the noise and confusion
Chuck had never been in an explosion before. He had a dream, once, in which his wife exploded, but dismissed that as nothing more than a silly nightmare brought on by some late night Thai. He would never want his wife to explode! Why would he want that? He loves her. That's why he married her. Anyway, it was a thoroughly unpleasant dream, filled with bits of human flesh flying all over... but an actual explosion? With a building and everything? That was new and much, much more frightening, especially since Chuck was faced with the actual threat of dying. You can't die in dreams unless you have one of those falling dreams and actually hit the bottom. Everyone knows that.
Luckily, the explosion did nothing more than knock Chuck flat on his ass.
Or so he thought.
When the dust began to clear, Chuck realized that something was very, very wrong. Flatpoint - the ruins of Flatpoint, rather - was gone. Completely. The explosion was large, but certainly not enough to blow the building to microscopic smithereens, whatever those were. Last time he checked, Flatpoint wasn't in the middle of a city, either. Where did those buildings come from? More importantly, where were Onyx and Jerri? Where was Geoffrey? “Geoffrey!” he called, panic rising in his chest. Did the explosion kill his friends, his lov- very special friend? “Geoffrey? Where are you? GEOFFREY! NOOOOOOO!”
Here, Chicago. Have one shrieking teacher-turned-felon! If the screaming isn't enough for you to distinguish him from the others in Grant Park, he's currently wearing a torn yellow t-shirt as a sweatband around his head, his face is covered in war paint, his clothes are covered in ash, and he's shaking a golf club at the sky. He sticks out like a very sore, very crazy thumb.
Luckily, the explosion did nothing more than knock Chuck flat on his ass.
Or so he thought.
When the dust began to clear, Chuck realized that something was very, very wrong. Flatpoint - the ruins of Flatpoint, rather - was gone. Completely. The explosion was large, but certainly not enough to blow the building to microscopic smithereens, whatever those were. Last time he checked, Flatpoint wasn't in the middle of a city, either. Where did those buildings come from? More importantly, where were Onyx and Jerri? Where was Geoffrey? “Geoffrey!” he called, panic rising in his chest. Did the explosion kill his friends, his lov- very special friend? “Geoffrey? Where are you? GEOFFREY! NOOOOOOO!”
Here, Chicago. Have one shrieking teacher-turned-felon! If the screaming isn't enough for you to distinguish him from the others in Grant Park, he's currently wearing a torn yellow t-shirt as a sweatband around his head, his face is covered in war paint, his clothes are covered in ash, and he's shaking a golf club at the sky. He sticks out like a very sore, very crazy thumb.