22 I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up, I'm Waking Up....

PRT Building, Downtown

November 9th, 09:15

///

Waking up is a slow thing, and Sydney has never been one to rush it.

So as her groggy mind slowly comes to wakefulness, she fights back the urge to open her eyes, and merely promises herself five more minutes, knowing damn well that five minutes will never mean five minutes.

But willing or not, her mind grows more aware, more awake, and she notices some oddities.

For one, her bed is far less comfortable than she remembers it being, and she doesn't feel as warm as she usually does under her thick covers.

Furrowing her brows but still stubbornly refusing to open her eyes, Sydney sets her tired mind to the task of figuring out...something. She's not really entirely sure if there even is anything to figure out, and frankly, she's too tired to care all that much right now.

The air feels different, she eventually concludes. She's not sure what's different about it.

Mentally shrugging her shoulders, Sydney decides she doesn't care anymore. She still has her five more minutes to enjoy.

So with a groan of comfort, she rolls to her side, intending to get a more comfortable position.

Only for her eyes to fly open with a sudden feeling of weightlessness, immediately followed by pain flaring across her body that causes her to let out a grunt, followed by a low whine. She curls up into herself, hugging her no doubt bruised shoulder as adrenaline fills her veins, forcing her into the wakefulness she so desperately tried to avoid.

After a moment of just lying there, Sydney reaches a hand up to her bed, using it to leverage herself up to her feet. Only to notice that her bed really doesn't feel like her own. More like steel than sponge comforter.

Her brain finally boots into full gear once she gets to her feet and looks around the dark room she finds herself in.

This...is not her bedroom.

The walls are a cold steel. There aren't any windows, but there is a large TV screen built into one wall, hidden behind a thick pane of glass. Opposite the screen, the steel wall houses a similarly steel door with minimal designs. A hatch sits at about eye-level, and Sydney can't see any hinges nor a handle.

By her side is the bed she woke up in, a steel slab welded to the floor with only a thin cotton blanket to serve as a mattress and an even thinner blanket as a duvet and a pillow that could best be described as three pillowcases stuffed together. No wonder she felt so cold.

The opposite side of the room from her bed is empty save for a square in the corner that looks something like a drain, with some sieve-like metal plate about four foot above the floor, three thick buttons below it. There's a vent in the ceiling, pouring in a constant stream of air that is just a little bit too cold to be comfortable, and another vent under the bed, covered in metal bars.

She looks down at herself and notes the black sweat pants with the word 'Prisoner' written down the thighs, as well as the white shirt with the same written across her chest in black. The clothes are kind of damning as to her current situation.

She is in a cell. A prison cell. Wearing prisoner clothes, in a prison cell.

Her mind casts back to the last thing she can remember, and her mind forms the image of a beautiful, blindfolded woman with hair the colour of snow.

Falcon; the Hero who caught her. And put her in a cell. A prison cell which she is now in, wearing prison clothes.

...Fuck.

Her breathing starts to come out in short bursts, and she starts shaking her hands by her sides in the hopes of alleviating some of the growing panic. 

It doesn't work.

"Shit. Shit fuck shit fuck fuck fuck shit fuck shit!"

Her power comes to life, thrumming through her fingers and ready to cut through anything it touches, yet she restrains from lashing out.

She's not stupid, and is fully aware that the moment she tries to break free, she's going to be covered in con-foam before she could say 'Villain'.

But what is she supposed to do? She's been caught. She's going to spend the rest of her life in a cell, and her parents are going to find out that she's got powers and that she's been using them to rob people instead of joining the Wards.

What's going to happen to them? Are her parents going to get in trouble because of her? Will they disown her? What will happen to Sammy, her little brother?

God she's such an idiot. She's fucked and her life is ruined and she just doesn't know what to do!

After spending a few more stewing in anxiety and definitely not crying, Sydney lets out a long sigh, "fuck."

The room suddenly flashes red, and Sydney can't help the startled, "fuck!" that leaves her lips as she falls back on her ass.

Frantic eyes rescan over the room, coming to a stop over her cot, where she notices a simple domino mask sitting besides her pillow. She barely manages to scramble over and hold the mask over her face in time for the steel door to swing open.

A trooper stands there, decked out in black, full body armour and looking straight out of a Star Wars movie, with another two identical helmets visible over their shoulders.

Once again, Sydney briefly entertains the thought of making a break for it, but the foam sprayers in the hands of the two troopers in the hall dissuade her.

"Stand up," the front trooper demands, and Sydney is surprised to hear the voice of a woman.

She blinks once before recognising the order and following it, taking the time to actually tie the mask over her head as she stands, half a foot shorter than the woman trooper.

"H-hello?" Sydney greets, only to be completely ignored as the trooper reaches out to those behind her and turns back with a large, boxy thing that Sydney needs a moment to recognise as cuffs.

"Hands out. Flat." Sydney does as told, not having the energy to talk with someone who clearly doesn't care to answer.

The boxy cuffs lock into place over her hands, and she immediately realises their purpose, beyond the obvious. No matter how she bends her fingers or wrists, she can't twist enough that she would be able to cut the restraints off. In other words, they're designed for Strikers.

If it wasn't obvious before, she truly has been caught.

Fuck.

The walk is slow and dreary, but they soon make it to an elevator, which takes them to another floor, obviously, and another slow walk later, this time with the occasional passer-by, Sydney is deposited in a new room.

It's not much better than her cell in all honesty. The walls are concrete instead of steel, there is a full wall mirror on one side that Sydney's movie knowledge tells her is one-way. Also fitting with her movie knowledge is the metal desk in the centre of the room, with a metal chair on one said and two on the other.

One of the troopers comes in with her and attaches her cuffs to a little lip in the centre of the table, and then leaves.

Sydney is too young to recognise the psychological nuance the room possesses. Mainly that it resembling the movies so much serves rather well with setting up expectations. It's like a horror movie, the build-up is more important than the reveal.

Her mind plays through dozens of scenarios of how this is going to go. Is there going to be a good cop, bad cop routine? Are they going to pretend to be her friend? Threaten her? Is her mom going to show up? In cuffs too? Are they going to beat her within an inch of her life while everyone pretends not to see?

By the time the door actually opens again, Sydney might as well have already been interrogated, her nerves so frayed that she almost confessed as a knee-jerk reaction to the door opening.

In walks a man in a suit. He has short black hair left unstyled and a body that hints at fitness but doesn't scream soldier and carries a manila folder under one arm, the other holding the door open.

Sydney doesn't recognise the man, but how could she not recognise the woman he holds the door open for?

Miss Militia's figure is one any self respecting Brocktonite girl can recognise.

Wearing green army fatigues that cling to her figure enough to show off her shapely body, with one American flag as a sash around her waist, and another a scarf covering her lower face.

Sydney quickly looks away, a feeling of shame welling up inside of her. She was always a fan of Miss Militia when she was younger, and seeing her here and now makes her feel like her mom caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

The man takes one of the seats opposite her, but Miss Militia choses to stand. Sydney has no idea what expressions they are giving her, as she is feeling too ashamed to meet their gaze.

"Miss Scissors," the man greets her cape name, despite the fact that they probably already broke the rules and know who she is, "I am Deputy Director Renick. Before we get started, can I get you anything? A glass of water perhaps?"

His voice is kind, but Sydney doesn't let it sway her. She knows it's just an act...at least, that's what movies tell her.

"A-ah, uh no, I'm fine, thanks for asking." She immediately blushes from her own answer, feeling oddly uncomfortable by how...normal? The situation is? Like, she's just...talking? She doesn't know why, but it just feels wrong, like this should feel more intense than a conversation.

What kind of captive thanks their captives? For anything?

She's never felt more out of her depth before in her life, and this is after she's been ordering around mercenaries and looking over boxes of drugs worth more than her parents make in a year combined.

She hasn't even finished high school and she's already had a dozen fully armed soldiers following her orders.

...When did her life get so crazy?

"In that case, we can get started." Renick's words bring her out of her thoughts, and she actually looks up and meets his calm expression. 

Though she still doesn't meet Miss Militia's eyes. 

Folding his hands in front of his face, Renick places his elbows on the table and leans forward, a light, friendly smile on his lips.

"Tell me, have you ever thought about being a Ward?"

///

Brockton Bay General Hospital, Downtown

November 9th, 10:00

///

Waking up sucks.

At least, that's what Emma is starting to think.

Especially if she keeps waking up in damn hospital beds.

She hears the sound of machines beeping and smells the sterile scent of disinfectants and whatever else drugs and stuff, Emma doesn't know, she's not a dermatologist... Great, now she's starting to think like Mary. She doesn't even know what a dermatologist is.

Opening her eyes, she is greeted to the same sight as last time, after she jumped of that building that one time. She adamantly refuses to feel any shame at the memory, they got the guy in the end after all.

Mary would say something about stupid plans not being stupid if they work, and she's just pissed that she knows Mary well enough to guess what she'd say.

The room is typical by most measures. Large enough to hold four cots comfortably, and filled with machinery that Emma couldn't name. One of them might be called a stenograph, or that might be the thing that earthquake detectors use, she neither knows nor cares.

She has her arm in a sling and wrapped in a cast. She tries twitching her fingers, but the pain that shoots up the limb makes her rethink that decision.

Most sobering though, is what lies on the opposite end of the room from her.

Both cots are occupied, yet neither occupant stirs at her waking movements.

Gallant and Triumph. Dean and Rory.

It was nearly two months ago now that they were put in a coma. Rory has shown some signs of possibly waking up, but Dean has been touch and go on whether or not he'll even live.

It says something about the state of the world that what few healers the PRT has access to simply haven't had the time to help.

Emma falls back into her bed and lets out a sigh. She needs to stop waking up in hospitals, this is just depressing.

As she lays there, her mind goes back to the fight she was in that landed her in the first place. 

That guy was stronger than he should have been, even with TGT. She is starting to think that TGT might actually have more of an effect on damaged bodies than healthy ones.

More importantly... She's pretty sure she killed that guy.

...She'd be lying if she said she was heartbroken by the fact. She's seen enough of the world to not really be phased by it. He's not even the only person she's killed, not that she's going to let Piggy know that, even if the obese woman might already suspect it.

Another sigh leaves her, and she's brought from her morose thoughts by the sound of the door sliding open.

"Emma!" The doctor, a tall young man of short brown hair, blue eyes with wrinkles on their edges, a sign of a life full of smiles, especially considering his young age, greets her with a voice full of cheer. "It's good to see you awake again! It's been what, three weeks?"

Emma rolls her eyes at the good doctor's teasing. The man has long since signed an NDA regarding the civilian identities of the Wards, and is the only doctor allowed to enter this room, a private one reserved for Wards.

"How long was I out?" Emma asks instead of acknowledging his greeting.

He gives her a funny look. "You only broke your arm, it was a pretty clean break too, all things considered. You were 'out' for about nine hours, though I believe the technical term is 'asleep'."

"Don't make me throw something at you, James."

"Har Har, I learnt my lesson last time, there is nothing for you to throw."

Emma leans forwards and reaches back, grabbing her pillow and immediately launching it at James, who lets it impact his face with a quest 'poof'.

The pillow falls to the floor, revealing his deadpan expression. "That wasn't very nice."

"When can I leave?" Emma's non-sequitur makes him blink, but Doctor James Hartford allows it and briefly flips through a few pages on the clipboard at the end of her bed.

"You can leave in two days at a minimum, but the break probably won't be healed for around two months... In other words, I expect I'll be seeing you again in a little over two months time."

Were she a better woman, she'd probably have some really smart comeback, but as it is, nothing comes to mind. So she just settles for simplicity.

"Kill yourself."

James barks out a laugh. "Kids these days," he shakes his head in bemusement, "no respect for your elders."

"You're like... Twenty-four," Emma deadpans.

"Twenty-five, actually. My birthday was last week, something I distinctly remember telling you last time you were here. I can't believe you didn't get me anything for my quarter century celebration."

"Why are you trying to celebrate with a sixteen year old? Are you a pedo?"

"Naturally," he breezily lies, smirking down at her, "who do you think got you into that hospital robe?"

Emma glares at him for a moment longer, before she eventually just lets out another sigh and collapses back into her pillow. 

"It's nice to see you again Doc," she admits, no longer feeling like joking around. "Anything happen I should know about?"

He moves closer to her bed, taking a seat perpendicular to her. "Not much really. Your friends did that raid and everything went well. You were the only injury, and I hear that there's a Villain being held under the PRT's headquarters."

He doesn't actually know what exactly the raid in question is, only that it went well and that Emma would know what he's talking about. Which she evidently does, given how she sags in poorly hidden relief.

"Now, enough about work," James declares, and Emma gets a foreboding feeling in her gut. "Since you're confined here and I have the next hour and a half free, I can finish telling you about my Pokémon collection!"

Emma lets out a groan of despair, while James simply shuffles up so that they are lying shoulder to shoulder and takes out his phone. A quick, practiced few taps bring up his gallery, and a short scroll brings them to where they were last time. A picture of his shiny Vaporeon card.

He doesn't actually care that much about sharing his Pokémon cards with her, he just hopes that by making her stay at the hospital seem as unappealing as possible, she might just stop showing up so often.

Clearing his throat, he forces the phone's screen in front of Emma's eyes.

"This is Vaporeon. Did you know that in terms of male human and-"

Fortunately for Emma, he pauses mid sentence, and it takes her only a moment to realise why when she follows his eyes.

Across the room, one of the heart monitors has started beeping at a pace steadily growing more rapid.

Emma doesn't know what that means beyond the obvious, and the serious look on James' face doesn't bring her any confidence. She's only seen him look like a proper doctor when she nearly bled out on the table with a stab wound through her gut.

"I'll tell you all about Vaporeon later, put on the mask" he says as he gets to his feet, pocketing his phone and moving over to Triumph.

Emma barely has the time to put on the domino mask resting beside her bed before the door is thrust open, a throng of hospital people rushing inside. Emma isn't sure if it's rude to just label them all as nurses.

She's not a medical student, and she doesn't intend to become one, so she has no idea what she is looking at. Her ignorance only increases her anxiety as she watches half a dozen medical professionals fuss over Rory, shouts of x cc's of y going out. 

Once again, she has no idea what a cc is, and all the names of the, presumed, drugs they call out are forgotten immediately.

But it hardly matters, as all thoughts of medical practices are forgotten the moment she catches a glimpse of Rory's face through a momentary gap in the nurses.

He's wearing a mask, just like her and Dean, but it does not cover his eyes. His open eyes.

He's awake.

The thought hits her like a bolt of lightning.

Sure, she wasn't all that close with either of them, but they are both still comrades in arms. They've fought together, hung out in the Wards' room, complained about monitor duty with each other.

He's awake.

Through the throng of fussing nurses and doctors, Rory's eyes catch Emma's a second time, and he gives her a smile. It's a small and brittle thing, but she can't help but return it.

She feels further relief flood through her when James notices their exchange and gives her a thumbs up, all the confirmation she needed that everything is going to be okay.

He's awake.

///

PRT ENE Building, Downtown

November 11th, 12:45

///

Two days later and both Emma and Rory have been discharged from the hospital, though Emma's arm is still in a cast, and Rory is confined to a wheelchair for now. His muscles have atrophied from his time inert, and it will likely be months before he can patrol again.

He'll need at least a week of physical therapy before he can graduate from a wheelchair to crutches, and a further few months before he's back to peak condition.

Still, he doesn't let it get him down, if only for the sake of those around him. No sense to be worrying them when he's going to be fine after all.

Now, him, Emma, Suzuya and Mary are all sitting around in their room under the PRT building sharing a totally child friendly drink of uh... lemonade. Yeah, lemonade. Totally.

"-and then I went Kapow!" Suzu exclaims, emphasising his point by mock punching the air, "and he went kablamo! And woosh! He flew away!" He mimes a butterfly with his hands, locking his thumbs and fluttering his fingers.

"That's very impressive Suzu," Mary answers, her voice both fond and exasperated.

"Uhuh, uhuh! But that's not everything! I also-"

"Woah what's this!" Mary interrupts, pulling out a lollipop and ripping it's wrapping off before throwing it past Suzu's face, "catch!"

Like a dog with a treat, Suzuya launches himself out of his seat and catches the sweet in his mouth before hitting the ground. Laying there, he seems to decide that the floor is comfortable as is, and curls up for a nap.

"Well," Mary says, wry amusement in her tone, "now that he's pacified, how're you two doing? How long you got 'till you can have fun again?"

"I've got something between one and two months before I'm clear," Emma answers first, before nodding to Rory who shares a smile.

"Half a year, optimistically. Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on how hard I push myself during physical therapy, so probably less," he finishes with a confident grin.

"Hmm, could be worse, I guess," Mary answers, getting an agreeable shrug from both of them, "though, we can't discount the opportunity before us."

Emma regards Mary with caution, weary of what she might intend to suggest.

Her caution is proven well earned not a second later.

"We could totally set fire to your wheelchair and set you rolling down a really really long hill." The two of them give her a blank stare, which she seems to ignore. "Call that shit Hot Wheels."

"You're an id-" 

Emma is cut off by a sudden blaring siren filling the room, and it only takes a moment for them all to recognise the sound.

Those are the Endbringer alarms.

A tense, dread filled couple of seconds passes over the room, only abating somewhat when they recognise them to be the 'an Endbringer is attacking somewhere else' sirens, instead of the 'an Endbringer is attacking here' sirens.

There was a time Emma questioned what the point in the sirens were, when they only caused everyone in the country to feel dread, but she since learnt why they play everywhere. The most obvious reason being to let any parahumans who want to volunteer know about it.

But more than that, is the fact that the days an Endbringer attacks, and the few days following, have a next to zero crime rate nationwide.

They are monsters facing down all of mankind after all, so all people show solemn respect for those that die fighting back these monsters.

Only the most callous individuals would dare cause any trouble when everyone should be working together to protect humanity as a whole, rather than individual interests.

"Welp. Guess we'll have to table that Hot Wheel idea then, huh?" Mary asks, getting to her feet and stretching.

"You're going?" Emma asks, hating the fact that she won't be allowed to volunteer on account of her injury, Rory feeling much the same.

"'Course I am," Mary answers, and Emma can't help but admire her casualness. As if she's not talking about facing down one of the most feared monsters on the planet, but simply going on another patrol.

"It's my job."

///

A/N: He~llo! Dear readers!

I'm at my dads writing this and he's a slave driver who needs to get everything done before 1pm and he always has a bunch of shit he wants done, meaning he forces us to get up and out of the house early so it's been difficult to keep up with my writing :(

I manage, though. The anxiety of falling behind is good motivation :)

Though, I didn't like this chapter. I'm kinda lost on what to write for the bits between in this arc, cuz I don't wanna just time skip past everything :(