Blood and sweat and nutrients--

  Beeping monitors--

  Voices overlapping--

  "--calcium levels critical, need four more bags--"

  "--stabilize the leg before she--"

  "--multiple lacerations, internal bleeding--"

  "--pressure's dropping, we need to move faster--"

  Light burns through my eyelids in sharp flashes.

  Hands move across my body, cutting away what's left of my costume.

  Cold air.

  Plastic mask over my face.

  Oxygen with a hint of something else.

  "--pupils responsive, brain activity normal--"

  "--throat damage extensive but not life-threatening--"

  "--get that abdominal wound cleaned before it closes--"

  Someone prying my mouth open.

  Fingers on my gums, my teeth.

  "Regenerating already--"

  Something sharp in my arm.

  Another in my hand.

  Cold liquid rushing through my veins, burning like ice.

  "--calcium gluconate going in, keep the line open--"

  "--parents notified, ETA twenty minutes--"

  "--needs protein, glucose, start the specialized formula--"

  Darkness again.

  Then weightlessness.

  Being moved.

  Ceiling tiles sliding past above me.

  "--surgery now, can't wait for consent--"

  "--full exploration of the abdominal cavity--"

  "--leg needs external fixation or it'll heal wrong--"

  A mask coming down. Different smell this time. Counting backward from ten.

  Nine.

  Eight.

  Seven...

  ...

  Beeping. Steady, rhythmic. My heartbeat translated into electronic sound.

  I try to swallow and immediately regret it. My throat feels raw, like I've been gargling glass. There's something in my nose, down my throat. Feeding tube.

  My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds each. I force them open anyway.

  White ceiling. Blue privacy curtain. Medical equipment surrounding me like technological sentinels. Four - no, five IV bags hanging above me, tubes snaking down to both arms.

  I try to move and discover that moving is a terrible idea. My body feels like one giant bruise, with special emphasis on my stomach and leg. I'm wearing a hospital gown. My right leg is immobilized in some kind of brace.

  "Sam?"

  I turn my head slightly, the movement sending sharp pain through my neck. Mom sits in a chair beside the bed, dark circles under her eyes, hair disheveled. Dad stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder. They look like they've aged ten years overnight.

  "Don't try to talk," Dad says, his voice gentle but strained. "Your throat was crushed. The doctors say it'll heal, but you need to rest it."

  Mom reaches for my hand, careful to avoid the IV line. Her fingers are cold. "You've been unconscious for almost sixteen hours," she says. "They had to perform surgery."

  Surgery. Right. That explains the extra pain in my abdomen, the distinct feeling of having been opened up and put back together. I've had surgery before, but never after being this injured to begin with. I feel stitches inside of me, slowly being shoved out by the rest of me.

  I try to form a question with my eyes, looking between them.

  "Shrike didn't make it," Dad says quietly. "Blood loss, internal injuries. He died about an hour after they brought you both in."

  I close my eyes. I don't know what I'm feeling. Relief? Guilt? Nothing? I thought killing someone would feel different than this. It's something I've had to consider.

  "Bulwark is in intensive care," Mom continues. "He's stable. Fury Forge was treated and released. Two of Shrike's followers were killed by police when they opened fire."

  I must look confused because Dad adds, "It's been all over the news. They're calling you a hero."

  That's not the word I would be using.

  But I think any word with too many... sounds in it.

  Sound chunks. It wouldn't work anyway.

  Where's Jamila?

  The privacy curtain slides open, and a doctor enters. She's tall, with gray-streaked black hair pulled into a tight bun. Her ID badge reads "Dr. Song, Metahuman Medicine."

  "You're awake," she says, moving to check the monitors. "Good. I'm Dr. Song. I've been coordinating your care." She glances at my parents. "Could I have a moment with my patient?"

  My parents exchange a look.

  "We'll be right outside," Mom says, squeezing my hand before letting go. They step out, the curtain closing behind them.

  Dr. Song pulls up a chair. "Do you understand where you are and what happened?"

  I manage a small nod.

  "Good. You're in the metahuman wing of Jefferson University Hospital. You were brought in with critical injuries after your confrontation with Niles Nolan." She consults a tablet. "Multiple lacerations, puncture wounds to your lower back and abdomen, severe muscle and bone damage to your right calf, tracheal trauma, fractured metacarpal in your left hand."

  She looks up. "Under normal circumstances, any one of these injuries would have required extensive recovery time. The front abdominal injury alone would've been fatal without medical intervention, even at your documented maximum rate of regeneration."

  I already know this. I can feel every single injury she's listing, each one throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

  She continues professionally and firmly. "We had to work quickly to clean and stabilize your wounds before your body started closing them. Surgical intervention was required to ensure your survival. "

  Stolen story; please report.

  She shows me the tablet. X-rays, CT scans, bloodwork. Numbers that mean nothing to me. I can hear what she's not saying, somewhere in the back of her throat. Your guts were hanging out, Sam. That much I can glean.

  "We've placed an external fixator on your leg to ensure proper alignment as it heals. Your abdominal wound and lower back wound required cleaning and temporary closure, which we expect your body to benignly reject as you regenerate. Your hand has been splinted. The feeding tube is providing high-calorie, high-protein nutrition to support your regeneration. We've also provided biopolymer scaffolding for your damaged spinal column and intestinal tract. Your body will also likely naturally remove this as you regenerate, given your medical history."

  I raise my eyebrows in question. Biopolymer scaffolding? That's a sci fi word. Don't say things like that to me.

  "If it doesn't, we can go in and remove it manually. For someone like you, removing the small impairment is a lot better than closing the big hole." She smiles slightly. "Your prognosis is good long-term. We're estimating 48-72 hours before you're stable enough for discharge, but given your documentation, full recovery will take at least four weeks, possibly up to three months. If you didn't possess your abilities, this would be a severely disabling event. Even with your abilities, we're unsure if your body will fully recover."

  I must make a face with my... face.

  "Some injuries are too much for even perfect regenerators like you to come back from. Your body takes too long to heal and the injuries become part of your biological template. It's not impossible, but we can't know for certain without letting time pass," she explains.

  Well. I don't know. Am I fine with that? I don't know. I don't know a lot right now.

  She stands. "The police and NSRA representatives want to speak with you when you're able. I've told them not before tomorrow at the earliest. Your parents have been quite adamant about limiting visitors."

  I bet they have.

  "Try to rest. Your body is working overtime right now." She gestures to a call button. "Press this if you need anything. A nurse will be in shortly to check your IVs."

  She gets ready to leave, but keeps her eyes affixed to me just for another moment. "You're very lucky, Samantha. I cannot impress enough upon you enough that you were extremely close to death. Your body carries a history of scar tissue, repeated injury to joints and organs, and even some small, benign tumors that I can't begin to wrap my head around. It's my opinion... as... Hmm. I... As your doctor, I strongly advise you to consider if a continued career in crime-fighting is the healthy path for you."

  Then, she's gone, and my parents take her place. They pull their chairs closer to the bed.

  "They wouldn't tell us anything at first," Mom says, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Just that there had been an incident involving Bloodhound and Shrike. We had to watch it on the news."

  Dad's jaw clenches. "Someone leaked drone footage. They've been playing it on every channel."

  I want to apologize, but my throat won't cooperate. I settle for a look that I hope conveys how sorry I am.

  "We're not doing this now," Mom says, shooting Dad a warning glance. "You need to focus on healing. We'll have plenty of time to talk about... everything... later."

  Dad sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. "Your mother's right. We're just glad you're alive, Sam. That's what matters right now."

  A nurse enters, checking my IVs and vitals with efficient movements. He adjusts something in one of the bags, and almost immediately, a warm heaviness spreads through my limbs. Pain medication. Strong stuff. Someone let them know I don't do NSAIDs.

  "This should help you rest," he says. "Doctor's orders."

  As the medication takes effect, the pain recedes to a dull throb. The edges of my vision blur slightly. I fight to keep my eyes open, not ready to surrender to unconsciousness again.

  Mom leans forward, brushing hair from my forehead. "Sleep, sweetheart. We'll be here when you wake up."

  I try to resist, but my eyelids are winning the battle. As darkness creeps in, I catch a glimpse of the television mounted on the wall, the sound muted. Footage plays of what looks like a metal forest, black spikes erupting from the ground. Nothing but total silence and the commentary of news anchors over top. The nice parts of the fight, before Shrike took his dose and everything went even more to shit. The pre-stabbing part. The posturing.

  I wonder again where exactly he got the Hypeman from.

  The medication pulls me under before I think about it any further.

  ...

  The next time I wake, the room is darker. Night, probably. The monitors still beep steadily. The IVs still feed into my arms. But the feeding tube is gone, replaced by a nasal cannula delivering oxygen.

  I shift slightly, testing my body. Everything still hurts, but it's a different kind of pain now. Less sharp, more aching. The kind of pain that comes with healing rather than injury. I'm covered in bandages and I can just tell my body is extruding something gross about it.

  A figure sits in the corner of the room, illuminated by the blue glow of a phone screen. Not Mom or Dad.

  "Tasha?" My voice comes out as a rasp, barely audible.

  The figure looks up. "Hey, Sam." Tasha's voice is soft, tired. She moves to the chair beside my bed. "You're supposed to be resting your voice."

  "Where..." I swallow painfully. "My parents?"

  "I convinced them to go get some actual sleep at a hotel down the street. They've been here for almost twenty-four hours straight." She smiles weakly. "They only agreed because I promised to call if anything changed."

  I nod, grateful. "Water?"

  She helps me with a cup and straw. The cool liquid soothes my raw throat.

  "Maggie and Lily?" I ask.

  "At the hotel with your parents. Security's tight - they're only letting in family and one designated friend at a time." She looks down. "I may have slightly misrepresented our relationship status to get in."

  I smile and my face hurts. "Amelia?" I croak.

  "Fixing your costume," she answers, and I feel weird. There's a moment of silence.

  "How bad?" I ask, gesturing vaguely at the television.

  Tasha follows my gaze, then sighs. "It's... a lot, Sam. Shrike sent out press releases before the fight. Called you out specifically as Liberty Belle's protégé. Made it about ideology, legacy. Something about a 'selfish gene'. And then he died."

  She hesitates. "The drones captured most of it. News channels have been playing edited versions 24/7. Politicians are weighing in. The DVDs have made statements. And every school in the district is still doing remote for the week. I mean. The week's over."

  "Me?"

  "You're being called a hero. The teen who stood against hate." She grimaces slightly. "Though there's also a lot of debate about whether someone your age should have been in that situation at all."

  I close my eyes briefly. "Shrike."

  "Dead. The official cause was exsanguination combined with traumatic injuries. They're saying he was beyond medical help by the time paramedics reached him." She pauses. "No one's blaming you, if that's what you're worried about. The DA got into... I mean... I'm not exactly your representative but I've been talking to Mr. Davis and he said the DA is declining to press charges. Then, in confidence, he said it'd be 'political suicide'. Or something."

  What, Maya, not kicking me when I'm down? I am to blame, aren't I? I knew what I was doing when I went after him. I knew the risks. I just didn't expect...

  "Your phone's been blowing up," Tasha says, changing the subject. "Metaphorically. But also literally because Mr. Davis gave me a phone to use for this stuff temporarily. Calls from NSRA, the mayor's office, reporters, everyone. I've been filtering, not answering."

  "Thanks," I manage.

  She reaches out, squeezing my hand gently. "How are you really, Sam? And don't say 'fine' because we both know that's bullshit."

  I consider the question. How am I? Physically, I'm a wreck. Mentally? I'm not sure I've processed anything yet. It all feels distant, like something that happened to someone else. Like I'm behind a glass wall.

  "Don't know," I say honestly. "Everything's... fuzzy."

  "That'll be the pain meds," she says. "But also probably shock. Dr. Song says your body's focusing all its energy on healing the physical stuff. The mental processing comes later."

  Great. Something to look forward to.

  "The others?"

  "Bulwark's still in ICU, but stable. Fury Forge is on crutches for a while. Some officers and paramedics got hurt when Shrike went berserk with the spikes. Some civilians. And some of the injuries were pretty bad, but nobody, uh, else is dead. They've been interviewing the paramedic that patched you up. She said you're a hero, too."

  I nod, absorbing this. "My fault."

  "No," Tasha says firmly. "Not your fault. Shrike did this. All of it."

  But I can't help thinking that if I hadn't engaged him, if I'd let the DVDs handle it...

  "Rest," Tasha says, seeing my eyelids drooping. "You need to conserve energy."

  I want to argue, to ask more questions, but exhaustion pulls at me. My eyes close despite my efforts to keep them open.

  Just before sleep claims me again, I feel Tasha's hand on mine. Her voice feels like bumblebees.

  "You survived, Sam. That's what matters. The rest... we'll figure it out together."