from side to side. Slowly, ever so slowly it seemed to Peter, her arm reached around to pat at his left side.
"You are way too young for this, kid," the ranger groaned as she stuck her hand down his pants in search of the phone.
The groping hand pushed weakly at his hips and Peter's breath stuttered as he realized that small, sharp things seemed to be embedded in his thigh. Great, more pain, just what he needed. "My aunt would agree with you," Peter quipped quietly.
The phone was extracted quickly and without much more pain. As Marie held it in her hands, Peter was able to see that the case had managed to save it from most of the damage. Spiderweb cracks radiated across the screen, but it was still intact. Marie thumbed at the power button and Peter choked out a relieved breath as the screen harshly lit up their small space.
"What's the-" Marie's voice broke off into a harsh cough that rattled against Peter's ears. She moaned piteously in pain before clearing her throat, "What's the code?
"Hit the red dog in the bottom right corner and then hold it to my ear," Peter instructed.
Marie did as she was told and then strained up onto one elbow to get the phone close enough to Peter's face. The phone stopped inches from Peter's nose and he could clearly see the notification - pooch is screwed - flashing across the app as he was connected to Tony Stark's private line.
Mr. Stark answered on the second ring, "Kid, tell me you're far away from that metro station ogling an Easter Island Head or something."
"Mr. Stark," Peter gasped as steadily as he could, suddenly self-conscious at the way his voice quavered from pain, fear, and the exertion of holding this small world on his shoulders.
"Well, shit," Mr. Stark's curse boomed through the phone. "Sit tight kid, I'm coming."
Marie fell back with a cry, no longer able to hold her broken torso off of the ground. She crashed onto her back and her arm slapped onto the rocky ground. The phone clattered from her lax grip and skittered away, still blaring the sound of Tony Stark's cursing. Abruptly, the sound was cut as the phone hit a rock and went dark.
"Damn it!" Peter cursed.
Marie groaned in response, struggling to breathe as she shook with coughs. The wet sound of the spasms assaulted Peter's one working ear. After the fit subsided, she spat onto the ground next to her head. Peter could smell fresh blood.
"Hey?" he asked weakly. His relatively uninjured arm reached over to find her shoulder. He shook gently. "Hey."
Marie gasped lightly and exhaled slow and purposefully. She didn't respond.
Peter shook her shoulder again, "hey, you have to stay awake," he urged softly. A coughing fit stole the beginning of his next sentence and he struggled to get the air back to speak again. "Help is coming."
The ranger still didn't respond and Peter scooted closer to her, throwing his right arm over her shoulders. He turned his head to stare at the concrete slab providing their only protection and cried. Hot tears spilled from the corner of his eyes and slid towards his ears, wetting the fringe of hair chaotically swept around them. Peter wasn't sure if he was crying from the pain, the uncertainty of their survival, sadness at the thought of never seeing May and his friends again, or the sheer and overwhelming onslaught of emotion that his shock had held at bay. The release that crying brought, however, was welcome and Peter let himself be swept up into quiet hiccups. His mind drifted far away from his small world of dust and concrete and blood; his body followed shortly after.
"Kid?!" a voice called. Peter rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth against his renewed pain. Someone was calling him.
"Peter!" the voice called again. It was deeper and sharper than May's smooth tone. It must be Uncle Ben coming to wake him. Had he fallen asleep on the couch again after staying up too late with Ned?
Peter groaned at the beating pain behind his eyes and felt around him. Gravel and broken tile met his groping fingers and then he touched something solid and human. His eyes flew open and he saw a woman lying next to him in the dim light. His scrambled mind tried to piece together what was happening. There had been an accident, he was hurt. A lot of people were, this woman - Marie - was one of them. God, what had happened?! What was going on?
Peter could hear shifting and he looked up at the concrete slab above him as pebbles and dust rained down. Light begin to filter through at the edges of the slab. He choked on a wet glob in his throat and struggled to cough it out. Blood coated his fingers as he tried to cover his mouth on instinct.
More dust swirled into his space as the slab continued to move. A metal hand appeared beneath the concrete. Peter curled a protective arm around Marie's shoulder and raised himself slightly to cover her head.
"God kid, say something!" And then Iron Man's face was looking at him through the edge of the concrete.
Peter stared at him numbly, arm still protectively curled around Marie's head and shoulders. He blinked at the red and gold face peering at him through the debris and tried to speak. All that would come out of his open mouth, however, was a rasping gasp.
"Peter?" Iron Man reach a hand through, stopping inches from the hand Peter still held over the ranger's head. "Kid?"
The voice was tight and tinged with something Peter couldn't name, but he could not mistake the unspoken command in the question. He tried to clear his throat with a few short coughs that tore at his ribs and lungs.
"You came," he rasped out, dust coating his mouth and throat and making him cough against the grit.
"In the flesh," the faceplate opened to reveal the slightly haggard face of Tony Stark. He crouched into Peter's space carefully, the grinding of debris almost drowning out the small tinkle of stones against his armor. "Look, Peter, I need to get you out of here. I don't know how much longer this is gonna hold."
Peter nodded, head dipping down toward his chest as his brain protested the movement. Tony's faceplate snapped back into place and he reached fully into the space to grab Peter's shoulders. Slowly, he began to inch the boy towards him.
"Wait!" Peter yelled around a violent cough. "Marie first," he finally managed to gasp out.
Tony just shook his head, "let's just worry about getting you out right now."
"No, you can't," Peter frantically protested. "Please, you have to take her first."
"Kid, kid!" Tony tried to hold him steady. His sharp voice cut into the boy's panic, "She's gone, Pete. She's gone. Has been for a little bit."
"No!" Peter cried, shaking his head as hot tears spilled from his eyes again. "She'll be fine. You have to help her."
Tony got a better grip under his right shoulder and kept pulling, "there's nothing we can do."
Peter shook his head again, and again, and again. Denial etched a haunted look into his dirty face. In a daze, he let himself be pulled towards safety.
"Did you ever see that old movie Earthquake?" Tony asked in a parody of Peter's usual references.
Peter nodded slightly, glassy eyes wide as he was helped over the body of the park ranger. From this angle, he could see where her shredded lower legs disappeared under a pile of rubble. His small, panting breaths stuttered for a moment. How had he not seen that before?
Tony kept pulling him forward, despite his hesitation. "It's going to be just like that. Except without the bad special effects."
Peter's trailing left leg dragged over Marie's stomach, upsetting the limp hand that rested there. The boy's cry of pain as his hip was jostled covered the small thunk of her knuckles hitting the ground beside her body.
And then Tony had him in his grasp. He carefully drew him in and sheltered the boy's head against his chest. A metal hand cupped the back of his skull and shifted his face into the glowing chest-plate. Together the two stepped away from the small space. Tony readjusted his hold on Peter, supporting the boy's upper body as they clambered out from the rubble. Peter was amazed at how small the pile seemed considering that it had held him trapped for far too long.
Once they were clear of the debris, Tony scooped Peter fully into his arms. The boy's shoulders and legs were held securely and his head was tipped back to rest on the older man's metal shoulder. "Hold tight," he warned before they took off at a low speed.
The jostling of flight hurt and Peter whimpered in pain. His right hand scrabbled desperately for purchase against Iron Man's chest. The metal of the suit dented slightly under his fingertips.
"Almost there," Tony's voice was tense as they flew past the wrecked escalator and up the flight of stairs leading to the outside world. Peter was surprised to see that nighttime already blanketed the sky. Hadn't it just been lunch?
And then hands were replacing metal limbs and guiding him onto something rigid. Hard plastic clasped his neck and held his lolling head upright as two blocks butted into his ears. Hands groped all over him, running over limbs, palpitating bits that hurt. Something cold rested over his sternum.
"Peter, can you hear me? Are you with us," the blurry face of a middle-aged blonde woman invaded his line of vision.
Catching his breath to respond was almost impossible, but Peter finally managed. "No," he answered honestly and fell into oblivion.
So the research for this chapter drove me up a wall. The most difficult part was trying to decide what type of bomb this was being based off of. I needed something that had enough explosive power to cause structural damage to a reinforced underground concrete building but that would be portable/discrete enough to make it onto a metro platform while also being reliable enough to detonate on time. Originally, I had pictured some of the bombings of The Troubles, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to go with improvised explosives. I also wanted to avoid a suicide bomber given our current political climate in the US.
Figuring out what type of bomb I wanted to use was complicated further by what type of motivation drove the violence. Is this attack supposed to be rooted in sectarian conflict? Should this attack be tied to terrorism and, if so, is it domestic or foreign terrorism? Could this possibly be from a disgruntled former federal employee who wanted to prove that the metro system is not very secure and needs updating? Maybe it was politically driven, a right wing or left wing extremist using the Smithsonian Metro stop as an easy target? Whichever answer I decided on would end up informing the resources available to an individual and what could plausibly be accomplished. For example, a homegrown terrorist (be it domestic or foreign) who is acting as a lone wolf without a support network is more likely to fall back on low order explosives whereas someone from a military, federal, or police background is more likely to have access to high order explosives. Whether or not I chose a high order or low order explosive affects the injury because the first has a supersonic over-pressurized blast wave that can cause fatal damage to the lungs or GI tract and the other is usually a subsonic incendiary that often results in thermal and shrapnel damage.
All of this needed to be roughly decided before I wrote this chapter so that I could more accurately gauge the type of injuries that would have been caused and how the structure/walls would collapse. Anyway, I probably have not accurately represented what an explosion within a DC metro station would look like, but I really don't want to end up on a government watch list (before people get scared about the research I've already done, most of it comes from CDC Explosions and Blast Injuries: A Primer for Clinicians and FEMA's chapter on Explosive Blasts).
A quick note on the cellphone usage. Some of the DC metro stations have been working to roll out wireless phone connection and wifi for their customers. I've been pleasantly surprised to be able to use my phone on the underground platforms over the last year. That said, is it plausible for Peter to have a working phone in a partially collapsed underground structure? Maybe, maybe not. It's not unheard of for phones to still work in collapsed structures. That said, I'm running with the idea because it works for my story and I wanted to keep the conversation with Tony.
Also, for anyone interested, this is also the first self insert I've had in the nearly 7 years I've been writing fanfic. I'm working towards being a park range and figured that if I ever landed myself in a world full of superheroes, I would likely die in some invasion or another within like the first five minutes. I am the worst at keeping myself alive.
So I should probably also put a note in here not to expect updates this fast ever again. I had already written and published the first two chapters on AO3 and I wanted to get FFN updated with it before I finished chapter 3. I am hoping to have that next chapter out sometime in the next week, but I make no promises.