New York Minute
Mar. 14th, 2010 07:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle: New York Minute
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, France, Germany, Prussia, Austria, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Japan, China
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: 9/11
Summary: I am not usually one to attempt things on this subject but I decided to fill a request on the Hetalia Meme. The prompt was: 9/11 happens during a world meeting.
It ended up making me really sad.
Ottawa, Canada
On September 10th, America showed up at Canada’s house, bursting in the door.
“Do you have to nearly rip it off its hinges every time!”
America laughed and breezed into his brother’s kitchen. “Yes! That way I can make you a new one! Like—one of those Star Trek doors and that do the--whoosh!--whenever it opens!”
“I don’t want on those,” Canada told him, pointing a paring knife at him.
“You totally do.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, waving the little knife and turning back to his potatoes.
“Oh, whacha makin’?” He slunk up behind Canada, peering over his shoulder. “Are you making potato salad?”
“Ugh, Christ, no, gag me with a spoon. Potato soup, you idiot.”
“What’s wrong with potato salad?”
“The only thing that should be in salad is lettuce and cheese and bacon bits.”
“You’re limiting yourself,” America laughed, hefting his bag and starting towards the staircase.
“Have you got an agenda planned out for tomorrow!” Canada called up after him.
“What? Sorry! Can’t hear you over the sound of thinking about potato salad! You should make some!”
“No!”
“Why not!”
“I thought you said you couldn’t hear me!”
America grinned and put his bag down. The room was that pretty shade of sky blue. There were curtains hanging up—a little dusty—and a bad of wrapped hard candies in a dish with a note scribbled: Here, now don’t eat all of mine.
He read it and he smiled and he went back downstairs.
A few bowls of potato soup with cheese and bacon bits (bacon!) later, America helped Canada clean up the kitchen.
“You know what would have made that more awesome?”
“What?” Canada rolled his eyes and handed him a cup.
“A nice glass bottle of—“
“Oh, shut up!”
“—of Coke!” America overrode.
Canada laughed and shoved him. “Be lucky I cooked for you at all!”
America threw water on him.
Canada got him with the soapy rag.
That night, Canada’s eyes opened. A warm, clumsy presence slipped in beside him. He looked over his shoulder.
America was giving him puppy eyes.
Canada grinned. “Like when we were kids, right?”
America nodded profusely. When Canada laid down again, America snuggled up to his back. “I like it when the meetings are in Ottawa.”
“You’re just saying that because then you don’t have to sit on a plane for eight hours.”
“No way,” America said and nosed at the back of his neck. “That’s totally not true—well, okay, it is partially—“
“See—“
“But no, no, seriously, Canada.”
Canada smiled and patted the large hand settled on him. “I know. It’s okay America.”
He felt America nod.
When America awoke at six in the morning, he felt okay. He and Canada put on their suits with much ribbing and jibing and America impudently asking if his suit was lined in fur and Canada flicked him in the nose.
They reached the conference hall and France sidled up behind them, squeezing hips and brushing thighs—until America shoved him off (“Who do we look like, Spain and Prussia?!”).
Germany called the meeting to order at half past seven. He went on and on for a long time about important topics like economics, immigration, travel, security—
America doodled a little stand and noose with three sets of dashes under it (His words were actually the name: OTTO-VON-BISMARCK) and then he passed it to Canada.
Canada guessed ‘E’.
America drew a head.
At eight, America winked at Canada when he guessed ‘Y’ and he drew an arm.
But half passed eight, Canada had finally got it and he had the paper now. His word was simple—because simple was always harder in hangman. One word, six dashes (OTTAWA). America had guessed ‘E’, Canada drew a head.
Oh, yes, it was America’s time to present. He nudged Canada, reaching over to draw a party hat on the hanging head, and made a goofy face—sticking his tongue out and closing his eyes like he was dead—
“Come on, America,” England prompted, from America’s other side, rolling his eyes.
America chuckled and got up.
His presentation, no one really remembered. It was some mixture of silliness and seriousness. America’s boss was not really an overly popular fellow—given the controversy of his election but America seemed to neither love nor hate him. He was not overly inspired like he had been with FDR or Lincoln, so his bizarre topics were sort of expected. Russia leaned over Canada’s shoulder to see their hangman game.
“And so, y’know, with the vast expense it would take to put a colony on Mars, if Japan lends up mechs—you know, like, in Gundam—I liked Gundam Wing—“
“Oh, that one was very popular,” Japan agreed.
“Duo Maxwell was awesome, right! And—if we could build stuff like—“ America blinked. “—stuff like…” He looked down.
Canada tilted his head, curiously.
“Like…um…a…a—“ America touched his cumbersome laptop.
“America?” Canada put his ink pen down.
England, who had been reading a book under the table, looked up. France, who had been nearly asleep, also looked up.
Canada glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight forty-six, eastern time. The fast-moving third hand was on the big three (fifteen seconds). He looked at America.
America swallowed. He seemed to have gone pale.
“America, are you okay…?” Japan asked, quietly.
America looked disoriented. “Something’s—something’s wrong—“ He jolted, his eyes rolled and he slammed into the table, knocking out his laptop.
“America!” Canada jumped up. He shoved his chair back, shoving passed England and France to get around the table.
America grabbed onto the desk, holding himself up for a moment and then hit the floor, crying out. Canada was to him in a flash. “America! What’s wrong! What happened!”
America breathed—suddenly ragged, glasses knocked askew, “I—I—dunno—owow, it hurts.”
“What hurts?” Canada demanded.
England knelt by them. “America?” He touched America’s forehead. “He’s not warm.”
At his seat, Russia stood up. He cast sharp glances around the room.
America clawed at his jacket, ripping it open—the buttons popped off. Canada tried to help—America’s eyes were getting wider, that blue getting shiny—wet—there were—
America was bleeding.
“My God,” whispered France. “What’s happened?” He jumped up. “Germany—the television, please!”
The man was hurrying over to it before France finished. He flipped it on—looked back—England, France, Canada—Australia and New Zealand were up now too. New Zealand went to England—Australia was staring at the television. “Fuck,” he said quietly.
Germany looked back. Live news flash—New York City—he recognized the tower. There were two of them—the twin towers—the World Trade Center. The north tower was on fire.
The male news anchor was saying, “We’re back at nine o’clock eastern time this morning and we’re back with dramatic pictures of an accident that happened just a short time ago. You’re looking at the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan where just a few minutes ago we’re told that a plane—some reports are that it was a small commuter plane—crashed into the upper floors of one of the twin towers. You can see fire or flames or smoke billowing from that tower, there is a gaping hole on the north side of the building—“
Germany looked back at America. His shuddering, the blood—an accident? Weren’t they only generally wounded when…when something outside their…influence happened? Certainly they didn’t get wounds at every accident….but, well, when the stock market crashed in 1929…Canada told them America had suddenly gotten disoriented, dizzy and sick—
England was tearing off his jacket and pressing it over America’s laceration. A jagged wound ripped right below his collarbone on his left side.
And then—Germany’s attention went back to the news, where the female anchor was talking to an eye witness—
“—of course, the major concern is—“
“Oh my goodness—“
“—the loss—do you know if there were many people in the building—“
“Oh! Another one just hit! Something else just hit—!”
The camera cut away from the first building—pulling back—showing the second—a fireball engulfed the side—
On the floor, America cried out, back arched off the floor. More blood.
Italy was shaking, hands over his ears, staring at the table. The pained cries, the footage, the fire. Romano stood and kept his eyes on the top of Italy’s head. He put his hands over his brother’s hands over his ears.
Russia’s eyes narrowed at the screen.
England’s eyes were up, his teeth were gritting.
France was on his cell phone, calling his boss. He was suddenly rattling off in fast French, “What is going on!”
Germany couldn’t seem to get his eyes away from the screen. Another eyewitness was talking—panicking—fast and frantic. In the background, people were screaming.
Prussia was leaning against the wall, watching. He stepped forward, touched Germany and squeezed his arm. Austria was getting up too. He went to Germany’s other side and touched his back.
“—and now you have to move from the talk of possible accident to talk of something deliberate that has happened here. We’re going to immediately check with air traffic control and find out if they had contact with either of these planes before the accident but what we’ve just seen is…the most shocking video tape I’ve ever seen…”
Canada held America up. “It’s okay, bro. We got you. You’re gonna be fine—“
America coughed, choked on a faint, hysterical laugh, “The Today Show with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer—“ He shook.
“America, stop talking,” England ordered. He leaned up and yelled. “France! What does he say! Hurry up, you fucking frog!”
Japan was up, calling his embassy.
Russia never moved. He stared at the television. He didn’t blink.
China stayed seated but he was also silent.
America’s cell phone went off (In a New York Minute/Everything can change)—Canada jumped up and grabbed it. “Hallo!”
“Mister Jones, sir, we need to secure your location immediately—“
“This is Matthew Williams, his brother. What’s going on!”
The conference room went dead quiet.
“Sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to release the phone of Mister Jones immediately or face due action—“
England was up, yanking the phone away, “This is Sir Arthur Kirkland and if you aren’t high-ranked enough to know who we are than I bloody well suggest you get someone who does!”
The other side of the line was muffled—it changed hands—England started talking. His accent went low, gruff. Canada knelt by America and New Zealand.
The Pentagon went up.
America stiffened like a board and then lashed out—his brothers held him down—a line opened down the hollow of his throat—more blood. Canada tore his jacket off to press down, “Can’t somebody get some goddamn bandages!”
Belgium threw the doors open and ran out.
Canada’s cell phone went off. He snapped it open.
His boss was talking before he could get a word in. “All US domestic and foreign flights are being redirected to Canada—where are you?”
“Ottawa, conference with the others, sir.”
“How is Alfred?”
“Not good, sir. Not good—has his boss contacted you?”
“No, nothing.”
Germany said, “If this was a terrorist act…”
“Then that enacts Article Five…and NATO goes to war…” Prussia finished, quietly. All three of the German nations (one formally)—Austria, Germany and Prussia—seemed to look, as one man, as Russia.
Russia just kept staring at the television, solemn. “I should contact my boss,” he said, quietly.
France finally got off the phone and he looked up again, watching the television—footage of the Pentagon now—and then the crash of a fourth and final plane in Pennsylvania. He looked to Canada—his face was streaked in America’s blood.
America had finally stopped making sound—he was just breathing hard. He panted as two of his younger brothers tried to help staunch the flow. Belgium reappeared. She nearly crashed into the brothers—Norway grabbed the table and yanked it out of the way—she knelt and bandages came tumbling from her arms. She and Canada started to unravel them.
England was yelling into America’s cell phone. France could see him drawing himself up, how the anger flashed through his eyes. How the rage in his voice was building.
Australia just kept watching the screen. He was holding his phone, it was open and it was ringing but he didn’t seem to notice. New Zealand yelled at him once, twice and then gave up and helped hold America down while Canada and Belgium wrapped his throat.
Japan was just hanging up his phone with a clack after a nod and a, hai. Russia was on the conference room phone, still watching the screen while he spoke to his boss.
China was standing now, regal in his long sleeves. He smoothed back a strand of hair. He looked at the screen and then down at America. He, America and Russia had been through a lot in the past fifty years. A lot of mistrust, suspicion, anger…
Things were going to change. Again.
When the twin towers collapsed completely, America let out a moan like a wounded dog. His glasses were somewhere—he didn’t know where. He felt hundreds of lives—firefights struggling to clear the buildings and people still trapped inside—in a flash, a wave and a rumble of concrete and dust and fire, they were dead. (“We’re young men, we’re not ready to die! There’s three of us, by two broken windows—Oh God—!”
-“Of course there’s smoke!”
“Ma’am, I’m documenting everything you say—we’re going to get help—“
“I’m gonna die aren’t I?”
“No, no, no, now stay calm—“
“It’s so hot…I’m burning up—“)
Canada held him. New Zealand petted his forehead.
England was yelling at someone else now. His boss, Blair, from the sounds of it.
France stood back from it all and watched. France was, of course, one to do so. Having lived an adult life far longer than several others in the world, his attitude towards the world and its bitterness was a flavor he was well familiar with. America was not used to such things. He had such a strange mix of optimism and cynicism—and they never seemed to be in the proper places. He was still so young. And today, perhaps, he’d help the boy as he could.
Maybe today, they all would.
[[I have never really been able to write about 9/11. So I'm sorry if Anon isn't happy with this. I was 15 years old, in high school, when it happened. And that day—everything stopped and we all just watched it on television. The jumpers, the terrified civilians—everything. So I decided to try this and it made me wanna cry again. Because I’ll never get that feeling out—watching the people jump and when we all watched the towers come down. There was a boy in my class whose father worked at the Pentagon. And when the Principal came in to take him out of class, he just burst into tears.
The dialog of the newscaster is here. It’s audio taken right from the Today Show with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer (two very well known news personalities based in NYC) when the second plane hit.
The two bits of dialog from when the towers collapsed are recorded 9-1-1 calls (I don’t know what it is in other countries but 9-1-1 is our emergency hotline number that will instantly connect you to area police/fire department) placed from two different people in the buildings: here and here.
The title comes from an Eagles song by the same name, “New York Minute”.
I was going to go on—and describe that aftermath. Of how unified everyone was at first and then how it slowly turned to hate as former President George Bush proceeded to alienate everyone else in the international community…but thinking about it just made me feel worse. Listening to those 9-1-1 audio tapes again—I just couldn’t do anymore. It was such a horrible event.
….I’m tired of being hated by the international community. So I’m glad that maybe things are starting to get better now….]]
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, France, Germany, Prussia, Austria, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Japan, China
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: 9/11
Summary: I am not usually one to attempt things on this subject but I decided to fill a request on the Hetalia Meme. The prompt was: 9/11 happens during a world meeting.
It ended up making me really sad.
Ottawa, Canada
On September 10th, America showed up at Canada’s house, bursting in the door.
“Do you have to nearly rip it off its hinges every time!”
America laughed and breezed into his brother’s kitchen. “Yes! That way I can make you a new one! Like—one of those Star Trek doors and that do the--whoosh!--whenever it opens!”
“I don’t want on those,” Canada told him, pointing a paring knife at him.
“You totally do.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, waving the little knife and turning back to his potatoes.
“Oh, whacha makin’?” He slunk up behind Canada, peering over his shoulder. “Are you making potato salad?”
“Ugh, Christ, no, gag me with a spoon. Potato soup, you idiot.”
“What’s wrong with potato salad?”
“The only thing that should be in salad is lettuce and cheese and bacon bits.”
“You’re limiting yourself,” America laughed, hefting his bag and starting towards the staircase.
“Have you got an agenda planned out for tomorrow!” Canada called up after him.
“What? Sorry! Can’t hear you over the sound of thinking about potato salad! You should make some!”
“No!”
“Why not!”
“I thought you said you couldn’t hear me!”
America grinned and put his bag down. The room was that pretty shade of sky blue. There were curtains hanging up—a little dusty—and a bad of wrapped hard candies in a dish with a note scribbled: Here, now don’t eat all of mine.
He read it and he smiled and he went back downstairs.
A few bowls of potato soup with cheese and bacon bits (bacon!) later, America helped Canada clean up the kitchen.
“You know what would have made that more awesome?”
“What?” Canada rolled his eyes and handed him a cup.
“A nice glass bottle of—“
“Oh, shut up!”
“—of Coke!” America overrode.
Canada laughed and shoved him. “Be lucky I cooked for you at all!”
America threw water on him.
Canada got him with the soapy rag.
That night, Canada’s eyes opened. A warm, clumsy presence slipped in beside him. He looked over his shoulder.
America was giving him puppy eyes.
Canada grinned. “Like when we were kids, right?”
America nodded profusely. When Canada laid down again, America snuggled up to his back. “I like it when the meetings are in Ottawa.”
“You’re just saying that because then you don’t have to sit on a plane for eight hours.”
“No way,” America said and nosed at the back of his neck. “That’s totally not true—well, okay, it is partially—“
“See—“
“But no, no, seriously, Canada.”
Canada smiled and patted the large hand settled on him. “I know. It’s okay America.”
He felt America nod.
When America awoke at six in the morning, he felt okay. He and Canada put on their suits with much ribbing and jibing and America impudently asking if his suit was lined in fur and Canada flicked him in the nose.
They reached the conference hall and France sidled up behind them, squeezing hips and brushing thighs—until America shoved him off (“Who do we look like, Spain and Prussia?!”).
Germany called the meeting to order at half past seven. He went on and on for a long time about important topics like economics, immigration, travel, security—
America doodled a little stand and noose with three sets of dashes under it (His words were actually the name: OTTO-VON-BISMARCK) and then he passed it to Canada.
Canada guessed ‘E’.
America drew a head.
At eight, America winked at Canada when he guessed ‘Y’ and he drew an arm.
But half passed eight, Canada had finally got it and he had the paper now. His word was simple—because simple was always harder in hangman. One word, six dashes (OTTAWA). America had guessed ‘E’, Canada drew a head.
Oh, yes, it was America’s time to present. He nudged Canada, reaching over to draw a party hat on the hanging head, and made a goofy face—sticking his tongue out and closing his eyes like he was dead—
“Come on, America,” England prompted, from America’s other side, rolling his eyes.
America chuckled and got up.
His presentation, no one really remembered. It was some mixture of silliness and seriousness. America’s boss was not really an overly popular fellow—given the controversy of his election but America seemed to neither love nor hate him. He was not overly inspired like he had been with FDR or Lincoln, so his bizarre topics were sort of expected. Russia leaned over Canada’s shoulder to see their hangman game.
“And so, y’know, with the vast expense it would take to put a colony on Mars, if Japan lends up mechs—you know, like, in Gundam—I liked Gundam Wing—“
“Oh, that one was very popular,” Japan agreed.
“Duo Maxwell was awesome, right! And—if we could build stuff like—“ America blinked. “—stuff like…” He looked down.
Canada tilted his head, curiously.
“Like…um…a…a—“ America touched his cumbersome laptop.
“America?” Canada put his ink pen down.
England, who had been reading a book under the table, looked up. France, who had been nearly asleep, also looked up.
Canada glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight forty-six, eastern time. The fast-moving third hand was on the big three (fifteen seconds). He looked at America.
America swallowed. He seemed to have gone pale.
“America, are you okay…?” Japan asked, quietly.
America looked disoriented. “Something’s—something’s wrong—“ He jolted, his eyes rolled and he slammed into the table, knocking out his laptop.
“America!” Canada jumped up. He shoved his chair back, shoving passed England and France to get around the table.
America grabbed onto the desk, holding himself up for a moment and then hit the floor, crying out. Canada was to him in a flash. “America! What’s wrong! What happened!”
America breathed—suddenly ragged, glasses knocked askew, “I—I—dunno—owow, it hurts.”
“What hurts?” Canada demanded.
England knelt by them. “America?” He touched America’s forehead. “He’s not warm.”
At his seat, Russia stood up. He cast sharp glances around the room.
America clawed at his jacket, ripping it open—the buttons popped off. Canada tried to help—America’s eyes were getting wider, that blue getting shiny—wet—there were—
America was bleeding.
“My God,” whispered France. “What’s happened?” He jumped up. “Germany—the television, please!”
The man was hurrying over to it before France finished. He flipped it on—looked back—England, France, Canada—Australia and New Zealand were up now too. New Zealand went to England—Australia was staring at the television. “Fuck,” he said quietly.
Germany looked back. Live news flash—New York City—he recognized the tower. There were two of them—the twin towers—the World Trade Center. The north tower was on fire.
The male news anchor was saying, “We’re back at nine o’clock eastern time this morning and we’re back with dramatic pictures of an accident that happened just a short time ago. You’re looking at the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan where just a few minutes ago we’re told that a plane—some reports are that it was a small commuter plane—crashed into the upper floors of one of the twin towers. You can see fire or flames or smoke billowing from that tower, there is a gaping hole on the north side of the building—“
Germany looked back at America. His shuddering, the blood—an accident? Weren’t they only generally wounded when…when something outside their…influence happened? Certainly they didn’t get wounds at every accident….but, well, when the stock market crashed in 1929…Canada told them America had suddenly gotten disoriented, dizzy and sick—
England was tearing off his jacket and pressing it over America’s laceration. A jagged wound ripped right below his collarbone on his left side.
And then—Germany’s attention went back to the news, where the female anchor was talking to an eye witness—
“—of course, the major concern is—“
“Oh my goodness—“
“—the loss—do you know if there were many people in the building—“
“Oh! Another one just hit! Something else just hit—!”
The camera cut away from the first building—pulling back—showing the second—a fireball engulfed the side—
On the floor, America cried out, back arched off the floor. More blood.
Italy was shaking, hands over his ears, staring at the table. The pained cries, the footage, the fire. Romano stood and kept his eyes on the top of Italy’s head. He put his hands over his brother’s hands over his ears.
Russia’s eyes narrowed at the screen.
England’s eyes were up, his teeth were gritting.
France was on his cell phone, calling his boss. He was suddenly rattling off in fast French, “What is going on!”
Germany couldn’t seem to get his eyes away from the screen. Another eyewitness was talking—panicking—fast and frantic. In the background, people were screaming.
Prussia was leaning against the wall, watching. He stepped forward, touched Germany and squeezed his arm. Austria was getting up too. He went to Germany’s other side and touched his back.
“—and now you have to move from the talk of possible accident to talk of something deliberate that has happened here. We’re going to immediately check with air traffic control and find out if they had contact with either of these planes before the accident but what we’ve just seen is…the most shocking video tape I’ve ever seen…”
Canada held America up. “It’s okay, bro. We got you. You’re gonna be fine—“
America coughed, choked on a faint, hysterical laugh, “The Today Show with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer—“ He shook.
“America, stop talking,” England ordered. He leaned up and yelled. “France! What does he say! Hurry up, you fucking frog!”
Japan was up, calling his embassy.
Russia never moved. He stared at the television. He didn’t blink.
China stayed seated but he was also silent.
America’s cell phone went off (In a New York Minute/Everything can change)—Canada jumped up and grabbed it. “Hallo!”
“Mister Jones, sir, we need to secure your location immediately—“
“This is Matthew Williams, his brother. What’s going on!”
The conference room went dead quiet.
“Sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to release the phone of Mister Jones immediately or face due action—“
England was up, yanking the phone away, “This is Sir Arthur Kirkland and if you aren’t high-ranked enough to know who we are than I bloody well suggest you get someone who does!”
The other side of the line was muffled—it changed hands—England started talking. His accent went low, gruff. Canada knelt by America and New Zealand.
The Pentagon went up.
America stiffened like a board and then lashed out—his brothers held him down—a line opened down the hollow of his throat—more blood. Canada tore his jacket off to press down, “Can’t somebody get some goddamn bandages!”
Belgium threw the doors open and ran out.
Canada’s cell phone went off. He snapped it open.
His boss was talking before he could get a word in. “All US domestic and foreign flights are being redirected to Canada—where are you?”
“Ottawa, conference with the others, sir.”
“How is Alfred?”
“Not good, sir. Not good—has his boss contacted you?”
“No, nothing.”
Germany said, “If this was a terrorist act…”
“Then that enacts Article Five…and NATO goes to war…” Prussia finished, quietly. All three of the German nations (one formally)—Austria, Germany and Prussia—seemed to look, as one man, as Russia.
Russia just kept staring at the television, solemn. “I should contact my boss,” he said, quietly.
France finally got off the phone and he looked up again, watching the television—footage of the Pentagon now—and then the crash of a fourth and final plane in Pennsylvania. He looked to Canada—his face was streaked in America’s blood.
America had finally stopped making sound—he was just breathing hard. He panted as two of his younger brothers tried to help staunch the flow. Belgium reappeared. She nearly crashed into the brothers—Norway grabbed the table and yanked it out of the way—she knelt and bandages came tumbling from her arms. She and Canada started to unravel them.
England was yelling into America’s cell phone. France could see him drawing himself up, how the anger flashed through his eyes. How the rage in his voice was building.
Australia just kept watching the screen. He was holding his phone, it was open and it was ringing but he didn’t seem to notice. New Zealand yelled at him once, twice and then gave up and helped hold America down while Canada and Belgium wrapped his throat.
Japan was just hanging up his phone with a clack after a nod and a, hai. Russia was on the conference room phone, still watching the screen while he spoke to his boss.
China was standing now, regal in his long sleeves. He smoothed back a strand of hair. He looked at the screen and then down at America. He, America and Russia had been through a lot in the past fifty years. A lot of mistrust, suspicion, anger…
Things were going to change. Again.
When the twin towers collapsed completely, America let out a moan like a wounded dog. His glasses were somewhere—he didn’t know where. He felt hundreds of lives—firefights struggling to clear the buildings and people still trapped inside—in a flash, a wave and a rumble of concrete and dust and fire, they were dead. (“We’re young men, we’re not ready to die! There’s three of us, by two broken windows—Oh God—!”
-“Of course there’s smoke!”
“Ma’am, I’m documenting everything you say—we’re going to get help—“
“I’m gonna die aren’t I?”
“No, no, no, now stay calm—“
“It’s so hot…I’m burning up—“)
Canada held him. New Zealand petted his forehead.
England was yelling at someone else now. His boss, Blair, from the sounds of it.
France stood back from it all and watched. France was, of course, one to do so. Having lived an adult life far longer than several others in the world, his attitude towards the world and its bitterness was a flavor he was well familiar with. America was not used to such things. He had such a strange mix of optimism and cynicism—and they never seemed to be in the proper places. He was still so young. And today, perhaps, he’d help the boy as he could.
Maybe today, they all would.
[[I have never really been able to write about 9/11. So I'm sorry if Anon isn't happy with this. I was 15 years old, in high school, when it happened. And that day—everything stopped and we all just watched it on television. The jumpers, the terrified civilians—everything. So I decided to try this and it made me wanna cry again. Because I’ll never get that feeling out—watching the people jump and when we all watched the towers come down. There was a boy in my class whose father worked at the Pentagon. And when the Principal came in to take him out of class, he just burst into tears.
The dialog of the newscaster is here. It’s audio taken right from the Today Show with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer (two very well known news personalities based in NYC) when the second plane hit.
The two bits of dialog from when the towers collapsed are recorded 9-1-1 calls (I don’t know what it is in other countries but 9-1-1 is our emergency hotline number that will instantly connect you to area police/fire department) placed from two different people in the buildings: here and here.
The title comes from an Eagles song by the same name, “New York Minute”.
I was going to go on—and describe that aftermath. Of how unified everyone was at first and then how it slowly turned to hate as former President George Bush proceeded to alienate everyone else in the international community…but thinking about it just made me feel worse. Listening to those 9-1-1 audio tapes again—I just couldn’t do anymore. It was such a horrible event.
….I’m tired of being hated by the international community. So I’m glad that maybe things are starting to get better now….]]
