5. Ladybird.

I woke up in medbay, completely medicated. Let's think about what medications I have: tranquilizers—check more than one kind. Muscle relaxants—yes, it is because my muscles resemble jelly and didn't really obey. Anesthetics—probably some, but not so well on anymore, or I've become resistant to them because I'm awake.

I had a feeding tube in my stomach, and my stomach was stretched to the max. Probably going to be another 10 liters soon. I started to concentrate and search for meds. They each seemed a bit out of place, so I unloaded the meds every time. One by one. It takes time and a lot, but I can't lie in this bed for weeks.

Damon entered the medbay, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the air. He approached my bedside, his footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. Carefully, he set down the IVs, except for the stubborn intestinal puree. Squatting down beside me, he gazed at me intently, his eyes filled with concern.

"Did you know, Mimi," he began, his voice gentle yet firm, "that not all hobbies are harmless? Take, for instance, your jewelry job. The stones emit a fine dust, one that your sensitive lungs cannot tolerate. The damage caused by this dust is uncertain, and I'm unsure if it could trigger the amplification enzyme again. But it's definitely affecting your lungs severely. I've been in your stone-filled room, so I speak from experience. Minerals from those rocks can easily be absorbed into your bloodstream, with unknown consequences. We won't know until symptoms arise. It could be as mild as a headache or as severe as Silver Madness. Some rocks contain metals that miners seek, and if you're unaware of their presence, the consequences could be catastrophic. Your multiplication enzyme would kick into action."

Leaning against the edge of my bed, Damon tilted his head slightly, his voice steady and explanatory. The dim lighting in the medbay cast gentle shadows across his face, highlighting his concern for my well-being. 

He continued speaking, his voice barely above a whisper, exuding a sense of calmness. However, the worry etched on his face was clear. But at that moment, he was solely in doctor mode, not husband mode.

"Missy," he began, his tone filled with concern, "have you ever considered what those organs you're growing with that chainsaw of yours are for? Just one powerful blow to the right spot on your stomach could damage your spleen or even your liver enough to trigger the release of a replicating enzyme from your cells. Your saw is incredibly effective, undoubtedly delivering some devastating blows. But now, my dear, that bag will drain into your stomach, and then it'll be over for now. However, you remember you are a unique being, and you have yet to understand the extent of what you can or cannot do with these newfound abilities of yours. I'm not outright saying no, but I want to make you a promise. If you continue down this path, acting on every whim without a care in the world, mark my words, you'll find yourself back in the medbay, under anesthesia, in less than six months. That's a promise because I know what I'm talking about."

Damon paused, locking eyes with me for a brief moment before continuing in a softer, more gentle tone.

"I don't always want to be the bearer of bad news. Really, I don't. But it's my duty to inform you about the facts, the facts regarding your own health. After the surgeries, you weighed a mere 36 kilos, and now you're at about 53. Your body temperature has returned to its normal range, 40.4 degrees. Not below. Similarly, you're maintaining your blood sugar at a minimum of 2, rather than zero. Getting the amplifying enzyme is always a challenge, always requiring you to feed. That's a given. But ultimately, it's up to you how you proceed. You know the consequences," he emphasized.

Standing up, he adjusted a bag nearby before pausing and reaching out to hold my hand. Fatigue washed over me, and I succumbed to sleep.

I lay in bed, my body still groggy from the sedating effects of the medicine that had initially helped me sleep. But as its influence waned, the nightmares began to creep in. The relentless cycle of horrifying scenes, sounds, and feelings played out in my mind, keeping me trapped in the torment. Minute after minute, my body drenched in sweat, I struggled to escape the clutches of the dark visions.

Visions of Sark, the one who had brought the students, they were opening me up, killing me, haunted me. I was forced to be back in the darkness and tormented by the shuttle, but I was trapped in the darkness, unable to find an exit. Helpless, I could only wait for the agonizing pain to return. And in return, it did, coursing through my body, leaving me breathless and wracked with weakness and sickness.

Damon, who had promised to talk, remained silent, further fueling my panic. I felt everything smelled like that god-awful shed, and I felt how weak I was in the end and how close to the end I was. Or then I was back in Sark's clutches or saying goodbye to Brutus. Being fucked by those incubi. Being in that cage where Bran dumped me, poisoned. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I managed to break free from the nightmare's grip. Gasping for air, I forced myself to sit up in bed, clutching the sheet tightly in my trembling hands. I kept my panic hidden, not wanting Adam or Damon to see my fear. Still in the medbay, I noticed that the feed button was gone from my stomach.

My body was drenched in sweat, remnants of the nightmare clinging to me. The ghostly sensations lingered, taking time to dissipate as I struggled to regain control of my breathing and the blue tinge on my fingertips faded. I ripped out cannulas, knotting the tubes with trembling hands. I didn't want to be here. It all came back to me because of that damn nightmare.

With great effort, I swung my leg over the edge of the bed and sat there, my mind spinning with dizziness, a heaviness lingering in my head. The night dress I wore clung to my body, soaked with perspiration. Because of being on many medications, I still felt unsteady. After sitting on the edge of the bed for what felt like an eternity, I mustered the strength to make my way to the bathroom, cautiously navigating my wobbly steps. I needed to get away from here.

Reaching out, my fingers found the light switch, flicking it on to illuminate the room. With the memories of the shed session still fresh in my mind, I pushed aside my fear of the darkness and relieved myself. At that moment, I couldn't deny the truth to myself—neither my fear of the dark nor my nightmares had been cured. 

I then left the sterile medbay, the antiseptic smell lingering in the air. I didn't pay any attention to the fact that we were no longer in the vast landscapes of Australia until I entered the warm, inviting kitchen of the grand Pennsylvania mansion. Then, as I looked around, the realization struck me like a bolt of lightning - we had changed places.

I scanned the room, my eyes searching for solace or something to substitute for the disorientation. I sank into a chair at the wooden table, its surface adorned with a delicate wax cloth. I absentmindedly traced the intricate flower patterns with my trembling finger, attempting to ground myself in my surroundings.

Suddenly, a familiar face, Bran, appeared in the doorway, breaking the silence. "Oh, you're up already," he said, his voice resonating in the spacious kitchen. "Well, Damon had to leave, and Adam is off chasing Constantine with Dresden. Don't worry, little girl, I'm not coming after you, just looking for something to eat."

I glanced up at him, letting out a weary sigh, my voice quivering with uncertainty. "Fucking nightmares. Fucking shed session. Now, I'm not suffering in the dark. Did you know, Bran, what I went through in those six weeks?"

Bran eased himself into the chair opposite me, offering a comforting presence. "No, I don't know," he replied, concern etched on his face. "Something bad, I can tell, because you were losing your straps. Tell me, if you want to."

With a heavy heart, I stared down at the table's smooth surface, its warmth seeping through my fingertips.

"There were these shuttles," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, "so immense that you could be swallowed whole by them. He injected me, rendering my muscles limp with powerful relaxants, before hoisting me inside. At first, Damon claimed he would talk to me throughout, but he fell silent. Darkness enveloped the shuttle, its metallic scent mingling with the tang of oil. My fear, my blood, my sweat. All I could do was wait, my body immobilized, uncertain of what horrors awaited me. Perhaps something would bore into my spine or pierce through my nostrils, probing my brain. The uncertainty gnawed at my stomach. It was an abyss of darkness, where time held no meaning. Sometimes, the tormenting machine would take its time, prolonging the agony. But when it finally unleashed its assault on my already battered body, pain erupted in multiple places simultaneously. I screamed, I pleaded, I begged for mercy, but there was nothing but an endless void of darkness and anguish."

Silence settled like a heavy fog in the dimly lit room, broken only by the sound of my trembling breaths echoing in the stillness. Tall and sturdy, Bran rose gracefully from his seat, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the chaos that consumed me. As he enveloped me in his arms, I could feel the warmth of his touch seeping into my bones, soothing the frayed edges of my fragile being. Slowly, the relentless shaking subsided, offering a momentary respite from the relentless nightmares that plagued my every waking moment.

Words felt like knives, cutting deep into the still-fresh and raw wounds. I knew better than to let the memories rise to the surface, threatening to drown me again. I remained silent, clinging to the solace of Bran's embrace. The weight of those three months in Australia, once thought to be a remedy, now felt like a cruel joke. I was still as broken as ever, and no amount of distance could change that.

A sudden craving for comfort overwhelmed me, urging me to seek solace in the simplest of pleasures. With a sense of purpose, I rose from my perch and reached for a large bowl, gathering the supplies to create a familiar remedy. Pancake batter, a concoction of nostalgia and warmth, filled the air with its intoxicating aroma.

In the kitchen, I grabbed the frying pan, its cool handle a stark contrast against my trembling hands. Turning to Bran, I felt an inexplicable urge to share a fragment of my darkest past.

"Did you know," I began, my voice trembling slightly, "that I actually hit some guy with a frying pan? A couple of them, actually. One in the balls and one in the stomach. That's how I was originally caught. I tried to run away, swinging the heavy pan in desperation. But my escape was short-lived."

Bran's eyes met mine, filled with understanding and a silent acceptance of the demons that haunted me. He said nothing, allowing the weight of his gaze to convey his unwavering support.

I placed the pan on the stove, the sizzle of butter filling the air as it melted and coated the surface. Time became irrelevant; all that mattered was the act of frying, the rhythmic flip of pancakes, and pursuiting momentary satisfaction.

I fried them until the batter reached a perfect consistency, creating delicate, lacy pancakes that seemed to carry a hint of comfort within their golden folds. Sprinkling a gentle dusting of sugar, I rolled them up and devoured them hungrily, finding solace in each sweet bite. Bran joined me, his own appetite mirroring my desire for temporary respite.

Unexpectedly, Samuel appeared, seemingly materializing out of thin air. He, too, partook in the feast of pancakes, his presence a testament to the trust that Bran had placed in him. I knew they had spoken, discussing the trials that burdened my soul. But for now, I pushed those concerns aside, focusing solely on the act of nourishing myself, both physically and emotionally.

The pancakes disappeared, their presence vanishing as quickly as the fleeting moments of respite they had provided. Determination fueled my movements as I transitioned to baking, an ardent pursuit of distraction.

Cream puffs, buns, doughnuts, and an array of pies filled the air with a symphony of scents mingling together in a harmonious dance. Time seemed to lose all meaning as I surrendered myself to the act of creation, finding solace in the repetitive motions and the sweet aroma that enveloped me.

I could not say how long I baked. But with each creation, I felt a small sense of accomplishment, a fleeting moment of respite from the never-ending battle within. As the kitchen filled with an abundance of treats, I knew that these edible creations were a temporary balm for a broken soul, a desperate attempt to find solace in the simple act of nourishment.

I went to shower at some point and ate what I had baked, sometimes savory, sometimes sweet. Bran and Samuel were more than happy to eat what I had made. Now it was time to move, time to be once again the Flea. I needed to get a grip on myself, and a good one. I was done being a victim.