Redone! Edited! Finally!

Disclaimer is in chapter 1

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Enjoy~

~Xsnow~stormX~


Alfred flipped open his phone as he rolled into the parking garage. No calls from the boss yet. He hit 2 on speed dial. Those little kids at that school or whatever could take a backseat, right? Before the blonde could even press send, his phone was vibrating.

Alfred answered his boss, and said, before the president could even greet him, "I'm already on my way."

"To where?"

"Isn't it obvious? To NYC!" Alfred spat.

He dismounted his motorcycle on the top level. He turned the volume on his phone up as he stepped into the awaiting helicopter.

"… Alfred…" the president's voice softened over the phone. "There were some… other casualties, in the space between when the planes hit and now…"

"What?" Alfred could feel his heart drop through the floor. The next voice came out as a choked whisper, and he could only pray the boss could hear him over the roar of the copter. "Who? Where?"

"The Pentagon…" the president paused at his partner's gasp. "and near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. While they were all plane crashes, the one in Pennsylvania crashed into a field."

Alfred sighed, relieved, just a bit, that that flight at least didn't crash into a building and kill more people.

His boss continued. "I'd like you to go to the Pentagon—"

"I'm already headed to the trade centers! There's still a chance to save so many people there!" Alfred hung up. He would see the president soon enough anyway.

Alfred couldn't see the towers through the smoke. The sunny morning sky had become an overcast grey. The closer he got, the direr he realized the situation had become. The North Tower was swaying, swaying, and he knew it wouldn't hold for much longer.

Alfred couldn't wait for the helicopter to land. Once he decided he was close enough, he jumped, almost beside the towers.

That was when Alfred realized that he wasn't the only one jumping. All around him he saw people jump from collapsed, flaming levels, choosing to die from the fall rather than burning to death. Or, heaven forbid, being crushed and worse, when the buildings fall. Then that sickening splat as they landed on the pavement like flies on a windshield. Occasionally they even fell into neighboring buildings.

A horrible, wretched cry tore from Alfred's lungs as he reached out to a man falling right next to him. The man grabbed his hand and clung to him for dear life when Alfred drew him closer.

Just as Alfred and the man hit the ground and the parachute was detached, the North Tower did just what he had feared. He was suddenly up in the air again, thrown through a nearby building and knocked unconscious.

He was lucky that he was blown into that building. It almost sheltered him somewhat from the blast of the collapsing tower, which imploded upon itself. Suddenly the smoke was like fog and the ashes were like rain. Office papers snowed down on the city and odds and ends of scrap metal had lodged themselves into buildings and busses and cars—sometimes even people.

Alfred sat up. He blinked dizzily, coming to, when the gravity of the situation hit him. Alfred ran out into the street finding it to be grey and paper laden, with cars over-turned and buildings absolutely wrecked to hell.

He ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had to get in that last tower… He was almost at the entrance… He had some time yet…

It was dark and it was loud and it was smoky. He pulled his gas mask over his face. If only he had brought his helmet… But he was a country. He would be okay. Police and firemen were ushering people out to safety. Alfred tore through the first few floors, trying to free everyone that could be trapped under debris. One of the floors above was collapsing. There was chaos. Alfred picked up the pace, helping an unconscious woman out of the building.

But then something odd happened.

"Don't go back in there!" Someone yanked on the back of his collar—hard—pulling him away.

That high-pitch, yet masculine voice was familiar.

Alfred looked back in irritation, snarling at whoever was holding him back from doing whatever he needed to do. Then his eyes widened a bit.

"Mattie?" his voice had become a shocked whisper.

Matthew Williams offered a soft, sad smile. "You can't go back there, Al." he said in his usual soft tone. "If you die…" he faltered.

"I won't die!" Alfred returned lightly, giving his characteristic goofy grin. But it was all just a lie.

And his little brother saw right through it.

"Just because you're "the great United States of America" doesn't make you any less mortal than me, or Arthur, or Francis, eh…" Alfred mad a face at the last name. "I mean, yeah, we could live forever if we wanted. Fatal wounds for normal people may not be fatal for us. But if that thing collapsed on you, even you'd be dead for sure. No two ways about it."

They had been walking away from the South Tower, but when Matthew said those last few words, Alfred stopped in his tracks. Matthew cringed, belatedly realizing his mistake. Alfred made a mad dash back to the tower.

But it was too late. America, for the first time since the Civil War—a time when his countrymen, his brothers, were killing each other—was brought to his knees.

From the article, "Accounting of the Dead" by Jesse Green

By November 2003, number of deaths was around 2,379 (trade centers only)

About 1,629 missing people identified

21,817 missing people remain… 40% of these have received death certificates by judicial decree

147 dead on flights 11 and 175

224 dead at Pentagon and in Pennsylvania


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