FAITH IN HUMANITY
THE THIRD AFTERMATH

June 19th, 2004, 4:02

A small storm of sand floated through the air.

Not everyone saw it, but Ursula did.

Peter turned away-

-so long little brother I'm going to miss you-

-and took his boot off. There was a spare mask in there- he'd taken to carrying spares around, after recent events- and he pulled it over his face. MJ seemed barely aware that he was even moving.

"I have to go down and talk to people," he told her gently. "Will you be alright?"

She stared up at him blankly.

"MJ, are you gonna be all right?"

"Yes," she said. She was still clinging onto Harry's hand, and tears were running down her face. "You go."

He stood and looked at her, at them- and then he turned and clambered down the building. He went slowly. Virtually every part of his body hurt-

-and Harry's dead-

-but he made it down. There was still a substantial amount of people down there, and each and every single one of them had their eyes on him. But they weren't cheering. Not now. He couldn't look at them for long.

"It's over now," he said. He cleared his throat. "It's all over. You're safe now."

There was still almost complete silence, and then Captain Stacy spoke through a megaphone. Peter could see Gwen next to him, staring up worriedly. "The Sandman and the other one," he said. "Where are they?"

"They've gone," Peter said. It was the best his tired mind could think of. "They're not a danger anymore."

Captain Stacy conferred with a few other people for a couple of seconds. Then he said, "Sir, we would appreciate if you came down here, and explained it all to us-"

Peter shook his head. "Not now," he said. He gritted his teeth for the next bit. "The man who came to help me died. Died saving me. He's still up there. And the young lady is shaken, but fine- I'm going to take her home." He thought he could make out MJ's parents moving through the crowd, but couldn't be sure. "It's over now," he repeated. He stared down into the crowd, and saw Ursula Ditkovich and her father staring back at him.

He looked right at them for maybe two seconds. And then he was gone.

He walked across Level 72 to MJ and Harry. The city stretched out beneath him, covered in an orange glow.

"MJ," he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. "I've got to take you home."

She shook her head without looking at him. "What about Harry?"

"The police will be up here in a minute, MJ. They'll see to everything. Come on," he said, and offered his hand. "Your parents are probably really worried about you." He could hear faint shouting from the lower levels, and far away in the distance, the church bells declaring it morning.

"Are they down there?" MJ asked, swiping at her eyes. "My mom and dad?"

"I think so," he answered. "C'mon. Leave him here for now."

Slowly, she let go of Harry's hand, and took his instead. She never once took her eyes off the body, though. "I want to go home, Peter."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll take you. Hold on to me."

She did. He made sure she wasn't going to fall, and jumped off the building. The wind rushed past his ears, and for one split second it felt like he had jumped into a chasm- then he and MJ sailed over the ground, over the crowd and the cars, into the rising sun.

MJ's shoe slid off her foot, and dropped slowly into the darkness below.

June 19th, 2004, 4:15

The crowd milled around on the ground. Some people were eagerly climbing over the bottom level of the building site looking for souvenirs to claim, some were taking photographs, and others were watching the small group of policemen and paramedics making their way up to the higher levels. There were a few children crying.

It had been a very long night.

Duane Stamos- paramedic, and recent author of a cynical letter to the Bugle- leaned against the side of the ambulance and lit a cigarette. He watched the TV news crews in the distance: the reporters were still reporting merrily away. He wondered how much longer he'd have to stick around for. He wanted to go home.

He was so sick of all the superhuman stuff. He was sick of the big battles and the runaway trains and the explosions and the worry. He supposed that because he was a paramedic he would see more of the carnage than anybody else, but all the same, he wanted it to stop.

He couldn't take another room of dead bodies.

Some kids ran past him. He felt like he was at a fairground or something. It was ridiculous.

He looked at his watch. Quarter past four.

"Time to go home, kids!" he heard a voice yelling. "It's over now. The bad guys have gone."

One of the kids- she was wearing a Spider-Man t-shirt- stopped running and turned around. "Mommy, can we go and get some sand?" she said excitedly. "Toby says it's bits of the Sandman, cos he fell apart, didn't he, and if we keep it, he won't ever be able come back cos bits of him are missin'...!" She trailed off with a yawn, and then started again. "Can we, Mommy? Get some sand?"

"No," the mother said. Duane noticed she looked a little worried. "Into the car, Susan, come on. I don't want you to see...all the hurt people." Duane felt like speaking up then and mentioning that if that was how she felt she should have left the kids at home like a normal person, but he couldn't be bothered.

"Is anyone hurt, Mommy?" the little girl asked.

"No," the woman said wearily, putting a jacket on another little girl who had run to her. "No-one's really hurt."

"Is Spider-Man hurt? You didn't let me see," she said in a accusatory tone.

"No."

"And he didn't die," she said, sounding almost adultlike in her worry. "Did he?"

"No. He's fine. You saw him leave, Susan. Now, what did you do with your glasses?"

The little girl removed them from a pocket and put them on. "Did Spider-Man's friend die?"

"No," the mother said, pointedly taking the girl's hand. "No-one's dead. And the Sandman and the other one have gone. And you don't need to run over there and get any sand to take home. Understand?"

"The lady on TV said that someone's dead," the other little girl piped up.

"Come on."

Duane shifted his feet. Sand was blowing past his shoes. He watched the mother and the girls leave, and flicked his cigarette away. He suddenly pictured kids keeping jars of sands next to their beds, convinced that by doing so they would keep the Sandman away. It was the sort of thing his father, jokingly, might have told him to do.

The TV blared on. They'd found a body, and were bringing it down. He didn't particularly want to hear about it: he leaned into the ambulance and flicked the TV off. When he turned around again, the thin blonde-haired woman who he'd exchanged a few words with was standing there looking at him. She looked tired.

"One," she said.

"What?"

"One person dead. Not twenty."

He stared at her for a moment, then it clicked. He shrugged. "I know."

"You think that counts for something?" she asked. "Anything at all?"

Ah, kid. If you think it's going to be alright just because one person died instead of twenty, if you keep your faith just because nothing's ripped into your world yet, if you believe so bad- you might as well get a jar of sand and keep it by your bed, so you can keep the Sandman at bay.

"I don't know," he answered.

"Me neither," she said, and she walked away. Duane watched her go, and then turned his attention to his surroundings. He could see some people loading what had to be a dead body into the back of an ambulance, and was reminded, once more, of standing in a hospital room full of corpses. Scratches on the floor and dents in the walls...

He turned away.

The sun rose, blood-red.