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May. 9th, 2004 01:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosI know we're not supposed to post our submissions for the Day After Tomorrow Challenge until the opening day, but, well, I really want to, and I'm doing five thousand different fandoms anyway, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
indigoskynet asked nicely after shaking the fillings from my teeth, so here's my My Secret Identity submission.
And if the canon for either the film or the TV series is a little wonky, well ... sue me.
Standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters, this movie, this TV show, a weather-altering machine from a James Bond movie, or incriminating photos of Jerry O'Connell, no matter how many times I wish I did.
After the Storm
The concept of an alter ego went out the window when the wave hit New York.
The water surrounding the island rose in one great swirling mass, slipping through the skyscrapers like serpents curling around a giant's legs. Andrew had saved the few that he could -- his flying hasn't gotten much faster over the years, but the handful he'd managed to carry to the top of the Empire State Building didn't care about the speed. They're safe for now, even though the water churned for days in the streets below like Mother Nature's bubbling cauldron.
Even though the temperature's dropping, and the ice coating the building's exterior is becoming ominously thick.
It used to be he'd dreamed of this, before the police academy, before years of martial arts courses and a stint in basic and enough hero training for an entire legion of superhumans. Hope had given way to practicality had given way to reality, and one day it had hit him that he was a thirty-year-old police sergeant with a mortgage and a steadier-than-normal girlfriend and at no time did he ever duck into a telephone booth and change into a colorful, easily recognizable costume in a matter of seconds.
Not that he can't. Just that he hasn't.
And these days, Andrew Clements isn't a sergeant, and he isn't the guy who's thinking of proposing to Stacy Denton who works in the marketing department at the Post.
He's the flying man who bent the steel bars away from the observation deck at one section with his bare hands, who spends most of his days sitting up by the spire, eyeing the city below for the slightest bit of movement. Anything ... anything at all to prove there's still life in this world that isn't trapped in the Empire State Building with him.
"Andrew?"
The voice cracks at the end, the sharp cold of the air hitting Becca's throat and forcing her to cough as soon as she speaks.
Andrew doesn't look down at her, not wanting to take any chances by turning his gaze away from the frozen wasteland below. Becca Rogers is eighteen, with shoulder-length dark hair and brown eyes that sparkle when she smiles. Becca looks so much like his sister that it's physically painful just to look at her.
Erin works as a personal assistant to some sitcom star in L.A. It's easier to believe she's dead than hope she's alive, something Becca's mere existence isn't making any easier.
"Andrew, please come inside. It's freezing out here."
According to the Statue of Liberty thermometer they'd commandeered from the tourist shop and stuck to the observation deck's grating, it's eleven degrees below zero. Over the years, Andrew's invulnerability has progressed like a slow-growing virus for some reason to the point where eleven below only calls for a heavier sweater. "I'm fine," he says.
He thinks he sees movement down by where the World Trade Center used to be, and narrows his eyes. A breeze sets a wind-sculpted snowdrift to dancing in midair not far from Wall Street, and Andrew relaxes somewhat.
"You're not fine," she says. He finally looks down at her, and sees her clutching a warm coat and a paper bag he can only assume holds some of the food rations they have left in her well-covered hands. Becca's careful like that. She lost her mother and baby brother when the wave hit. God forbid she start losing herself bit by bit right after. "You're cold and you're hungry."
"Trust me, I'm not."
His stomach growls. He hopes she didn't hear that.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," she says, and places the coat and paper bag down on the ice-slick observation deck. It's probably already frozen to it a few seconds later, but Andrew says nothing.
Becca has a crush on him. It'd probably be cute if her resemblance to Erin didn't make it so squirm-worthy.
"Andrew ..."
"If you thank me for saving your life again, I'm going to drop you over the side," he says.
But he doesn't mean it, and both of them know it, and when all she does is smile broadly at that, it's all he can do not to wince.
"You can't stay out here forever," she calls out.
He's starting to doubt that, but Dr. Jeffcoate died of leukemia two years ago, so he can't exactly prove it, and there's no one else to ask.
"Please," she says quietly, "you're all we have left ..."
... to look up to. She doesn't say it out loud, but Andrew knows what she's getting at. He's not that idealistic teenager anymore, round with baby fat but able to run a mile in a matter of seconds. He's the wiry stranger who defies gravity and can't be pierced by steel or cold, and he's the closest thing to real hope, to a leader, that these few survivors have left.
He floats down to Becca's side, a decade and a half of practice making his landing far more elegant than it'd ever been as a teenager, and the next thing he knows, she's thrown herself at him, arms locked around his neck as she sobs silently against his shoulder. He closes his eyes, and she manages not to say anything for the next few seconds, and he lets himself pretend it's Erin in his arms, that he's been able to save his sister and that he doesn't have one of those painful, death-of-a-loved-one stories that all of his childhood heroes rested their laurels on.
Becca composes herself after a bit, the chill outside finally catching up to her, and she brushes her lips across his cheek before darting back inside to find the others.
And if his heart breaks a little bit when she leaves, he's not about to acknowledge it.
Not long after that, after he's flown back to the spire and gotten settled in his now-usual position for sight-seeing, he spots the two hikers dragging a sled behind them as they approach what was once New York, and he knows things are about to get a lot more interesting.
indigoskynet asked nicely And if the canon for either the film or the TV series is a little wonky, well ... sue me.
Standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters, this movie, this TV show, a weather-altering machine from a James Bond movie, or incriminating photos of Jerry O'Connell, no matter how many times I wish I did.
After the Storm
The concept of an alter ego went out the window when the wave hit New York.
The water surrounding the island rose in one great swirling mass, slipping through the skyscrapers like serpents curling around a giant's legs. Andrew had saved the few that he could -- his flying hasn't gotten much faster over the years, but the handful he'd managed to carry to the top of the Empire State Building didn't care about the speed. They're safe for now, even though the water churned for days in the streets below like Mother Nature's bubbling cauldron.
Even though the temperature's dropping, and the ice coating the building's exterior is becoming ominously thick.
It used to be he'd dreamed of this, before the police academy, before years of martial arts courses and a stint in basic and enough hero training for an entire legion of superhumans. Hope had given way to practicality had given way to reality, and one day it had hit him that he was a thirty-year-old police sergeant with a mortgage and a steadier-than-normal girlfriend and at no time did he ever duck into a telephone booth and change into a colorful, easily recognizable costume in a matter of seconds.
Not that he can't. Just that he hasn't.
And these days, Andrew Clements isn't a sergeant, and he isn't the guy who's thinking of proposing to Stacy Denton who works in the marketing department at the Post.
He's the flying man who bent the steel bars away from the observation deck at one section with his bare hands, who spends most of his days sitting up by the spire, eyeing the city below for the slightest bit of movement. Anything ... anything at all to prove there's still life in this world that isn't trapped in the Empire State Building with him.
"Andrew?"
The voice cracks at the end, the sharp cold of the air hitting Becca's throat and forcing her to cough as soon as she speaks.
Andrew doesn't look down at her, not wanting to take any chances by turning his gaze away from the frozen wasteland below. Becca Rogers is eighteen, with shoulder-length dark hair and brown eyes that sparkle when she smiles. Becca looks so much like his sister that it's physically painful just to look at her.
Erin works as a personal assistant to some sitcom star in L.A. It's easier to believe she's dead than hope she's alive, something Becca's mere existence isn't making any easier.
"Andrew, please come inside. It's freezing out here."
According to the Statue of Liberty thermometer they'd commandeered from the tourist shop and stuck to the observation deck's grating, it's eleven degrees below zero. Over the years, Andrew's invulnerability has progressed like a slow-growing virus for some reason to the point where eleven below only calls for a heavier sweater. "I'm fine," he says.
He thinks he sees movement down by where the World Trade Center used to be, and narrows his eyes. A breeze sets a wind-sculpted snowdrift to dancing in midair not far from Wall Street, and Andrew relaxes somewhat.
"You're not fine," she says. He finally looks down at her, and sees her clutching a warm coat and a paper bag he can only assume holds some of the food rations they have left in her well-covered hands. Becca's careful like that. She lost her mother and baby brother when the wave hit. God forbid she start losing herself bit by bit right after. "You're cold and you're hungry."
"Trust me, I'm not."
His stomach growls. He hopes she didn't hear that.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," she says, and places the coat and paper bag down on the ice-slick observation deck. It's probably already frozen to it a few seconds later, but Andrew says nothing.
Becca has a crush on him. It'd probably be cute if her resemblance to Erin didn't make it so squirm-worthy.
"Andrew ..."
"If you thank me for saving your life again, I'm going to drop you over the side," he says.
But he doesn't mean it, and both of them know it, and when all she does is smile broadly at that, it's all he can do not to wince.
"You can't stay out here forever," she calls out.
He's starting to doubt that, but Dr. Jeffcoate died of leukemia two years ago, so he can't exactly prove it, and there's no one else to ask.
"Please," she says quietly, "you're all we have left ..."
... to look up to. She doesn't say it out loud, but Andrew knows what she's getting at. He's not that idealistic teenager anymore, round with baby fat but able to run a mile in a matter of seconds. He's the wiry stranger who defies gravity and can't be pierced by steel or cold, and he's the closest thing to real hope, to a leader, that these few survivors have left.
He floats down to Becca's side, a decade and a half of practice making his landing far more elegant than it'd ever been as a teenager, and the next thing he knows, she's thrown herself at him, arms locked around his neck as she sobs silently against his shoulder. He closes his eyes, and she manages not to say anything for the next few seconds, and he lets himself pretend it's Erin in his arms, that he's been able to save his sister and that he doesn't have one of those painful, death-of-a-loved-one stories that all of his childhood heroes rested their laurels on.
Becca composes herself after a bit, the chill outside finally catching up to her, and she brushes her lips across his cheek before darting back inside to find the others.
And if his heart breaks a little bit when she leaves, he's not about to acknowledge it.
Not long after that, after he's flown back to the spire and gotten settled in his now-usual position for sight-seeing, he spots the two hikers dragging a sled behind them as they approach what was once New York, and he knows things are about to get a lot more interesting.
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no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 02:18 pm (UTC)Just -- gorgeous. *hug*
You may have to write a My Secret Identity Series. Or maybe a My Secret Identity/Sliders Crossover because then you could write two yummy Jerry O'Connells.
Ahem.
Good fic, though. Seriously. It made me cry.
no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 03:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-09 03:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-20 12:22 pm (UTC)