The Law of Averages

"I said hands up!" the agitated federal agent repeated, taking a nervous step forward, pistol still leveled at Dan's face. The man seemed just on the verge of panic, and Dan could hardly blame him. He'd probably just lost more than a few friends and coworkers to a surprise villain attack, and the lingering fog made visibility fairly shit.

Dan didn't blame him, but the gun in his face was making it difficult to be cordial.

"I'm not a vigilante! I'm a crisis volunteer, man," Dan said, tapping his laminated badge. "See?"

The man squinted at Dan's chest, only just now coming down from his battle-high. His breath seemed to slowly even out, the fog clearing away from him, and the surroundings, as he took in Dan's outfit. The pistol lowered.

"A crisis volunteer?" the man repeated, his brow furrowed. "Citizen, you shouldn't be here. You need to take shelter, immediately! The area is not secure!"

A hoarse voice shouted from the entrance of the field office, "What's the situation Reid?"

Agent Reid glanced from Dan, to the cargo trailer, then through the fog towards his distant allies. Hesitantly, he stepped towards the trailer, motioning with his hands for Dan to hide. Dan watched him peek inside the broken trailer, swinging his pistol across the empty space and finding the bodies within.

He stepped back out, and called, "I think we're clear up here, sir! All hostiles accounted for except the big one."

"Alright," came the reply. A moment passed. "Brace yourself."

Reid's eyes widened. He spun towards Dan, gesticulating wildly. "Take cov—"

The shout hit like a typhoon, forcing away the fog and sending Dan's ears ringing. The sudden gust of wind sent him staggering backwards, and he nearly tripped on the icy ground. Agent Reid slid towards him, like a skater given a sudden push, as he was buffeted along by Dunkirk's upgrade.

Sight was restored, and Dan saw the carnage he'd helped reap. it was like Webb all over again. The water ran red as warm blood mixed with cold ice and melted into water. These crimson streams flowed across the frozen concrete, carving red lines across the tundra blue ground. It could've been mistaken for urban art, an impromptu ground mural depicting the state of the city.

The grim, darkest part of Dan wanted to take a picture. The rest of him felt like vomiting at the source of the blood. There were bodies scattered across the ground, and the majority were not villains. Now that his heart wasn't pounding so loudly in his ears, Dan could hear the muffled groaning and quiet crying echoing from his surroundings.

The remaining federal agents quickly approached him and Reid. Dunkirk, his crisp suit in tatters and skin covered with a dozen minor cuts and lacerations, ran his gaze over Dan's clothes, then face. His eyes narrowed.

"I know you from somewhere," he rasped, his voice like sandpaper.

"I run a courier business. I dropped off some of your mail," Dan replied stiffly. He glanced around at the broken ground and many, many bodies. "I need to start first aid and get these people out of here. I know you're hard up, but can you spare someone to help me, until backup arrives?"

"No," Dunkirk replied flatly. "This area is not secure. At least one hostile remains within, and I need all my men available to subdue him. The wounded can wait."

Dan grimaced. "I don't think that they can, but I get it. What should I tell the APD, when they get here?"

Dunkirk had already turned to leave, but Dan's question brought him to a halt. He glanced back. "You were able to call this in?"

Dan raised his eyebrow. "I mean, I tried. Me and probably a dozen others. All lines are busy; the city is a madhouse. Hopefully someone managed to radio this in, but I figured you would have a more reliable way of contacting them. Eyes on the ground, so to speak. Did you... not?"

"The average APD officer is not qualified to be inside these premises, and the SPEAR Teams have their hands full," Dunkirk replied curtly. "My men and I will manage without them."

That was a no. Something dark and angry reared up inside Dan at the cold answer, but he squashed it down. He'd assume the man knew what he was doing, right up until he proved that he didn't. A moment that he expected would be fast coming. At least the man was putting off whatever consequences Dan's interference might have till later. He barely even seemed to notice.

"Fine," Dan said between gritted teeth. "I'm gonna get some stretchers and get who I can to safety."

"You should seek safer ground," Dunkirk advised, completely disregarding Dan's comment. "Your presence here will only be a distraction to me and my men."

This ungrateful piece of—

"My presence," Dan replied, keenly aware that he shouldn't be drawing attention to himself, but too angry to care, "probably saved your life, and the lives of your men. Or did you think those shooters decided to strip naked of their own accord!?" He jabbed his finger at one of the nearby bullet-ridden corpses, carefully not looking at it. "I'm certified for combat, just like every other crisis volunteer. I won't be in the way."

Dan mentally cursed his mouth, his temper, and his own parents for not instilling a proper fear of authority into him.

Dunkirk stared at him, his jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

"We don't have time for this," he decided after a moment. "Do what you want." He gestured to his remaining men, all five of them. "On me!"

They scrambled into an approximate formation, and Dan was struck by the sheer callous stupidity of the man. He could see the uncertainty, the fear on the faces of the federal agents, as they followed the man who claimed to be their leader. He saw worried glances towards the bodies of their allies, the many dead, and several more who had been dragged aside and roughly bandaged in the midst of the battle. These were office drones with a dash of field training, not soldiers.

Despite it all, they followed their leader without question. There was probably something admirable about that, but Dan just thought it was incredibly foolish. A fancy badge and rank did not mystically endow intelligence, nor did it erase glaring personality flaws. Dunkirk, Dan realized, could not be relied on to save anyone.

Fuck it, then. He'd do it himself. Dan willed himself back to the medical station, now abandoned. The tents still stood, though they were tattered from stray rounds. Several cars sat nearby, including an ambulance, whose drivers were presumably unwilling to risk escape in a big, bright red box. It was a high-capacity version, taken out specifically for large scale disasters. Dan found the keys conveniently dangling from the ignition, and the ambo started up without issue.

Dan backed the vehicle as close as he could to the entrance of the field office, figuring that, if things went really bad, he could at least drive a few injured people out of the way. Hopefully the feds would come to their senses before it came to that. If Dan had to pull a Hacksaw Ridge, it'd be nice to have some fucking backup. Dan parked the ambulance, then blinked into the back. He sorted through the first aid supplies, grabbing bandages and pain meds, before blinking onto the street.

His feet splashed against something as he landed, but Dan kept his eyes averted from the ground. He followed the sound of people in pain, probing with his veil to find them. He went for the ones not making noise, first. The most seriously injured, and the unconscious. He loaded them onto stretchers, and dragged them out of the way as best he could. Most suffered from bullet wounds. Dan could do little more than apply coagulant, a bandage, and pressure.

Between his rushed first-aid attempts, he tried calling Abby, then Cornelius, then Gregoir. All came back busy. He briefly considered teleporting back home, to tell Abby himself. He knew, though, if he did that then he wouldn't be coming back. If he found himself at home, safe, away from this horror, he wouldn't be able to muster the courage to return. Better to be here, with grim reality staring him in the face, inescapable.

Dan tried emergency services one last time, and got nothing. After his third failure, he paused for a moment, just taking in the state of the city. Sirens reverberated across the tall skyscrapers of downtown, a cacophonous riot of noise. The air outside the field office stank like death and the dying. His boots were stained red.

Dan shook himself, and continued. If he needed to break down, there would be time later. Once he was safe. Once everyone around him was safe. He had a job to do, and he couldn't do it if he was blubbering to himself. Dan slung another unconscious volunteer onto a stretcher, and dragged them across the melting ice.

The ambulance was near full, and Dan briefly considered grabbing another vehicle. It was pointless, he decided quickly. The entire idea was to flee if things went bad. He wouldn't have time to drive off five different vehicles. The ambo was reserved for the worst cases. The rest would have to play possum.

Hopefully, things wouldn't come to that.

Paranoia and suspicion had Dan peeling a few threads from his veil, and sending them creeping through the field office. He kept a portion of his attention on that, as he searched for more survivors. After a moment's thought, he peeled back towards the main area of battle. Several of the dead villains still had sidearms strapped to them, and Dan mechanically stripped them off. He brought them towards the entrance of the field office, where several injured federal agents had been dragged aside by their fellows.

Only one seemed fully aware of himself. His arm was in a rough sling, and his torso was covered in blood, but his eyes were clear. He watched Dan approach, scavenged pistols held loosely in hand. He dropped the weapons beside the man.

"You'll probably want these if things get nasty," Dan offered.

The fed stared at him for a moment, then reached for the pistol, wincing at the motion.

"Thanks," he grunted weakly.

"You think your boys can handle that guy?" Dan asked, nodding towards the entrance. The metal-manipulator had seemed impervious to everything they'd thrown at him.

The fed leaned back, letting out a rattling groan. "T-t-the office is n-nothing. He'll be looking... below. It's a m-maze down there, should buy us some time. I d-don't know what that villain is looking for, but if Dunkirk can get to the armory before he finds it, we'll be fine."

Dan's threads raced along stone corridors, searching and searching. He was forced to reduce his efforts outside, feeding more of his veil's reservoir into his mental map of the field office. With a thought, the threads dove down, quickly hitting a hidden basement. The agent wasn't wrong: it was a maze. Wide and winding and deep, Dan was finding it all but impossible to actually locate anything of use.

He had no idea where anyone was, and that terrified him.

"What if they don't?" he asked quietly.

The wounded agent looked away, shifting uncertainly.

His silence was the answer.