8.06

The adrenaline crash was a bitch. The screams, the beeping, the pain, and the very real possibility of paralysis didn’t help. My back was a symphony of agony, and the manacle holding my arm aloft only amplified the discomfort. Could I really be paralyzed? The thought was a cold, suffocating dread. No powers to fix this. No more running, no more… anything.

I forced myself to breathe, focusing on the small task of shifting my pillow to ease the strain on my arm. Small victories in a sea of despair.

They wouldn’t arrest me, would they? There were rules, unspoken but vital. No profiting from Endbringer attacks. No exploiting the chaos. No arresting villains who came to help. To break those rules was to invite disaster, to make things easier for the monsters we all fought.

But the manacle whispered doubts. I’d made enemies, even among the heroes. Could they be denying me treatment? A silent, deniable form of revenge?

The thought was a punch to the gut, making me gasp and twist. Pain shot through me, and I clenched my teeth, fighting back nausea. This helplessness was maddening, a dark echo of my worst nightmares. Being trapped, knowing something awful was coming, and being utterly powerless to stop it. Had my grand gesture been for nothing? Was I an idiot of epic proportions for buying into the noble sacrifice?

A young nurse, barely older than me, entered, her eyes downcast, avoiding mine. I begged her to talk to me, to tell me anything. She finally relented, her voice hushed. She couldn’t say much. Liability, she explained. Some capes had sued rescue workers after a similar battle. She couldn’t even tell me if my back was broken. She was just a student, pulled in to help with the overwhelming number of injured.

I asked about Tattletale. Was she alive? Injured? The nurse’s hurried “I’m sorry” was ambiguous, fueling my anxiety. Then, a scream from beyond the curtain: “We’ve got a code!” My heart hammered. Was it Tattletale? My dad? Brian? No, I pushed those thoughts away. But someone. Someone’s loved one.

The nurse offered to let me use her phone. A small kindness, but fraught with danger. Could they trace the call? Find my dad? Find Tattletale? And was this my one phone call? Was I being arrested? She didn’t know, she said. She was just supposed to chart the patients with red tags. Red tags? Villains? Were we getting different treatment?

I declined the phone, thanking her. It was a gamble, but I needed a friendly face, not another enemy.

The agonizing wait continued, punctuated by the sounds of crisis. Boredom warred with anxiety. I used my power, a distraction, a way to feel outside my body. Cockroaches gathered on my stomach, forming patterns, a macabre dance.

“You’re so creepy, you know that?”

Panacea. Her face was drawn, exhausted. She needed my permission to touch me, she said. Liability. I could refuse, force the hospital to give me X-rays, MRIs, years of treatment, all under confidentiality agreements that could cost them millions. Or I could let her heal me, and risk whatever horrors she might decide to inflict.

She reminded me of her threats from the bank robbery. Make me obese. Make everything taste like bile. What was stopping her now?

“Nothing, really,” she said, her voice flat. “But the more horrible a human being you are, the more you’ll agonize over what I might have done.”

Was she a decent person? She claimed to be, but her words rang hollow. Still, it was my only real option. I gave my permission.

She touched my throat, and the pain vanished. Relief flooded me, along with a strange, unsettling awareness of my injuries. A brain injury, not fully healed. Bakuda’s fault. Beyond Panacea’s abilities, she said. Microfractures, nerve damage, broken bones, internal bleeding. It was worse than I’d thought.

She began to work, and sensation returned to my legs, sharp and shocking. It would hurt, she warned. She couldn’t dope me up because Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and Legend were coming to talk to me. I needed to be clear-headed.

Why? Why were they coming? Was this an arrest? She wouldn’t say. “All of you are kept in the dark for as long as possible,” she said. All of us? A slip of the tongue, she claimed. Did it include Tattletale? Had she healed her? “No,” Panacea said, her expression unreadable. But was that because Tattletale didn’t need help, or because she was already dead? My leg jerked in pain.

“We’re done here,” she announced.

I demanded an answer, but she just lifted her finger, and the smaller aches returned. She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. This was nothing compared to what Tattletale had done to her, she said. Threatening to ruin her life, to expose her darkest secrets. I pictured my dad finding out about me, the doubt forever clouding our relationship.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. But she didn’t sound sorry at all as she left.

I had to get out of here. I sent my bugs to find the keys on the PRT uniform’s belt. A painstaking process, but they managed, bringing the keys to me. I unlocked the cuffs, the relief a physical thing. I tested my legs. They held.

But escape was still a problem. Too many capes, too many PRT. A window, maybe, but it was a long shot. I moved to the next enclosure, and the next. Then I saw her.

Shadow Stalker. Sophia Hess. Unconscious, injured, but alive. The blue tag on her curtain, like the red one on mine. It all clicked into place. They’d chained me up because of her. Because of what I might do.

My legs gave out, and I fell to my knees, the cold, still feeling Brian had described washing over me. Footsteps approached, but I didn’t care. I was trapped, not by chains, but by the knowledge of who lay in the bed before me, and the terrible, inevitable confrontation to come.