A/N: After a long break, I decided to come back and write out something. This chapter occurred to me at the dead of night, and I just decided to go with it. After all, Danny was at the event in Rosslyn. So why wouldn't he be at the shooting? Anyway. Here's the next chapter.
Disclaimer: Can't think up something sarcastic. Not mine.
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Danny Concanon's POV
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,..,.,
My head really hurt. When CJ slaps you, you know it. The girl must work out or something because she's got quite a lot of force. So when the press was walking out behind the President, the main thing that I was thinking about was that my head hurt. I was also wondering what the deal was with the Columbia space shuttle. I'd called and given the science editor a heads-up, but I had no idea why. CJ isn't a real details person. That's one reason she's such a good press secretary. Although she is too friendly with the press.
The press always walks behind the President. Public events, getting off Air Force One, or in the motorcade, the press always, always, walks behind the President. If I squinted I could just make out the President's head. People were cheering and waving support signs. I checked my watch. If absolutely nothing happened and the President only spent thirty minutes on the rope-line, then I might have just enough time to make my print deadline. The President was heading to the crowd. Maybe I should start writing on the bus.
The press corps were almost down the steps when the gunshots started. Screams erupted from the crowd. I threw my body behind a concrete wall. Despite the fact that it was stupid, I poked my head up to look around. I'm a reporter, I can't help it. My instinct is to chart down the details. Most of the crowd and senior staffers were huddled down on the ground. The only people that were behind the closed gate were the members of the press corp. from what I could see of most of them, they had followed my example and were crouching behind walls. I was noting every single detail about this shooting.
The limousine doors were closed, and I assumed that the President was inside. Police cars were having the crap shot out of them. As I watched, I saw one of the cars have its windows shot out. Secret Service agents were shooting at a sixth story office window. After a few seconds, theirs were the only shots that I heard. A few seconds later and those stopped also. I stayed down until I was sure that it was safe, and then I got up.
There had been silence for a few short minutes. Now there were screams coming from every corner of the plaza. There were cries of anger, cries for help, and cries of pure, simple terror. People were confused. They had just been shot at, they wanted control. I went down some stairs, nothing several members of the press milling around, and a man slumped against a wall. The gate opened, and I walked into the plaza were the crowd was. Ambulances started to filter in, with their flashing lights and wailing sirens.
"Well, that print deadline's blown then," I muttered to myself, looking at the chaos. My eyes darted up to the lit window that had the broken glass on it. I involuntarily shuddered at seeing the window. I deliberately turned my back on the gaping window and walked back up the steps. I passed Charlie, but didn't say anything. Bending down, I picked up my laptop bag. I checked to make sure that my laptop was all right. Something on the ground caught my attention. I bent down again to get a closer look.
A bullet was embedded in the concrete. I dug around for a few seconds, and then came up with the bullet. It was small, only about an inch in length. It shone a dull copper-red. "Son of a bitch," I whispered to myself, running my fingers all over the metal bullet. I looked at the bullet for a few more seconds, and then carefully put the bullet back in its hole.
I breathed deeply and stood up. My legs felt shaky, and my arms felt fatigued, like I had just finished an hour of kayaking. The scene was starting to calm down. The most serious injuries had been taken care of. The paramedics were dealing with mainly cuts and shaken up people now. I might still get a Pulitzer off of this experience I thought wildly to myself. It was horrible to think that I might get a benefit off of this, but once again, I couldn't help it.
"Danny!" Steve called out. I looked at him with a little less animosity than I normally would have. He worked for the New York Times, and I worked for the Washington Post. We're competitors.
"Hey Steve," I said, eyeing him carefully. He had a small scrape on his hand, but otherwise looked fine. "You all right?"
"Yeah, some of the press corps were held back in the building. We just got out," he said. "I don't think you were so lucky."
"Definitely not," I agreed. "I don't mean to sound rude, but what exactly did you come over here for Steve?"
"I was just checking to see that you're all right," he defended himself. "And to see what you know."
"As much as you do," I responded.
"Thought so. I'll see you Danny."
"Okay." Steve walked away. I turned around. People were starting to group off in clumps. They were crying and holding each other. Toby ran up the steps. I ignored him until I heard his voice raised in alarm. "I need help!" My head shot to the side, and I walked quickly to stand behind him. My heart shot to the roof of my mouth as I saw Josh's head hit the pavement.
CJ screamed. "Josh!" I was ignored as Sam and CJ ran to Josh's side. As I edged to the side I could see the blood soaking through Josh's blue shirt. Paramedics surrounded Josh, but I still had a narrow view. I winced at the bloody mess on Josh's chest when they ripped open the shirt. When Josh coughed, a small river of blood came out of the gaping bullet wound. I watched until nausea was threatening to overtake me. When I could finally look, the paramedics had loaded Josh up on a stretcher and were shoving him into an ambulance. The lights flashed on, the sirens wailed, and the ambulance was gone.
I took in a shaky breath and then let it out. I was feeling a bit more shaken up than I just had been. The entire White House, press corps included, had just been attacked. And I like Josh. He's a decent guy who's done me a few favors during the time that I've known him-given me a few tips, told me about CJ and goldfish, and treated me like a person instead of a reporter. And plus, when he screws up it's at least three column inches above the fold for me. So it disturbed me to see Josh shot and driven away in an ambulance.
Charlie jumped into a car and drove away. I stared into space for a few minutes until I felt someone shake me on the shoulder. It was Steve. "Danny, they're gathering the press up," he told me. "We should be at the White House within the hour." I nodded, but didn't say anything. "Danny? Danny, what was that?" Steve gestured at the empty place where the ambulance had been.
A wry laugh escaped my mouth. "That?" I gestured widely at the entire plaza where the shooting had taken place. "that was our news cycle for the next few days." I walked back, grabbed up my laptop bag from where I had dropped it. I kicked the place where the bullet had landed while Steve looked at me strangely. "Come on. Let's get in the van."
Disclaimer: Can't think up something sarcastic. Not mine.
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Danny Concanon's POV
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,..,.,
My head really hurt. When CJ slaps you, you know it. The girl must work out or something because she's got quite a lot of force. So when the press was walking out behind the President, the main thing that I was thinking about was that my head hurt. I was also wondering what the deal was with the Columbia space shuttle. I'd called and given the science editor a heads-up, but I had no idea why. CJ isn't a real details person. That's one reason she's such a good press secretary. Although she is too friendly with the press.
The press always walks behind the President. Public events, getting off Air Force One, or in the motorcade, the press always, always, walks behind the President. If I squinted I could just make out the President's head. People were cheering and waving support signs. I checked my watch. If absolutely nothing happened and the President only spent thirty minutes on the rope-line, then I might have just enough time to make my print deadline. The President was heading to the crowd. Maybe I should start writing on the bus.
The press corps were almost down the steps when the gunshots started. Screams erupted from the crowd. I threw my body behind a concrete wall. Despite the fact that it was stupid, I poked my head up to look around. I'm a reporter, I can't help it. My instinct is to chart down the details. Most of the crowd and senior staffers were huddled down on the ground. The only people that were behind the closed gate were the members of the press corp. from what I could see of most of them, they had followed my example and were crouching behind walls. I was noting every single detail about this shooting.
The limousine doors were closed, and I assumed that the President was inside. Police cars were having the crap shot out of them. As I watched, I saw one of the cars have its windows shot out. Secret Service agents were shooting at a sixth story office window. After a few seconds, theirs were the only shots that I heard. A few seconds later and those stopped also. I stayed down until I was sure that it was safe, and then I got up.
There had been silence for a few short minutes. Now there were screams coming from every corner of the plaza. There were cries of anger, cries for help, and cries of pure, simple terror. People were confused. They had just been shot at, they wanted control. I went down some stairs, nothing several members of the press milling around, and a man slumped against a wall. The gate opened, and I walked into the plaza were the crowd was. Ambulances started to filter in, with their flashing lights and wailing sirens.
"Well, that print deadline's blown then," I muttered to myself, looking at the chaos. My eyes darted up to the lit window that had the broken glass on it. I involuntarily shuddered at seeing the window. I deliberately turned my back on the gaping window and walked back up the steps. I passed Charlie, but didn't say anything. Bending down, I picked up my laptop bag. I checked to make sure that my laptop was all right. Something on the ground caught my attention. I bent down again to get a closer look.
A bullet was embedded in the concrete. I dug around for a few seconds, and then came up with the bullet. It was small, only about an inch in length. It shone a dull copper-red. "Son of a bitch," I whispered to myself, running my fingers all over the metal bullet. I looked at the bullet for a few more seconds, and then carefully put the bullet back in its hole.
I breathed deeply and stood up. My legs felt shaky, and my arms felt fatigued, like I had just finished an hour of kayaking. The scene was starting to calm down. The most serious injuries had been taken care of. The paramedics were dealing with mainly cuts and shaken up people now. I might still get a Pulitzer off of this experience I thought wildly to myself. It was horrible to think that I might get a benefit off of this, but once again, I couldn't help it.
"Danny!" Steve called out. I looked at him with a little less animosity than I normally would have. He worked for the New York Times, and I worked for the Washington Post. We're competitors.
"Hey Steve," I said, eyeing him carefully. He had a small scrape on his hand, but otherwise looked fine. "You all right?"
"Yeah, some of the press corps were held back in the building. We just got out," he said. "I don't think you were so lucky."
"Definitely not," I agreed. "I don't mean to sound rude, but what exactly did you come over here for Steve?"
"I was just checking to see that you're all right," he defended himself. "And to see what you know."
"As much as you do," I responded.
"Thought so. I'll see you Danny."
"Okay." Steve walked away. I turned around. People were starting to group off in clumps. They were crying and holding each other. Toby ran up the steps. I ignored him until I heard his voice raised in alarm. "I need help!" My head shot to the side, and I walked quickly to stand behind him. My heart shot to the roof of my mouth as I saw Josh's head hit the pavement.
CJ screamed. "Josh!" I was ignored as Sam and CJ ran to Josh's side. As I edged to the side I could see the blood soaking through Josh's blue shirt. Paramedics surrounded Josh, but I still had a narrow view. I winced at the bloody mess on Josh's chest when they ripped open the shirt. When Josh coughed, a small river of blood came out of the gaping bullet wound. I watched until nausea was threatening to overtake me. When I could finally look, the paramedics had loaded Josh up on a stretcher and were shoving him into an ambulance. The lights flashed on, the sirens wailed, and the ambulance was gone.
I took in a shaky breath and then let it out. I was feeling a bit more shaken up than I just had been. The entire White House, press corps included, had just been attacked. And I like Josh. He's a decent guy who's done me a few favors during the time that I've known him-given me a few tips, told me about CJ and goldfish, and treated me like a person instead of a reporter. And plus, when he screws up it's at least three column inches above the fold for me. So it disturbed me to see Josh shot and driven away in an ambulance.
Charlie jumped into a car and drove away. I stared into space for a few minutes until I felt someone shake me on the shoulder. It was Steve. "Danny, they're gathering the press up," he told me. "We should be at the White House within the hour." I nodded, but didn't say anything. "Danny? Danny, what was that?" Steve gestured at the empty place where the ambulance had been.
A wry laugh escaped my mouth. "That?" I gestured widely at the entire plaza where the shooting had taken place. "that was our news cycle for the next few days." I walked back, grabbed up my laptop bag from where I had dropped it. I kicked the place where the bullet had landed while Steve looked at me strangely. "Come on. Let's get in the van."