Darcy wasn't expecting the atmosphere to change so drastically; she'd watched the street fall apart and as such didn't think she'd feel such an acute terror. It seemed, though, that the library had acted as a type of bubble, or like the filter of a camera lens; because as soon as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the crush of the people around her, she felt panic stab into her.

She suddenly had absolutely no clue what to do- what she had planned on doing, and why she ever thought she could do it. She was just Darcy Lewis, twenty-four year old graphic design senior, nursing school flunky, and all-around flake of a daughter. She'd forever feel like a failure for not returning her mother's call if she died in this mess.

The crowd continued to press around her, an indistinctive mob of faces that rushed by with no real destination in mind. She was almost swept up in the fervor of moving bodies, but somehow managed to keep her feet under her. It wasn't until the giant green behemoth roared again that she finally came to her senses.

She snapped a picture of him as quickly as she could, and another of him smashing an alien on a hover-board. This was something she could do. She may have been in a temporary state of shock, but she'd still taken note of how absolutely terrified of him everyone was- how the screams were just as often directed at him as they were at the destruction and death around them. She could start with this.

Darcy's mom had lamented, loudly and frequently and not just to Darcy, about how her daughter was wasting her life on the computer. Darcy had spent her teen years cultivating an online identity that was vastly more popular than she would ever be- she knew people not just across the country, but around the world. She'd spent her formative years poorly editing videos to put on youtube, ranting about things as varied as social injustices to how the newest episode of LOST was such a let down onlivejournal. She'd amassed a small army of acquaintance-like friends on facebook, and gotten cozy with celebrities on twitter.

So while Darcy's mom was complaining that she'd never go anywhere in life, Darcy was networking. And it was about the pay off. She snorted as she sent the tweet out, because honestly she never really thought it would pay off- it was just a nice way to ignore the world.

#NYNeedsHelp this guy's on our side, stick to killing the aliens on the hover-boards. She quickly added the picture of him swatting an alien out of the sky, hoping that this would be enough to kick-start the information mill. With the knowledge that her twitter was hooked up to both her facebook and tumblr, she began heading towards the nearest convenience store, barely dodging stray elbows and the occasional gun blast.

As she sidled into the mini-mart, she began sending out a mass text. She knew how absurd it was: New York was toppling, people were dying, and this very well could be the beginning of having to call aliens their Lord and Masters. But she had always firmly believed that information was the biggest weapon, that if you separated someone from communication, then there wasn't a chance to organize- to know what worked and what didn't, or to at the very least find those you loved so you could just get out together.

It felt equal parts 'LOL TEXT IT!' and history-in-the-making, texting in the middle of armagedon. But she'd watched, from her computer chair, as the world had exploded during the Egypt uprising- the tweets and video uploads. The news posts on tumblr that were up four hours before her mom ever called to say what she'd just seen on television. None of that- the organization and the world awareness- would have been possible without people being willing to put the information out there. And she'd be damned if she'd let the fucking aliens take over her city without at least letting her people know who was on their side and where they were being hit hardest.

'Ne 1 no how bridges holding out? or if hospitals r ok?' Four years in New York, and she'd made friends all over- not just in her degree, but kids from the physics building, a couple restaurant owners, a print shop owner. The list of people she knew went on, the list of people she had on her phone for emergency-texting last-minute oh-god-I-forgot-about-that-assignment reasons was even longer.

She stared at her reception bar, surprised that she was able to send anything out in this mess- but really, how many people were going to be sending out texts at this time? Just how many crazy people were there? She could hope there'd be enough for the spread of information, enough so that she would know where the fighting was at its worst.

Stuffing her cell in her pocket, she began taking stock of the supplies available to her in the mini-mart. Did it count as looting if she was doing it to help people? That, she supposed, was a question for the philosophy class she had failed.

There wasn't much in the first-aid section. She hadn't really been expecting much to begin with- this was the type of place you ran to in the middle of the night because you needed milk or your kid was sick and needed tylenol (which Darcy made a mad-dash for like someone was going to steal it before she could). Even still, it was obvious that Darcy wasn't the first person to think about raiding what little first-aid was available. It didn't really matter, she'd house-sat for her bachelor uncle; she knew how to Man Cave the essential supplies.

She lucked out in finding a gym bag, left behind by one of the employees. Emptying it out left an uncomfortable sensation in her stomach. This was part of a person's life, and she was leaving it in a pile behind the counter; she could only imagine that after everything was said and done, the knowledge that 'yeah, my home was destroyed, but hell, my gym bag is still at work,' would be something to cling to. She didn't entertain the notion that someone wouldn't be returning for the items.

Shaking off her unease, she began pacing up and down the isles, trying to decide what would be most essential; taking stock of things that she could maybe come back for should the need arise.

There was only one bottle of rubbing alcohol, another two had their contents spilled across the floor, so she grabbed it- cradled it like it was worth more than gold. She then went to the alcohol section, and grabbed what she could that met two qualifiers: had a high alcohol content, and wasn't in a glass container. They'd be useless to her if they broke in the chaos.

There were a couple rolls of medical tape, which she thanked God for, and then added to with all the duct tape. Seriously, the mini-mart sold like, five styles- silver, zebra print, she pitied the man she was going to use the Hello Kitty on. She also found a bottle of rubber cement that would work nicely for holding bandages to skin in a pinch.

She was only able to find one sewing kit, and resolved to try and stop off somewhere else for at least two more, because that shit would go by fast, if the increasing screams from outside was any indication.

The last stop in her free-grab was to shove as many paper towels in the bag as she could fit- Bachelor Pad 101: if you don't have bandages, stop the flow with paper towels and tape. On her way out she also snagged several bottles of water and a couple chocolate bars, because Professor Lupin had taught her well.

'green dude totally stopped a fucking alien-whale!' 'hospital has no power, trying 2 move patients 2 bsmnt.' 'Bridges mostly safe- Iron Man showed up, trying to keep aliens in downtown.' 'holy fuck I think that's captain america! sending pic when get to bank- told its safe place by police.' 'downtown biggest area, avoid at all costs.'

Darcy's cell phone was alive with similar texts, and before she let herself head back out into the mayhem, she took a screenshot of all the texts, posting it to her twitter account; then sending out another massive text- 'downtown worst spot. Help is here, get out of NY. Police saying banks/basements safest if can't get out.' She'd post the pictures of the so-called help (Captain America, apparently, along with a fuzzy picture of a dude shooting an arrow) if it became obvious that people still weren't sure who the enemy was in this whole scenario. It wasn't a good idea to mislabel the good guys as the villain, after all.

She knew, logically, that she should try and make her way to one of the hospitals. They needed help, and while she hadn't been extensively trained, she did have enough basic knowledge to be of use. It was very apparent that hospitals would need her, need any help they could get. But something in her gut twisted when she thought about all the people on the street, trying to leave or get to safety, who couldn't because they were hurt and alone. Ripped at her when she thought about how long it would take to get to the people in the worst of the fight, simply because they were downtown, closest to Stark Tower. How many people were going to die because they bled to death?

And if Darcy went to the hospital, or stayed on the still-dangerous outskirts, she'd never be there to apply pressure, to dig out her sewing kit and ask 'which color?'

Dragging her hands across her eyes, she sighs.

This was a mistake, because as soon as she closed her eyes, the world at large seemed to realize that she wasn't paying attention.

The window next to her shattered, and at the time Darcy thought two things: breaking glass sounds an awful lot like fallen icicles, (which she promptly ignored, because this was so totally not the time to get poetic) and my God, I'm really lucky that whatever alien was trying to kill me has shit aim.

Later, when she looks back at this moment, she'll think: yeah, breaking glass so definitely sounds like fallen icicles, (which really sucks- she wishes she'd never made that connection, because now she'll always related destruction with Christmas and snow) and no man, that alien was trying to make me run so he… it?…. could play the cat to my mouse.

Her breath escaped her in a shutter that sounded ever-so-much like a death rattle, and her eyes flickered to the window before darting out to the street. And there, standing atop an overturned red Chevy, is shit-for-aim alien himself. She can't tell if he's smiling, if his species even can smile, or knows the concept, but she understands what it is he's doing: gloating. You probably don't need a douchebag smirk to accomplish that.

Her muscles tensed without her knowledge, and she's ready to run for it, even with the bit of hysteria in the back of her brain telling her she can't outrun his blaster gun. But he's not moving to shoot at her yet, hasn't even stepped off the wrecked car, and she's beginning to think that maybe he's upgraded from wanting to simply kill, and start in on playing games with his prey. The thought makes her violently ill, and she just barely manages to hold back the swell of nausea, and keep her eyes locked on him. It. The thing. Whatever the hell the alien is.

It's as the alien's shoulders start to droop with the knowledge that she's not going to play his game, that Iron Man banks sharply around the corner, and a small squad of aliens on hover-boards crash into the building directly across from them.

Darcy takes her chance, and instead of running down the block- away from this monster- she rushes him, swinging her gym bag out in front her (though what good it will do against a bullet made of mother-freaking-science-lazer-death she has no idea). As it turns out, her primitive brain- the one that runs on 'no I'm not dying tonight' and not 'gotta have lots of sex'- is really really good at making decisions for her. Because the gym bag wasn't really for protection, which surprises her, and, get this, it's the best part- surprises the alien when she swings it at his feet.

He goes down hard onto the road just to her left, stunned, and she takes the opportunity to grab his weapon.

She's not sure what to do now- what can she do? Should she kill it? She's never taken a life before, not even as a kid when her friends were using magnifying glasses on ants.

But then the alien's starting to move, and she has a momentary bout of panic as she tries to figure out how to work the gun. It goes off several inches from the alien, and Darcy can smell the heat coming off of the road. Screw this, she can't do it. So she does the next best thing, and instead clubs the alien over the head once, twice, until it's not moving but clearly still breathing, and runs towards the end of the road. Making her way as close to downtown as she can get.

The trek into the heart of the city starts out exactly how she expected it to: each street like hers had been, with people trying to find shelter or get out. With pushing and screaming and aliens with their guns. She spots several injured people, but none of them look to be severe. She also sees more bodies than she'll allow herself to remember this time next year, but there's nothing she can do about it now.

It's as she gets closer to Stark Tower that things start to get both worse and better. It's an eerie feeling- walking through a New York street and not seeing anybody. She knows people are there because she can feel eyes on her, but all she can see is dust and rubble; and all she can hear is the distant roar of the green beast and explosions that sound so much larger now that she's just a couple blocks from their source.

She continues to press forward, since it's obvious that there's not much she can do within this hurricane's eye; not if everyone's abandoned it for safer places. She does, however, stop off and manage to grab another sewing kit and a lighter.

Then she rounds the corner, and suddenly the world's gone all technicolor, and she feels like Dorothy must have when she was dropped into Oz.

She can see Iron Man just ahead, flying between the lights of 1st and Main, and there's a man on the Empire State Building, lightning striking out from around him. She has just enough time to get the world's shittiest picture of the world's weirdest thing ever, before an explosion rocks the building next to her, and she's thrown onto her stomach.

She's up in a heartbeat, or at least what she feels passes for one, and is already trying to pry the charred door off its hinges when the first cries for help reach her ears.

"I'm here! Just outside the door! If you're not too badly injured, I could use some help with the door!" She shouts over the screeching of another whale hitting a building.

It takes five minutes of their combined effort to prize the door from its spot, and by then the smoke is so thick around the building that Darcy's eyes are stinging and her lungs are constricting. She can only hope that there's some sort of ventilation inside, because she doesn't think she'll be able to give CPR to everyone.

The first person to stumble out is the man she first talked to, and he's quickly followed by a mother clutching her toddler to her chest. The flow of people is a trickle at first, but then it picks up and it doesn't take more than a minute for twenty people to be out on the street, looking at Darcy like she's supposed to give them direction.

"Do you know if anyone else was inside?" She's already ripping along the bottom of her overly large shirt. If this is going to become a trend, she'll need a bandana to cover her nose and mouth, or she'll die of smoke inhalation.

"No, anyone else inside is already- they're-" it's the mother, her voice thick with tears and smoke, and Darcy doesn't need her to continue so she just nods.

"Is anyone hurt? Bleeding? Dislocated bones or places that feel pinched?" She's checking to see if anyone's gone into shock by asking them these questions, because she can visually see herself that this lot doesn't need any special medical attention. But someone in shock won't be able to take care of themselves, and she'd never be able to live with herself if she just let them go out alone.

When she gets clear-eyed 'no's from everyone in the group, she heaves a relieved sigh, and tells them to head down a couple blocks; tells them that it's practically deserted right now, and to get into the American West bank she'd seen on her way over. It's a thick-walled building made up of slabs of marble, and the basement is lined with steel, so if there's any one place that's the best place to go- well, that would be it.

She watches them leave, sees the top of the child's head over his mother's shoulder, and then she turns back around. There's a cluster of police cars, over the top of which she can see two people holding their own against the incoming aliens- who, thankfully, seem to be too busy to notice her.

Unfortunately, there's a man trapped underneath one of the police cars, and she can't quite figure out how to get to him. It's plain from his face that he's in pain, and she doesn't think the large puddle under his arm is oil from the car.

Damn. Damn damn damn. She's never been good at stealthy, but she can't just leave him there, not when she notices the clothes he's wearing are those of a policeman, and especially not when she notices the dull glint of a wedding band.

She manages to get to his car, since apparently ground-support is too busy trying to kill Her of the Beautiful Hair and Captain America, and the hover-board aliens are kind of busy chasing Stark. Not that she doesn't have to duck out a couple times- hiding under her own car, spinning a full circle to avoid a stray blast, matrix-style dodging falling rubble.

"Hey, I'm Darcy. I need to take a look at your arm while we're under here before we try to go anywhere, ok?" She doesn't give him the chance to respond before she's rolling his sleeve up, gingerly touching around the wound.

"Ow! Hey!" He tries to pull his arm away, but Darcy's got an iron grip, it's something she learned from being put into daycare- if you want to keep it, you hold onto it.

It's too dark under the car, so she gets out her cell phone and switches on the light for the video recording, shining it quickly into both of his eyes to make sure he's not got a concussion. Thought she should take advantage of his attention while she could.

While he's still whining about her tight grip and his inability to see, she cracks open a bottle of water and her rubbing alcohol, along with prepping a needle by first running it through the lighter, then dousing it in the rubbing alcohol.

"So, red, blue, green, or black?" She asks, having no real intention of telling him what she's about to do.

"Wha- uh-? Blue," he's completely dazed, and she thinks most of that has to do with his lack of blood.

She nods absently, threading the blue thread through the needle, then dousing that in rubbing alcohol too (she winces, trying not to imagine how fast she's already gone through her bottle, and resolves to having to scavenge for more). She then begins the arduous task of cleaning the wound with a paper towel and some water.

"So what happened here? Why're you stuck under this car, and with such a nasty cut?" She needs to keep him talking, because she can see his eyelids starting to droop and she doesn't think it's such a good idea for him to pass out right now.

"Wasn't hit by one of them aliens, if that's what you're asking. Was an explosion, 'n while everyone else was herding the civilians, I wound up stuck here, with a piece 'f metal 'n my arm. Couldn't get out because by then the aliens were everywhere, so I went under the car." She nods understandingly, and before he can continue with why, exactly, he thought it would be a good idea to take the metal out of his arm, she starts stitching his wound back up.

He tenses briefly, a sound dangerously close to a scream on his lips, before his mouth closes and he clenches his eyes shut.

"When we're done here, go back a couple blocks, there's an American West bank, lots of survivors are holed up in the basement," she says, and gives a final tug to the stitches, which is apparently all the pain he can take, because he screams.

And gets them noticed. Son of a bitch.