❰❰ ARMS RACE ❱❱
Another chorus of sirens echoed in the distance, a cacophony of catastrophe amid the bustling city streets. As they drew closer, Charles stood silently and surveyed the wreckage with somber contemplation. Hunks of concrete, stone, and brick spilled over the sidewalk into the road where a historic office-turned-bank had overlooked Bryant Park less than an hour earlier. Now, as the smoke cleared and the dust settled, all that stood in its place was a gaping maw of destruction.
Emergency responders flowed steadily into the darkness with empty stretchers carried haphazardly over jagged piles of rubble. Each pair, swallowed whole, inevitably returned shortly after; spat back out into the light bearing the dead and dying. Blood indiscriminately stained the clothes of the young and old alike. Low, labored moans offered a consistent undercurrent of suffering behind the chaotic noises of more sirens, police officers barking instructions at the growing crowd, and firefighters working around EMTs to ensure the worst of the damage was behind them. One stretcher passed by, more silent than the rest. A black, adult-sized body bag sat between two stone-faced responders.
Turning away from the scene, Charles looked out at the street where cops had managed to push back the crowds to form a police line beyond their squad cars. To one side, three ambulances sat ready to receive the most critically injured survivors. Every time one vehicle's doors slammed shut and its sirens came to life; another was already preparing to take its place. It was a procedure that was becoming all too routine for the city's emergency responders these days.
A fourth ambulance sat stationary, its doors also open wide to receive those in need. Unlike the others, however, it received the lucky few that had escaped with only cuts and scratches. On the rear step, in the eye of the proverbial storm, sat a woman with one arm draped around her child and a full water bottle clutched tightly in her other hand. Both shook beneath a single, reflective thermal blanket. A few paces away, a man with a similar foil blanket wrapped around his shoulders spoke emphatically to a police officer. He waved his arms about, clearly distraught and angry. And although the uniformed figure nodded along with a notepad in hand, his pen remained suspiciously still.
Unfortunately, all the commotion and crowd control in the world did little to deter the television networks already trickling in like vultures. Film crews hastily unspooled cables underfoot as their crisp-suited news anchors with carefully combed-back hair rushed over dirtied asphalt and past the wounded without a second glance. All gathered to form an eager semicircle around a familiar scene. Despite knowing it was inevitable, the theatrics still made Charles' blood boil.
New York's
hero of the week stood triumphantly center stage with hardly a scratch on them. On their right, a young girl lightly dusted in debris clung to their leg as a gloved hand cradled the back of her head. Meanwhile, on their left, a masked criminal slouched sullenly with both arms secured behind his back. Though the damage brought by their fight had been devastating, he was nothing special by supervillain standards. At best, he was only recognizable as a newcomer in the city's ever-expanding rogue's gallery of ner-do-wells - a tactical nuke in a world of hydrogen bombs.
All three stood opposite the demolished bank, their backs to the New York Public Library and the lush, surrounding canopy of trees. No doubt an effort to keep the cameras from broadcasting the shattered facade, Charles couldn't help but speculate whether the posturing came naturally or if it was all as calculated as he presumed. The hero was too far away for Charles to hear, but judging by how dramatically their hand swooped through the air to form a tight fist at eye-level, they were likely reassuring "the good people of New York" that the city was safe under their watch. All of it was an act of self-serving propaganda. And "the good people of New York" couldn't get enough. How could they? Every strongman in history offered the same comfort -
I alone can protect you - and so long as they had an ounce of charisma, the scared masses would throw themselves at their feet and pledge their unquestioning fealty.
One reporter happened to look in Charles' direction and surprised him by peeling off from the gaggle of reporters to make their way over. Their producer appeared to protest at first but soon followed behind with a look of annoyance that threatened to burn a hole straight through Charles' skull.
"Assistant U.S. Attorney, Mr. Forrester, yes?" the reporter ventured, mic in hand. Charles nodded, and they lifted the mic higher.
"Do you mind if I ask you for a comment on the bank robbery thwarted here this morning?"The question caused Charles' features to darken visibly, but he held his tongue as he collected his thoughts on everything he had seen today and the hundred other days just like it. At that moment, two more emergency responders approached nearby with another stretcher.
"If you ever needed a clearer explanation why banks forbid their tellers from interfering with a robbery... well, here you go."He directed the reporter and camera crew toward the passing EMTs with a nod of his head. The camera promptly panned in time to catch the image of a black body bag, then shifted back to Charles' somber expression.
"In an arms race between superpowers, nobody wins. And it will always be the rest of us - the powerless - who will suffer the greatest losses." 
