Mount Sinai Hospital Security Desk, 4:15 p.m.
Christopher "Chip" Marshall was new to the job, but not new to the job, if you knew what he meant. He'd worked security since the early nineties, and had seen just about everything one working security could expect to see in their lifetime. Too far from retirement to relax, and too close to retirement to still be eyeing a career ladder, the comfortable chair and easy hours made for a pretty nice change of pace.
Chip hadn't much liked bank security, and really hadn't liked getting rescued by some pre-pubescent in a red and blue spider mask that one time, and had decided it was time to get better pay with less standing. So, hospital security.
The chair squeaked a bit when he leaned back, but the coffee was kept pretty fresh, and he just had to watch the fancy system to alarms, sending the younger and fitter guards to respond if anything came up. Two weeks in and he was about as comfortable as could be.
Chip checked his watch - a nice old watch, lovingly restored from his father's time - almost time for another cup of coffee. If he was lucky, maybe the cafeteria was working on the morning's muffins already and he could get a fresh treat. Some younger folks might get bored in a gig like this, but with his knees and his back being what they were, he was more than happy to let them chase the alarms and chase the runaway patients while he enjoyed coffee at his desk.
Back in the day, the monitors had been so small and so grainy, you could hardly see a things. These new stations were so bright and crisp, with some automated program scanning each face that went by, especially down near those research floors - the cameras themselves didn't go there, but he could see the alarm display for those floors, all green-
Chip leaned close to the monitor, debating switching to his readers. What the hell is that? It had looked for a moment like the alarm panel for the research basement had -
Faster than he could track, the display screens rolled through a series of flickering alarms, each more vibant than the last, until the entire screen was obscured with competing warnings. Every hair on his body stood on end while his chest tightened.
Chip grabbed the daily task binder, reconsidered, then grabbed the red one instead. Emergency Operations Plan, emblazoned in stark black letters.
The building rattled with a resonant boom.
Chip froze, binder barely open in his lap.
Another louder, closer, boom, and all the lights went out.
Sitting in the dark, Chip clutched the EOP binder to his chest like a lifeline. The whole building held its breath, and as he began to wonder why the emergency lights hadn't come on, the room was bathed in red light. The monitors struggled to come on, flickering on and off like the room was haunted.
He stood in a jerky motion, arms around his red binder, chair toppling back. There had been an explosion. He would need to evacuate the building, right? Chip took short, rapid breaths, trying to remember his way back through the winding hallways that led to his remote workstation.
Trying to focus on slowing his breathing, avoiding hyperventilation would be key, Chip tried not to let his imagination run away with him. What if it's a plane again? Terrorists? Aliens coming down from a hole in the sky-
He let the thought pass over him, through him, gave it its time and space. I won't know until I know. For now - he opened the EOP binder, quickly finding the tab for "explosion".
Explosion
If an explosion occurs without warning, take cover by lying on the floor.
If the explosion occurs within the building, or threatens the building, staff should immediately evacuate the building.
Move to an area of safety, and maintain control. Hospital evacuation zones include the ambulance bay, and areas indicated in map (11a)
Check for injured persons. Render first aid if trained.
Confirm transfer and redirection of patients and closure of hospital to intake.
Notify Building Security. Building Security will notify other agencies as needed.
Fight fires only if trained and without endangering yourself or others.
Staff should not return to the building until Fire Department officials declare the building to be safe for occupancy.
The Hospital Director will direct further action as required.
Ok, Chip thought, evacuate to a marked zone. I can do that. The maps in the back provided clear routes for him, he just needed to get moving.
It felt wrong ot just leave his station. Chip grabbed his badge from the desk, his radio from the docking station, but still felt a haze of misdirection. Gathering reflex, some evacuation training echoed in the back of his head, fight through it. Leave. Get out.
His knees didn't hurt as he walked swiftly through the back hallways. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug. Chip beat on office doors as he passed with a smart fist, unsure if anyone was in them but unable to at least bark out orders to evacuate.
In a rolling cascade so fast it was like walking into a thundercloud, one turn into the wider occupied hallways plunged Chip into smoky darkness. The red emergency lights barely came through as he dropped to a crouch, covering his nose and mouth with a sleeve. His eyes burned.
But he recognized the smell, and it was almost a relief. It wasn't the burning plastic of a building on fire, or some strange acrid poison.
It was diesel.
Even clouded in thick, sweet smoke, relief flooded through him. The explosions had to be the diesel generators. Strange to feel relieved about that, but he knew from enough diesel derbys that it was all flash, no true substance or danger to the structure of the building. Not more than a complicated fire alarm, and some warnings about making sure exhaust pipes remained clear and generators exercised on schedule, and everything would be okay and boring a few weeks from now. Good old diesel engines.
The urgency felt like little more than a complicated fire alarm - no, he would have been more concerned if there had actually been a fire. Diesel was all flash, one big boom and a lot of dark smoke, not like terrorists or alients or any of the other catastrophes he could imagine.
Panic leaving him, Chip found himself easily navigating towards the main entrance and the ambulance bay. Consider his terror, then, when his hands found a solid wall of collapsed wall obstructing his path.
Some fancy water-feature wall had been installed near the front entrance in the last remodel, but this didn't feel like that. This was just a weird pile of rocks where a hallway was supposed to be, and some old tree roots mixed in.
The tree roots moved slightly, long vines caressing his curious hand with equal curiosity. Chip snatched his hand back, the terror following after the reflex. Some of the diesel smoke was clearing, and he could see the rubble just a little.
He could see it shifting.
Chip could see the vines flowing through the stone, pouring like slow-moving rivers over and through the broken concrete. Some larger chunks were seized in its grip, and with an almost effortless squeeze of attention it cracked and crumbled further.
More vines, more roots, more terrible horrifying green poured through broken places, advancing towards him. Something in the building groaned, not steel or stone or concrete but much larger, more alive.
Chip stumbled back, all surety and calm lost. Someone was screaming. Panic coursed through the crowd that had been following him to safety in rippling screams and scrambling bodies.
Tony's right foot bobbed on the floor, his left planted on top of a rolling chair wheel, his eyes moving smoothly from one screen to the next, tracking the information as it flowed into his systems and the news provided nothing important in the background but noise.
"We're seeing the overhead view of the hospital now, and it looks like the evacuation is going well. As you can see, there's been a collapse of the building's structure around the ambulance bay. It looks like the city owes yet another thanks to the Avengers for- " - just noise. Nothing important. Nothing like what he could track with the tiny monitors each member wore.
Little dots of light showed the exact positions of each Avenger. They were color-coded, even though Tony didn't need that to know who was who. Wanda would move at a smooth, breakneck speed in straight lines as she flew, while Falcon would weave a little. Rhodey took doors and corners slowly, while Cap-
"Taking detours, are we, Cap?" Tony murmured to himself. He tapped a comm link. "Cap, get back on the route," he chided, "patient rooms were already cleared out."
There was a lingering pause, and a snippy reply. "Copy."
"Someone's pissy today," Tony replied.
"Boss, I've got an unusual call from a registered line," FRIDAY interrupted.
"That sounds like a whole lot of not-a-good-time-right-now," Tony replied.
"You should take this one," FRIDAY insisted, "the line is registered under Captain Rogers' personal associates."
Registered lines were always Stark Industries phones.
Stark Phone + Capsicle = phone that Happy registered prior to the Barnes wedding.
Cap panic + phone tracking = Mount Sinai location.
Mount Sinai + Stark Phone + Unusual call + current FUBAR = nothing good.
"Put it through."
I was supposed to be off today, the orderly thought to himself. Fucking Johnny on a bender calling me at three a.m. to swap, and here I am, in the middle of a fucking alien invasion. Shouldn't have been his shift, shouldn't have been his problem, the orderly was more used to dealing with combative drunks than mass casualty events and wholesale redirects of patients.
The list of patients was endless. Patients, staff, visitors, all had fled to the four corners of Manhattan, outer boroughs even, and everyone on the planet seemed to think he would know where their precious great-grandmother had gone and give them a free bus pass to get there.
Not fully mobbed, but always searching for another name, half fruitful and half not. Critical patients may or may not have told staff where they were going - just bundled up and hauled ass to the next trauma center or ICU. That left him holding a shitty tablet, hopelessly scrolling through list after list of names, trying to keep up.
"I'm looking for Mab Dumont," someone said, the tone of restrained fear so familiar it was almost becoming background noise.
Chip didn't answer, still trying to find that one person, some ancient cardiac patient with a funny-sounding last name, their great-niece had a shrilly voice and appeared every five minutes asking for an update.
"Mab Dumont, she-"
"Look, buddy," the orderly snapped, "there's a lot of people missing right now, you're just gonna have to wait your turn, and-"
The orderly had never been lifted by the back of his neck before.
He didn't particularly enjoy the sensation as his feet left the ground and he spun, abject terror washing over him.
Blue eyes burning in the flashing hazard lights, white teeth gritted against barely contained fury, "You need to find Mab Dumont," Captain America snarled.
His belly turned to water.
"Steve!" another voice barked, a warning or a reminder.
The hero let him go.
A hand at his elbow turned him away, voice calmer. "My friend is really worried." Steel wings shifted, subtly blocking the two of them from view. Blocking that blazing blue fury. "I'm sure a lot of people are asking you to do more than your job description tonight, and it's going to be a long few days." Hands put the tablet that he'd dropped back in his trembling grip. "I'm just asking you to look up one name and point us in the right direction."
The orderly's hands trembled. "Dumont?" he asked, starting from the beginning of the list and working his way down.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
Birdie's hands did not shake around the Ambu bag.
This much was familiar.
The quiet hiss of oxygen through the system of hoses and valves.
The comforting pink returning to her patient's cheeks now she had a proper airway.
Counting a respiratory rate and heartrate.
Medicine.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.
Her hands and cheeks burned. Heat, or adrenaline, she couldn't be certain. Sitting in the back of the open ambulance, one of dozens parked in a random configuration around the rubble that had once been the main entrance of Mount Sinai, some of the adrenaline was starting to wear off. Birdie could really feel what she'd crawled and run through, dragging her patient in a knotted sheet. One patient. She'd had five patients under her care that day, but she only had the strength to carry one.
The focus, an absolute certainty that this one person in her care could not and would not be allowed to die, was almost frightening to her now. Mount Sinai's backup generators had spit flaming diesel onto the walls as they died. The explosion cascaded up the building, following oxygen lines set into the walls. It blasted away chunks of foundation, of reinforcing steel, diesel and fire and oxygen mixing in the worst combination.
And Birdie had survived. She'd carried and dragged Mab Dumont through smoke-dark hallways and sirens and screams of panic. She'd heard the movement through the floors as some great hand shifted the building, moved through the walls, climbed-
A paramedic appeared at her side, small silver and red portable ventilator appearing from under a concealing jacket. "Got it," he reported, jumping into the back of the ambulance and slamming the doors shut, "let's go."
The portable ventilator took over Birdie's job, and suddenly her hands were free. Her ears buzzed with quick pulses of blood, one of the few sounds actually coming through against the blaring of the siren. Sirens. Every siren in the city must have been going off. Police. Ambulances. Nearby cars that had been rattled in the explosion. The collective choir of chaos.
Fearful that they would immediately start shaking, Birdie grabbed at her pockets, unsure if the hastily grabbed item had managed to stay in her pockets in the chaos. It had. Birdie held the cell phone, turning it in her hands.
It didn't look a lot like a cell phone, being all transparent glass and teeny buttons along an aluminum frame, but it did handle like one. Birdie fiddled with the buttons until the screen lit up like a futuristic spaceship.
Birdie toggled through the options before finding the list of contacts. Uncle David - listed as most frequent. Birdie held the phone to her ear as it rang, trying to think what she would say.
It rang for a bit, then went to voicemail. "This is David, please leave a message. If you're calling about pages, please don't leave a message. If you're calling for an event booking, please send me an e-mail."
Birdie stumbled through a message. "Uh, this is Roberta Draper from Mount Sinai, I'm calling about your niece using her phone. Please call me back at my number in case her phone loses battery," she rattled off her personal number and hung up.
Steve- cell listed as second most frequent, followed by Steve-wrk.
She tried the cell phone first, and it went straight to voicemail. "You've reached Steve's voicemail. Please leave him a message in the event he learns to properly use technology and can return your call."
She was more prepared to leave a message this time. "This is Birdie Draper from Mount Sinai, we met the other night. I have Mab's phone, and she's being transferred now. She's." Birdie paused. "I'm going to try your other line, too. Call me back at my number," she stumbled through it and hung up.
Steve-wrk
It connected immediately, startling her. "Good evening, Miss Dumont. How may I direct your call?" A warmly-accented woman's voice asked.
"I-I'm trying to reach Steve?" Birdie half-mumbled.
A long pause. "My apologies; you seem to be calling from a secure line. May I please speak with Miss Dumont?" Idly, Birdie tried to place the accent. Scottish? Irish? Something not quite British, she was sure.
"She-she's hurt, and I'm just trying to let someone know she's hurt, and…" Birdie was ready to burst into tears. Was she really going to get this upset over some cold receptionist?
"Please hold," and a brief click as the line was transferred.
Birdie nearly choked on her breaths as she tried to steady herself.
The ambulance took a swift turn and Birdie held onto her seat with one hand, trying to will her patient to pull through. "You're Captain America's girlfriend, you're not allowed to die."
But the line must have just transferred, as an angry man suddenly barked in her ear: "What did you just say!?"
A/N: mostly typed while holding a sleeping child, be nice regarding typos, please.
Sort of a sideways hot take to not do this chapter from my Mains' perspectives. There's something about chaos that processes differently.
I was struggling about how to approach this, when I was talking about it with my husband and realized that, ultimately, the fine details of the chaos don't matter to the plot. There is chaos and people are hurt. Beyond that, how we get there doesn't really matter. Some chaos that happens much later in the plot will matter a lot, the fine details mattering a lot, so I'll let my writerly inspiration deal with that one.
Sometimes I realize I struggle with things that Don't Matter, insistent that they Must Be Written because it Must Be Important. But, if we can get from A to B with just showing the outskirts of the chaos, the fear and confusion, and the aftermath, do we even have to see the heat of the flames to know that people were burned?
Fun writer thoughts.
Enjoy.
Personal note:
Thank you all for your patience on this. I was smacked with the irony stick by the universe. I've been coming to terms with the fact that I am stepping a little too closely into Mab's world, as I now require a cane on good days, and a wheelchair on bad ones. Interestingly enough, Mab has been a comfort, as I spent a lot of time working through her emotions about it, and it has helped me immensely. I'm working with a local company to get a custom wheelchair made (maybe with black and yellow stripes?) but for now I'm in a bit of a heavy and frustrating one.
Please leave me a comment or review about the story so far, as we're diving into our real plot now.
Until next time.