S C E N E (II)

نيويوركغراد

NEWYORKGRAD, USA, 2025 CE

It happens with terrifying precision. Too fast for panic to organize itself into resistance. Too coordinated to be spontaneous. Women and children are separated first, herded outside beneath rifle barrels and shouted commands in French and Arabic. The men remain behind. Diplomats. Security contractors. UN staffers. Billionaires. Celebrities. Minor kings. Forgotten ministers from collapsing republics. All zip-tied wrist to wrist beneath the glow of the Millennium Theatre chandeliers.

The attackers move like professionals. Some wear cheap tactical gear. Others wear black suits beneath armored vests, their faces hidden behind flickering digital masks that distort into static every few seconds. Strings of explosives are wrapped around groups of hostages like grotesque Christmas decorations. Red lights blink softly in the dark.

At first there are screams, protests, demands for immunity.

Then pistol-whippings begin.

A Portuguese diplomat loses three teeth on the marble staircase. Warning shots crack through the theatre. Blood spatters across framed posters for Broadway revivals. The hostages are bundled together on the orchestra level floor with tape across their mouths. Anyone who speaks too long is beaten unconscious.

Outside, Midtown collapses into hysteria. Sirens echo endlessly through Newyorkgrad. NYPD Emergency Service Units establish barricades while helicopters churn overhead like insects. Thousands of civilians flood the streets recording everything on their phones. News anchors speak in hushed voices about “another 9/11 unfolding in real time.”

Then the first communiqué arrives.

A woman with brown hair tied tightly into a bun steps through the barricaded theatre entrance carrying typed sheets of paper. Calm. Expressionless. She slides the demands toward police lines before disappearing back inside. Minutes later the same statement appears online in multiple languages.

“WE ARE HOLDING OVER 800 INTERNATIONAL HOSTAGES. ALL ADULT MALE UNSTAFFED POLITICIANS, ELITES, AND VARIOUS CELEBRITIES. IN ONE HOUR WE WILL BEGIN EXECUTING UN PERSONNEL UNLESS NYPD WITHDRAWS FIVE BLOCKS. THERE ARE EXPLOSIVES ATTACHED TO THE HOSTAGES AND THROUGHOUT THE BUILDING. ANY GAS. ANY RAID. WE DETONATE EVERYTHING.”

Inside the theatre, terror settles into something quieter. Whimpering. Prayer. Shock.

Someone whispers they are speaking French. Someone else insists they heard Hebrew. Another swears one of the gunmen had a Brooklyn accent. Nobody knows anything.

Hours later a second video is released.

A masked woman identifying herself only as Anya sits beneath the theatre stage lights holding an assault rifle across her lap. She speaks in fluent English and French. Hebrew and Arabic subtitles crawl beneath her face.

“WE WILL EXECUTE A HOSTAGE EVERY HALF HOUR UNLESS ISRAEL OPENS ITS NORTHERN BORDER TO THE RETURNEES, ENTERS A FULL CEASEFIRE IN GAZA, AND ALLOWS PALESTINIAN MIGRATION SOUTH TO THE THIRTY-TWO DEGREE LATITUDINAL LINE. ANY ATTEMPT TO RETAKE THE THEATRE WILL RESULT IN TOTAL DETONATION.

AVOID CARNAGE BY CAPITULATING TO OUR RATIONAL DEMANDS. THE WAR MUST END TONIGHT.”

But Americans do not negotiate with terrorists. Or at least they repeat this to themselves enough times to believe it.

Twelve hours pass. Negotiations go nowhere. Federal agencies arrive. Armored convoys roll through Manhattan. The theatre becomes the center of the world. Every screen on Earth points toward it.

Then, shortly after dawn, the NYPD begins pumping odorless gas into the ventilation system.

Nobody knows who fired first.

Gunshots erupt almost immediately. Flashbangs detonate behind the lobby doors. ERU teams breach through shattered entrances while drones stream thermal footage to command trucks outside. Inside the theatre, the terrorists begin screaming religious chants and revolutionary slogans over one another.

Then come the explosions.

Not one. Many.

The orchestra level disappears in fire. Balcony sections collapse inward. Burning debris rains into the streets below as smoke pours from the rooftop in black pillars visible across the Hudson. By the time the shooting stops, nearly everyone inside is dead. Diplomats. Actors. Lobbyists. UN officials. Wealthy tourists. Terrorists. Hostages. Police. Ashes layered together indiscriminately.

The wars in Gaza, Southern Lebanon, and Northern Israel continue completely unchanged.

Cable news calls it The Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis.

Across much of the Arab world it becomes known instead as The Newyorkgrad Christmas Massacre.

The second deadliest terror attack ever carried out on American soil.

Officials publicly claim all perpetrators died during the assault. That statement is false. Two survive. Years later both quietly acquire Israeli passports under different names.

The attack ushers in a new era inside America: biometric checkpoints, expanded surveillance authorities, mass ideological paranoia, militarized policing, and a population willing to surrender nearly anything for the promise of security.

The theatre is rebuilt within five years.

No one attends opening night without looking for exits.