After the old man fell, the triage area went blank for one brief second.
Very brief.
So brief that before the gunshot had faded from everyone's ears, paramedics had already rushed over, police were already shouting for people to get down, firefighters were already dragging stretchers aside, and JARVIS was already reporting new signs of life in the fire to Tony.
Tony stood where he was.
His armor still bore the blood the mother had left on it.
A white sheet covered the child, and the mother too.
The old man beside them lay on the ground, an old revolver clutched in his hand.
The gun had been well maintained, its metal surface polished over many years. Something so respectably old, appearing in this makeshift triage area full of dust and blood, made it hard to tell what era it had originally belonged to.
Tony glanced at him.
JARVIS said, "Sir, there are still four life signs on the mezzanine of Warehouse Two on the north side."
Tony looked away.
"Route."
"Entry through the roof presents the lowest risk."
"Go."
The armor rose into the air.
The blast zone was still burning.
That night.
Suits of armor shuttled back and forth above the industrial warehouse district in southern Brooklyn, from late night into the early hours, from the early hours until dawn.
Fire hoses covered the streets. Ambulances were dispatched from every borough of New York, then drove away from the scene one after another.
Hospitals activated disaster intake procedures, temporary access lanes were opened outside emergency departments, and news stations broadcast live until their anchors' voices grew hoarse.
The death toll was updated at intervals.
The missing-person count took longer.
At the official press conference, the mayor of New York looked very pale. A federal representative sat beside him,