Erica Nidhogg/I'm Sorry I Failed You
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Erica Nidhogg was on the train from her home in Salamanca to Paragon City when it happened. She had hoped to use this day as a "Me Day" to get some things done. Things like getting her notary certification renewed and speaking to her lawyer about what she could do to get the flow of unauthorized Erica Nidhogg chibi dolls from Korea stopped. She generally enjoyed taking the train, it was slower than her own wings but relaxing and she could let her mind wander for as long as it had to.
Minutes after the blast brought down the offices of the Paragon Sentinel, her PPD scanner sprung to life and began making the horrible shrieking sound that it makes when something truly massive goes wrong in the city. Her hearts both skipped a beat. The last time she heard it make a sound like that was the day the Rikti broke out of their containment zone and proceeded to bombard Paragon City unceasingly for the next few months...
Flipping the scanner open, the report began scrolling across her field of view and her eyes slowly widened. It had been sent to every registered hero with "Quick Responder" identifier on their license. Tucking the scanner back into the interior pocket of her jacket, she activated the emergency exit window on the train and dived out headfirst while stretching her wings to their full span. Catching the air, she swooped low over the ground before rising to complete a graceful arc and beating her wings frantically in the direction of the city. It seemed to her, that no matter how much speed she coaxed out of her wings, that no matter how much her back muscles burned, it was impossible for her to fly fast enough.
As the rubble of the paragon sentinel came into view, Erica began a slow spiral down onto the scene of chaos below. Beneath her, PPD, Port Authority, Transit Authority and Emergency Response were all on scene. Those who had been in the immediate vicinity had rushed to the site of the blast and more were on their way behind them and arriving every minute along with several brightly and darkly clad individuals who were now assisting the rescuers in whatever way they could. Gently lighting upon a large chunk of concrete that seemed stable, Erica wasted no time. She comb over the rubble, moving systematically from girders to large chunks of the building in the hope that they would leave spaces that survivors would hopefully have been able to avoid the rain of rubble. She moved across the destruction using her keen senses to find any of the trace scents of humans and the tell-tale moans and cries of injured office workers.
After what seemed to her like, hours she came upon an old familiar scent: Blood. Moving to where the scent was strongest, she began to frantically pull up chunks of shattered concrete and a piece of a girder. Barely a foot from the surface was half of a human hand, a small engagement ring still hanging on one of the fingers. For a long moment, the information was hard for her to wrap her head around. She tried to come to the obvious implications but her mind was filled with images of black clad men, callously wiring timers to explosives. The old feeling was coming back; a rage that was brutal and basic and all to familiar. All the same, it was also cold, clean and calculating and had the useful quality of focusing her mind into exactly the place it needed to be. Her mind instinctively began to shut out the world beyond the devestation and focus on what could be done in her situation given the time and the resources she had on hand.
Her reverie was broken by a voice. "Hey! HEY!! HEEEEEY!!! OVER HERE! ONE SURVIVOR! HE'S ABOUT TWELVE FEET DOWN". There was a noticeable pause and then "BREATHING, NON-RESPONSIVE. GET THAT BREACH KIT OVER HERE!"
Erica joined into a throng of firefighters as they flocked to the voice. The voice itself belonged to a heavy set middle-aged man with gray in his hair and a cop mustache. He carried himself with the authority of a man who's been in harm's way more than once and began issuing order and organizing the Ad-hoc group of men into a team with the sole purpose of extracting whoever was trapped in that recess. Erica approached with the intent of being diplomatic.
"I... I think I can help. You said you have a man trapped down there."
The senior fireman turned and looked up to her nearly eight feet of height. "No we're all here for the lutefisk. Either tell me what you can do to improve this situation or get the hell out of our way."
Erica bit back a snarl. Nerves were understandably short. "I'm strong. Not as strong as some but I can hold my own in that department... I think I can get him out and fast."
"Really now? Well we've got a chunk of concrete constraining the passage and some rebar down below that forming a barrier to the victim. Think you can handle that?"
"It shouldn't be a problem."
"Then get in there. Seconds count."
She flattened her wings against her back and approached the hole it was tight and she was no waif but if she could get in then whoever was caught down the shaft could get out. She got low to the ground and began to push her way in... she could hear someone breathing in short, ragged gasps and began to worm her way down to the tight, constraining passageway caused by the collapsed chunks of building. She placed her hands upon the concrete and began to push but to no avail. The concrete budged a little but not enough to make a noticeable difference. The problem, to her, was apparently one of commitment. Squeezing through to her shoulders, she braced her legs and began to strain against the boulder with her back, forcing it open in fits and starts to ensure that she wouldn't cause a cave in. As hardy as she was, she still needed to breathe.
Once she was sure that the chunk was stable enough, she made her way down to the lattice-work of rebar that now barred her path to the living but still unseen presence below her. Erica's hands ignited and she began to use the intense heat to soften the steel and then twist them off. As she removed the last one she slipped free and fell into a small chamber face first before flopping onto her back with a loud thud and not inconsiderable cloud of debris. Pulling herself up and shaking the impact out of her head, she scrambled over to where the man lay. He was a young, African-American man in his early twenties with a shaved head, coke-bottle thick glasses and a brown DKNY shirt. His employee ID badge read "Darren Powers" and was still around his neck. Blood was coming from his ears and soaking through into his clothing.
"HEY! EVERYONE GET DOWN HERE! HE NEEDS HELP NOW!" Her call triggered a flurry of activity. Orders were shouted and sharp, staccato sound of rappelling equipment being emplaced could be heard.
His breathing was noticeably more strained than before and coming in shorter to the point where he was barely breathing at all. Wiping away the dust and blood, Erica put her mouth to his and began the rescue breathing techniques she'd learned all those years ago in the Hero Corps training program she'd been in before hitting the streets. She finished the first round of breathing and checked for a pulse. It was faint but still there and Erica had learned to take her victories where she could get them. She launched into the second round but when she again checked the pulse it had faded into nothing. She tried a third, fourth and fifth time but it was no use.
When the rescue team made it's way down the hole they found Erica cradling Darren's head in her lap. She was sobbing quietly and tears had made long rivulets down the ash and mud upon her cheeks.
