Tragic events that have taken place in the Real World are dealt with by the 7. My way of coping is to write, so the boys handled it all for me. If you are tired of and/or don't wish to read anything having to do with the attacks in NYC on September 11, 2001, you might want to skip this story and the next, A Whisper in the Silence.
The 'poem' that Vin writes is actually a song written by Alan Jackson.
Oh, and the demon speller LOVES me.

At Wilmington's desk, four men gathered, exhausted by a long day of paperwork, manning the phones and trying to avert a worse disaster than the one having occured in the wee hours of the morning across the country.

New York and Washington DC were in chaos; both twin towers of the World Trade Center had collapsed and were no more, a section of the Pentagon reduced to rubble. All flights across the country had been grounded, various federal buildings around the United States having been placed on the highest security alert available without shutting down altogether.

The president had just now been allowed to return to the White House to coorelate with his cabinet and advisors on the scope of the damage and to begin the rebuilding of the American people.

All because of a terrorist attack that had resulted in no less than four hijacked airplanes and thousands dead, including passangers and crew.

Almost always impatient, this time his impatience was shared by the rest of his unit as JD asked, watching Buck pace between Chris' office and his own desk, "What can we do?"

"Nothin'." Buck ground out, angry; frustrated at having his hands tied. It was well into night, well over 10 hours after it had all began and they were no closer than they had been when this all started. As of this moment, they had no leads, nowhere to start looking much less *doing* and that very feeling of helplessness was eating away him. He was a man of action, and waiting was never his strong suit. "Not unless the gutless cowards bring it here."

"I assuredly hope you are mistaken about that, Buck." Ezra spoke up, southern drawl weary as he brushed a heavy hand across his eyes. He had a headache and felt it a safe bet they all did. "Let us hope this is as ugly as this horrible situation gets, shall we?"

Ezra's exhaustion only reminded him of his own. Buck brushed his hair from his forehead, rubbing his face and fell back into his chair wearily, his pacing getting on his own nerves. "I do hate ugly." Acknowledging the truth in the negociator's observation as well as the shared frustration with his fellow agents, his usual cheerful declaration lacked it's well worn enthusiasm.

A silence fell, each lost in their own version of hell, waiting on word from Chris' office. It had been 10 hours of grueling searches; phonecalls to other agencies, FBI, CIA, private organizations that might know more than they did. Favors and unique sources had been called in, checked on the off chance they might actually *do* something about the carnage on the East Coast, over half a continent away.

Assistant Director Skinner, heading the FBI's taskforce, had no further information, although he promised to keep Chris informed should something turn up. But the coast was in a state of disorganized chaos at the moment, and his resources were limited. Mulder was profiling the case, even though the unorthodox agent himself admitted this was definitely not an XFile.

MacGyver had grimly sworn to turn every available resource at his disposal in California to tracking down leads on any possible LA connection as the two planes that had hit the World Trade Center had been bound there from Boston. While it was unlikely that they would turn up anything on that end, the former troubleshooter turned director had promised to put his full weight at Phoenix behind his efforts. With his experience in anti-terrorist tactics, he may at least come up with new places to search.

Derek Rayne in San Francisco had also confirmed there had been no paranormal involvement in this disaster. While the attacks on the American people were no doubt demonic in nature, no actual demons had been involved save of the human variety.

General Hammond of Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs had relayed Colonel O'Neill and SG1's determination that no alien technology had been used to accelerate the burning of the towers. The jet fuel in the two fully loaded airliners had been enough. There had been a heavy thump in the background which the general had replied was the sound of Jack's boot kicking the wall which was accompanied over the line by an irreverantly muttered, "Sorry, sir.".

All they could do now was wait.

"I want them dead." JD's declaration startled them all out of their thoughts; even the youth himself looked surprised that he had spoken the words.

"I feel 't safe to say you got yer wish, JD."

"Dammit, Josiah, I mean it!" Pushing up and away from his desk, the youngest member of Team 7 stormed over to where Sanchez balanced his chair precariously against the wall behind him. "It's the least they deserve for what they've done."

Noone begrudged JD his anger; they had all felt it building up as they worked through the chaos, trying to make sense of such a senseless act. The preacher merely accepted it into himself, allowing JD to get some of it off his chest.

The older man regarded him sadly for a moment before nodding. "Yep. I reckon we all do, son. Don't change the fact they're dead enough already."

JD's fists clenched and unclenched at his side before exploding upward in a gesture of rage and futility. He took his own chair, holding his head in his hands, the sudden burst of energy gone. He had a headache and his eyes ached from his tears. They had had the radio on all day for news and the latest updates and the constant sorrow and grief coming across the airways had been too much for him to listen to dry eyed. He hurt and he just wanted to go home, just for a few hours, where he wouldn't have to think about it anymore.

It was true enough that the four men actually aboard the planes were dead, but he wanted the ones behind it all. In his mind, *those* were the worst cowards off all. Not only to order the death of innocent civilians, but not even have the guts to do it themselves, sitting safe and anonymous behind whatever walls, governments or organizations they were hiding behind.

His gray head tilted thoughtfully as Josiah questioned in the solemn voice the others associated with the preacher's own unique sage advice or profound words of wisdom. "Wonder what 't was they hoped to accomplish."

"What the hell difference does it make, Preacher?"

"Don't know, Buck." At the three sets of disbelieving eyes turned on him, he shrugged but refused to look away. "Just that, whatever 't was, they certainly felt strong enough about it ta die for it."

At that moment, Chris Larabee stalked from his office, Tanner and Jackson in tow. "That's all good and well, Sanchez, let them die if they want. That got that right. That *doesn't* give them the right to take others with them."

The preacher spread his hands wide, diffusing the boss' anger much as he had JD's, by accepting his words. "No arguement here, brother. Just makes you wonder what it is a man considers worth dyin' for is all."

"Or killin' for." JD's head had left his hands at Larabee's angry accusation and now he looked to Josiah for direction.

"That, too."

'That, gentlemen, is what makes this all so tragic."

"What's that, Ezra?"

The gambler raised his brows in irony. "That we may never know just what it was the loathsome bastards felt needed expressing in such a dispictable manner."

"Ain't the only thing, Ezra." Josiah shook his head. "Ain't no honor in this."

Vin nodded, the tracker speaking for maybe the first time that day. Normally quiet, today he had been tight lipped; this had shaken him more than he would probably ever admit. "It's one thin' t' go after someone who done y' wrong. 'Nother t' involve innocents along th' way."

A spiritual man, Sanchez followed more than a few passive tenants, and turned knowing eyes to Vin. "Exactly. No good karma can come out of so much death."

While Josiah would never condone such a horrible act, they all knew him well enough to know the preacher part of him would be unable to do anything but try to find they human side of it all. Even among the terrorists who took so many lives.

"I don't know about karma, Preacher, but everything so far has turned up empty. The local goverments in Washington and New York have turned down our offer to send volunteer personel. We're to lock up our end and sit tight."

They had all perked up, hoping for a chance to help out only to fall flat at the boss' bad news.

"Go home. There's nothing more we can do here. We start back fresh at 0700."

Knowing a curt dismissal when they heard one, each of the Seven milled about, organizing their personal clutter, stalling for time when a Look from Larabee finally sent them out the door into the still night beyond the offices.

By unspoken agreement, Buck and JD headed home to rant and grieve together.

Josiah and Ezra went off to get drunk, also together as noone wanted to be alone tonight, except for maybe one.

Nathan needed that time alone, the medic frustrated more than the rest at the sheer number of wounded and not being able to help. He consoled himself that they had all gone out and given blood earlier; it would have to be enough for now.

Once they were gone, Chris retreated back into his darkened office, the one lone lamp on his desk creating an island of determination that spoke elequently of the former colonel's intent to work through the night.

He hadn't heard Vin's soft steps follow him in.

"Yer angry." Startled, his head jerking up at the firm statement, Larabee scowled, before turning away guiltily. "'S nothin' y' can do here, cowboy."

Larabee uttered a short bark of what was supposed to be laughter, though there was no joy in the sound. "Jesus, Vin. I am so far beyond *angry* ! How could anyone *do* this?"

But there was no answer the tracker could give, as he knew there wouldn't be and Tanner made no effort to create one for someone else when he hadn't found one for himself yet. Instead he told him, "Maybe y' should take yer own advice - go home. Git some sleep."

"Can't." The older man wiped his hand across his eyes. He was so tired but there was still so much to do. Only the truth was there *was* no more he could do here, he was just afraid of going home. Afraid to try and sleep for fear of seeing the accusing faces of the victims in his dreams. "Can't sleep. See their faces."

Nothing more to do but wait. Wait for the next plane to drop like a fuel-laden bomb from the sky. Wait for the next attack to strike. Wait for the smoke to clear. That was when the real horror would begin...

The counting of casualties. The burying of the bodies lost to the senselessness of it all.

And last of all - the cleanup of two major cities. The rebuilding of lives unsuspectingly shattered in the early morning hours of September 11th, 2001 by a nameless, faceless enemy that noone had even suspected, much less been able to defend against.

Suddenly it didn't feel like such a good idea to be cooped up inside, the walls closing in on him with every shaky breath he took.

He looked up to see the sharpshooter still watching him.

"I've gotta get out of here."

Younger in physical age only, Vin nodded.

And with that, both men left the ATF building in Chris' truck and drove in silence. No destination in mind, just away from there. Away from the inability to prevent a horrible tragedy from happening. Away from the screams of the victims as they plummeted close to 100 stories to their deaths on the hard cement ground below.

Just drove in that companionable silence away from the city lights, towards the open country and the stars, hoping their inner demons would leave them alone enough to get a little rest. To start fresh in the morning.

They just drove.

End