Author's Note: Many thanks to Closetfan for being such a faithful reader and reviewer. You rock. Obviously, chapter 14 was not the last. This is a short one, but it's the beginning of the transition to a somewhat different portion of the story. Thanks for coming back and your continuing support!

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The first thing he noticed as he slid into consciousness was the sound of people talking. Their voices were muffled, however, and they seemed to be far away. There was a beep, and the man cringed. The last vestiges of sleep shook clear of his mind. He froze, his eyes still closed. Where am I? he asked himself. And, suddenly, the sounds surrounding him were all too familiar. The hospital.

He went to raise his right arm, to reach for his sunglasses. His hand, however, was stopped short with a clanking of metal and a sharp jerk to the wrist. He was handcuffed to the bed. All hopes that he'd been dreaming were dashed. His hand fell back to the mattress with a light 'thud.' Slowly, the events of the night came back to him. The policemen had pushed his face onto the ground, handcuffing him, tossed his keys and bloody screwdriver onto the ground next to his face, jerked him up by his arms and led him to one of the helicopters. He vaguely remembered someone pulling up his shirt, examining his wound. Shortly afterwards, he fell over in the seat, and everything went black.

And now I'm in a hospital bed, under arrest, Scott thought, and then a truly troubling thought occurred to him. And Xavier's Institute, my friends, the life that I knew, from all indications, never existed. With his left hand, which was free, Scott rubbed his eyes. He refused to allow himself to break down again. So what does that mean? he asked himself, forcing his thoughts towards something constructive. Does that mean I'm stuck inside an illusion? Is this an alternate dimension? They weren't new questions. He'd considered both as possibilities before. He'd even wondered if he hadn't somehow been time-tossed. From all evidence, an alternate reality seemed more and more to be the most viable theory. Even illusionists had to sleep. Scott would never underestimate the power of mutant illusionists. Wyngarde and his kind were incredibly threatening, but this illusion was too elaborate, too real, even for them… Wasn't it?

Scott had to believe it was. The new question, then, was what to do next. Maybe it's time to start really facing the possibility that I could have made it all up, Scott thought. It seemed preposterous. How could someone remember an entire lifetime that didn't happen? Two lifetimes? And if he'd made up his life as an X-Man, why couldn't he remember anything of his life with Julia?

The questions only served to increase the intensity of his pounding headache. Relief came unexpectedly when heavy footsteps entered into the room. Scott opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged doctor, brown hair, large nose, streaks of white in his course-looking brown hair, staring at him through thin gold-framed glasses. He was flanked by two police officers, wearing the standard uniform. Scott didn't recognize the faces. He guessed he'd slept through a shift change.

"Ah, so you're awake," the doctor said. He shot Scott an obviously fake smile that flashed his nicotine-stained teeth. The doctor's eyes shot to the chart in his hand. "…uh, Mr. Summers," he said, finishing the greeting. "It would seem, Mr. Summers," he continued, "that you had a very busy night."

Scott responded with a soft snort, and he turned his head and stared at the ceiling. He'd gambled with his future by stealing that airplane. He knew the possible consequences when he'd stolen it. Unfortunately, it now seemed that he would spend the foreseeable future in prison. Perfect, he thought.

The grimace that was supposed to be a smile fell from the doctor's face. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we've stitched and bandaged the wound on your side and sterilized the dog bites on your arm. You've lost a lot of blood, but your vitals were strong enough we didn't transfuse any. Aside from some bruises and some other minor injuries here and there, I would say you're ready to be released. Which means, we'll be handing you over to these gentlemen." The doctor nodded to the policemen and stepped between them. "All yours," he said. "Have a nice life, Mr. Summers," he called as he disappeared behind the emergency room divider curtain.

One of the policemen stepped forward. He was a young man, probably only twenty-three years old, Scott guessed, and his eyes held none of the sympathy the earlier policemen had displayed. He was here to collect a prisoner. He was unconcerned with the details. If anything, Scott would have guessed that he looked bored.

The policeman unlocked the handcuff holding Scott to the bed and the other man tossed an orange bundle of cloth onto Scott's chest. "Get dressed," the younger officer said. "And don't try anything funny." To emphasize the point, he drew his 'stick' from its holder on his belt and patted it in his hand.

Scott winced as he raised up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He felt his side and the bandages there. His bare feet slapped onto the tiles as he dropped to the ground. Unembarrassed, he dropped the hospital gown to the ground and pulled the orange jumpsuit on. The letters written in black on the front and back didn't escape his notice as he zipped the top closed. Only a few hours ago, he'd consoled himself before breaking and entering, before committing theft, with the thought that he'd broken the law many times before. Now, it would seem, the law had finally caught up with him. In a world where there were no mutants, where Scott would have never had any reason to be a criminal, he found himself being carted off to jail, powerless to escape.

The irony was sickening.

Pulling Scott by the arm, the police threw back the curtain and led him down the hall. The eyes of everyone he passed were transfixed, not on him, but on his newest brand-mark.

Prisoner.