Chapter Text
Something crazy happened after the gate closed. Steve’s whole body, like, filled with fire and his mind blanked out and everybody around him dropped dead. Or, no — some of them were shaking, the military guys and Feds with their guns clattering to the ground. Even Robin dropped next to him.
“Hey, Robin?” His voice was wrecked. But she was moving on the ground, rolling over and groaning. Thank God thank God thank God. He couldn’t see any of the kids from there. He licked his lips automatically, tasted blood running into his mouth.
Then there was shouting. More people ran in and trained their guns on him while he stood there dumbly, bringing a hand up to his nose and drawing it away when blood dripped down his fingers. Panic crushed him. He was dying. His brain was melting. He was about to be shot. He could barely understand the shit they were yelling. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he breathed, totally inaudible to everyone around him.
Nobody shot him, but Christ, they came close. He could just tell. Looking at one of the men in a suit and tie with hands shaking around a handgun, Steve could tell the guy was afraid of him.
The ones on the ground were coming around like Robin had. Whatever happened didn’t hit him the way it hit them.
Three men in tactical gear approached him. His hands raised up on their own accord; it certainly wasn’t the first time in twenty four hours he’d stared down the barrel. A trail of blood was running down his wrist — all that from his nose.
One of them rounded on him, restrained him, started to lead him away.
“Hey, wait— is she okay?” He twisted around to try and see Robin on the ground but they were blocking his view, and he ended up stumbling along with them. They were going deeper into the mall. He recognized some of the back halls, and then he didn’t recognize them at all, and then finally they emerged out of a back door and into the humid summer night.
They didn’t stop. He got shoved into the back of a van before he could say a word.
There were two more men with guns and tactical masks, and Billy on the floor. Steve nearly tripped over him.
“Oh, shit. Is he dead?”
They didn’t answer, only pushed him down onto the bench seat and sat opposite him with their guns still raised.
His feet were right up against Billy’s side. There was blood or, like, some kind of black goop under his sneakers, and Billy really didn’t look like he was alive — he looked unnaturally pale, covered in gore, completely unmoving. The van took off and jostled them, so Steve couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all. “Hey,” he said, voice raised desperately high, “is anyone gonna help him?”
Not a peep.
“He’s still alive.” His eyes were trained on Billy’s face. He looked really, really dead, but Steve knew he wasn’t. And since nobody else was moving, he slid off the seat and pressed his hands to the big wound on Billy’s chest, like that might actually help. He wasn’t cold yet, at least. One of the guys stood up in alarm at his movement, and when Steve looked up he could kind of see his eyes through his helmet and saw fear again for some reason. “Can you fucking help me?” he ended up screaming, and the other guy actually dropped his gun on the floor and did.