Hello everyone. Here is the final update on the WTC rewrite. Yes, I am almost done with it. I'm working on the final chapter as you are reading this, and I have decided to release the rewrite around Christmas Eve, as a very late present for all y'all.

The rewrite is titled "Darkest Hours", it is nine chapters, and there is a very strong possibility for a sequel follow-up. I'll be letting you know when the first one ends.

So, yes, as promised, the rewrite will be released very soon! I've been working hard, and those who have gotten snippets have said that it is definitely better. SO! As a special preview, I am giving you a never before seen scene from "Darkest Hours". I hope you enjoy!

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE TO "WORLD TRADE CENTER". THIS IS A PREVIEW TO THE REWRITE!

Dirt. There was dirt in his mouth, that much he knew. Mouth, eyes, and ears. There was a deafness around him, pierced only by a shrill ringing that would not let up.

Coughing, he tried to spit out as much dirt as he could, groaning at the effort the little movements took. Moving his arm to clear his eyes was another story entirely. The left arm was broken; he did not know how bad it was, but he could still move his fingers. The other felt to be dislocated. How that happened, he was not quite sure. The events leading up to this confusion were foggy, just out of reach. Frustrating, really.

Hot blood dripped from his bottom lip where his teeth dug into it as he forced back cries of pain when he forced his left arm to creep up past the debris to his face and eyes. Little twitches of the fingertips cleared out the worst of the rubble from his eyes. Despite the white-hot agony, he refused to give up. He was a Tracy, damn it! Tracys did not give up, no matter what. He had beaten the Hood when he had invaded Tracy Island a year prior; this little entrapment and damaged arms were nothing compared to that.

Hopefully.

The taste of fragments from whatever was holding him down was truly disgusting. Far worse than Grandma's meatloaf surprise, if he were being honest, and that was saying something. He could feel the acrid grit rattling around in his lungs as he breathed. He had inhaled some. This was not good. Debris in the lungs was never good, according to some of Virgil's medical lectures.

Blinking his eyes a few times as he let his arm relax, he shifted out some of the smaller pieces, while others scratched at the inside of his eyelid. It was mostly dark, save for a faint orange light in the distance. There was not nearly enough light for his damaged eyes to see where he was, but from what he could tell, he was partially buried beneath something, his legs... Wait. His legs! He could barely feel them. He knew they were still there, even though they felt like they were out of reach. He could shift one of them just slightly, but the other... everything below the knee was numb. As if it no longer existed.

Attempting to shift out from under the heavy obstacle he quickly deemed impossible as he looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dark, just enough to see that there were other sources of light.

Rubble of concrete, steel, and long rods surrounded him the dim entrapment. The sound of things shifting fully awoke him as his memory began to return – he had been in the South Tower of the World Trade Centers. A plane had struck a few floors above them. He had fallen through the floor in the resulting explosion, and had been rescued by... by... The name felt out of reach, scrubbed from his mind.

They had boarded an elevator... After that, his mind blanked out. Now he was here, being crushed by a more than likely huge cement slab, surrounded by death.

Was his father panicking? Had his older brother, space-bound John, gotten his emergency telecommunication after a plane had hit the North Tower? He had sent him one... were the Thunderbirds en route? Had his family launched their mighty rescue vehicles? Or were they waiting until they were called? He could not, for the life of him, remember.

What was going to happen now? Alan Shepard Tracy was not sure. It was a feeling he very much disliked. Uncertainty. Could he even call out for help? Had he even tried? Opening his mouth, nothing came out but a near-silent, strangled cry. Welp, that was useful.

Tiredness crept into his limbs, and, try as he might, he could no longer keep his eyes open.

I hope you've enjoyed this snipped from "Darkest Hours"! Please remember that this is only a PREVIEW, not a continuation of the original story. Be on the lookout for "Darkest Hours" on December 24th, 2017! Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you soon!