Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to its creator. I own nothing.

Author's Note: Excuses, excuses...and many, many thanks to all of you for sticking with me. Ah, life. Such a distraction from writing. Here is chapter nine.

"That's life for you. All the happiness you gather to
yourself, it will sweep away like it's nothing. If you
ask me, I don't think there are any such things as curses.
I think there is only life. That's enough."
-Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

CHAPTER NINE

I cracked my eyes open the next morning, inhaling the bacon that hung in the air. I rubbed my eyes with the back of a fist, attempting to wake myself. Discomfort sloshed around in my gut, remnants of the night's sleep. My mind flickered around, trying to remember what I had dreamt about. Two seconds later, and it was gone, disappeared into the fog of my morning brain, nothing left but mist and fuzz.

I pushed up and out of bed, then froze. White-hot heat began to spread from my knuckles to my wrist, enveloping my entire right hand with its intensity. Instinctively, my left hand flung to its twin's aid. I held it up and cringed. I had forgotten my split, I remembered, shame pouring down on me. And, worse, I had had to be all macho the night before, brawn and no brains, and why? Because it had not hurt? Looking at the swollen, bruised mess now, I could not see how it had been possible.

I would have to tell Tanya about it. The pain was immense, throbbing, and getting worse with each passing second. My footsteps thumped against the floor as I paced, my mind inventing a hundred million different excuses I could give her, and, more importantly, my brother. Wildwing had even seen me without the damn splint; there was nothing I could say that would make up for that. Nothing he would believe, anyway.

I was sweating and beginning to shake. "I'll tell him that I must've rolled over in my sleep," I muttered, my pacing getting quicker. My voice dropped lower as I heard a conversation blooming in the kitchen. "I mean, that would've hurt it with or without a splint, I bet. That'll…that'll work. Good thinking. A-plus work." I stopped the pacing, listening to my heart pumping in my ears.

"Shit." It was always something, it seemed. I could always manage to fuck it all up, especially recently. As though I had not put everyone through enough these past near-two months, I had to backtrack, and now did I manage to do that?—

Something scratched. I stiffened, feeling my mouth go dry. Even with the voices, muffled, that leaked through my closed door, asking for breakfast and discussing the day's activities, I had heard a scratch from behind me. I turned, peering into the corner of my bedroom. Due to living under the arena, my room, like the others', was void of windows. In the morning, the only light to be had was a combination of my clock's illumination, faint and green, and the light that spilled around the cracks of my door. It was usually enough; I could see the bruising on my skin, though not the specific colors, as well as the path to the door.

The provided light was there, though not enough, and my eyes strained through the black and…there, there was a body. Looking back on it all, "body" was not quite the right word for it. "Body" implied a corpse, or even the basic idea that it was a living thing at all. All I could see was the silhouette of a shape, encased in black. Narrower at the top, giving illusion to a head and two shoulders. Silent. Staring, just staring, if the thing was even facing me. A sick, cloying smell hit my face and woke me from my idiotic stupor. I found my momentum and ran from the room, remembering almost too late to use my left hand to turn the knob.

I pulled the door closed behind me, then leaned against it, pulling the stupid, ruined hand against my chest for sham support. I exhaled, a steady stream pushing up from my lungs and out, along with about eight thousand grams of "what the fuck was that?" Moreover, how had it slipped inside? Drake One was not Tanya's baby for nothing. That machine could detect a new species of dust if it had attempted to get inside without permission. A whole…thing? Pretty much impossible. No way.

I think that was the beginning of the spiral, that moment right there. My brain was nothing but jerky movements and disorientation. Eyes all unfocused, and I didn't have the energy to refocus the damn things. I swallowed, and cracked the door open, leaning against the doorframe to peek inside. I think the word "brave" had been completely erased from my hard drive.

My eyes darted around the room, quick but methodical. My left hand slipped into the room and flicked the light switch, immersing the room in the fluorescent light. Whatever apprehension – fear, if I was to be completely honest – I had felt before was wiped clean at the sight of my empty bedroom. A new feeling, one of dismay and a very different type of fear, began to spread in my chest, wrapping around each vein and artery. Two options were laid before me, then, neither one offering the embrace of comfort, oh no. Either there was a new brand of enemy, stealthy and possessing teleportation ability, that had found us. Or I was seeing and hearing things.

What is the first stage of dying? Denial? Overrated hoo-ha if you ask me, but that was exactly where I was. Hindsight, and all that. But that was then, and at that moment, it had seemed so real. I had seen its shoulders moving as it took in breaths. I could still see it moving, so light, even in spite of it being nothing but shadow, signifying life. The smell, traces of it still etched and burrowed into my senses, so familiar. A reminder of life.

(denial)

Maybe I was seeing things, but they were not "figment of my imagination" things. Real, honest-to-God things. I was convinced. After all, I wasn't crazy. Damaged, stupid, immature, absolutely. But not crazy. I closed the door. I could not think about it anymore. Not then. I took my wounded hand in the other, feeling the heat pour through my skin.

Now immersed in proper lighting and heightened senses, I pulled my hand away from my chest and peered down. The skin was now tie-dyed in green, yellow, and a peppering of dark blue. The middle knuckle of two of the fingers had ballooned overnight, looking more like a cartoon's rendition of an allergic reaction.

Then, without the distraction of a potential heart attack, the pain returned and I must have walked into the highway as I slept and a truck must have run over it. It was the only explanation for pain like that.

A grunt slipped out of my throat, and, on cue, five sets of eyes jerked in my direction. The kitchen table was all the way down the hallway and at the opposite end of the adjoining room. Either my grunt had been much louder than it had seemed, or their hearing was somehow getting better. Wildwing stood, ever the mighty protector, and was already in the hallway, walking toward me. "You all right, Dive?"

I couldn't hide it. I was stupid and stubborn (and did I mention stupid?), but not to that caliber. And now when it was hurting like that. I would not be able to hide it for long, anyway. I put on my most apologetic "please don't be mad" face, then held up the hand. "Don't get mad," I added, forcing a half-grin.

My brother's expression twisted into one so horrified that I barked out a laugh. Completely by accident, of course, but I would have paid any amount of money if it meant bottling up that expression and saving it forever. He reached out and took ahold of my fingers, then pulled back after my laughter snapped into a sharp groan. "Shit, Dive, I'm sorry. Reflexes."

"It's okay." I, with tender resolve, massaged the burning joints.

"What'd…?" He frowned, ever knowing. "Didn't put your splint back on, did you?"

I didn't reply, but my face said it all. I could feel the sides of my mouth fall in shame. I glanced away, just in case my expressional alone hadn't been enough of a giveaway.

"Dive, really? And how did you manage…? Let me see again."

I placed my hand into his waiting one, saying, tone light, "Gentle this time, please."

He leaned down and peered at the digits, and I almost laughed again. Such a helpful attitude, and I could not fault his desire to want to know what the hell I had done to myself (again). But the guy had no idea what he was looking at. I forced back a smile. "How's it look, doc?"

"Funny," he replied, and I was about to ask whether he was referring to my hand or my joke when he added, "How bad does it hurt?"

"Well, it feels like it's been run over by a semi-truck and dragged a mile or two. Not so bad."

"Can you move it at all?"

I gritted my teeth and attempted to move each finger. Thumb was fine, as was the pinky, aside from the (blahblah) bruising, but moving the center three just about brought tears to my eyes. I envisioned in those moments a life without a right hand. Tanya could build me a new one, a robotic one at that. No more pain and I would be unstoppable on the ice and on the battlefield (assuming I ever got a chance to go back to either). Six million dollar duck. The world might not be ready for that just yet. Plus, would they allow a robotic player onto the rink? The risks of penalties alone—

"Dive?"

"Sorry." I hissed as I attempted to move the center three one last time. "Dammit. A bit 'no' on those three, bro."

Wildwing nodded. "Tanya!" he called, and she looked over, a piece of toast in one hand, a butter knife in the other. "Come here, would you?" She nodded, placing the items back on the table, then shuffled over to us. Her eyes squinted and my and my brother's hands, trying to get an early look on whatever we were in the middle of doing.

"What's up?" I held up the hand in reply, and she stopped in her tracks. "What in the—how-how did you…?"

"Idiocy," I replied with a wan smile. "I'm sorry," I added with sincerity, eyes dropping from hers.

She took my hand in hers, inspecting it as Wildwing had. "You, uh, fractured it, at least. Bad. We'll need to, uh, take some…you know, some x-rays. See if we need to, uh, oper-oper-oper, uh, do surgery."

I pulled it back, holding it against my chest. "Is that really necessary?"

"Probably, but maybe not. We'll need to…to check." She jerked her head at the kitchen table. "Come on; let's eat and we'll get to looking." She paused. "Well, maybe not eating for you, just in case we have to, you know, do the surgery."

I frowned, inhaling the scent of grease and toast. It had been such a nice way to wake up, and now I could see it all floating away from me. "Come on, Tawn, I mean, what are the odds that'll be necessary?"

"Do you want the full math on that?"

The three of us walked back into the kitchen, Tanya plopping back into her seat and resuming her task of spreading butter on her toast, as though taunting me. "Dive," Wildwing said, sitting down beside her, "listen to Tanya, would you? This time, at least."

Low blow. I jerked a thumb at the refrigerator. "Can I at least have some water? Juice? I could die, you know."

Tanya shook her head. "Nope. Sorry, Nosedive, but if we have to operate, I want to be able to do it as soon as possi-possi…uh, as soon as I can."

"Operate?" Duke, sitting opposite me at the table, cocked an eyebrow at me over his mug, taking a long sip. "What'd you do this time?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

I held up my hand for the umpteenth time that morning and Duke almost dropped his mug. I laughed; his face had been even better than Wildwing's—so wide-eyed and disgusted. The thing looked bad, granted, but you would have though I had had the entire limb amputated and was currently sloshing blood about the room judging from the way they were reacting. "Man," I said, after my laughter had dissipated, "maybe we should just leave it the way it is. Your faces are hysterical and laughter is truly the best medicine there is."

Duke shook his head, setting the mug on the tabletop. "You say that now. Let me see it again." He took my hand in his, inspecting it from all possible angles, cursing under his breath. His teeth were set, jaw flexing as he did so, and he peered down at the multitude of colors that spread across my skin. "I gotta hand it to you, kid—"

"Pun unintended, right?"

"—you did a hell of a job on that." He released my hand, gentle, as though too much movement would cause the rest of the joints to snap apart right before his eyes. He flexed his right hand with a grimace, feeling some sympathy pain on my behalf. A grin tickled at the edges of my mouth. Oh, Duke, I always knew you cared.

"Thanks," I replied, once the internal giggling had ceased. He began to chow down on his bacon, and my stomach growled in response. No food, no drinks. I was being starved in my own house. I debated heading back into my room while everyone around me ate –Grin had made pancakes and are you serious right now, dude? Why not just stab me in the heart? – but my mind flickered back to what I had seen. Who, what, I wasn't sure. But how could I bring it up then, after all the trouble I had caused? Disappointing Wildwing, forcing Tanya to abandon whatever she had on her plate for the day to tend to me…I had done enough. My stomach twisted and turned itself into knots. Dammit.

"—show her, kid."

"Huh?" I jerked out of my daze, looking at Duke. "Do what now?"

"Show Mal your hand. She wants to see it, but I'll you, it looks bad."

"Oh, uhh, sure. Yeah." Mallory tested the wound – seeing what hurt and did not hurt, comparing it to wounds she had had as a kid. Her reaction was far less amusing than Duke's and my brother's had been. Such a military figure, ever stoic.

"Nice job," she said, and I appreciated the ribbing. I shrugged in response. "How'd you manage that?" she asked, pouring some high-grain cereal into a bowl, splashing it over with milk. Torture.

"Forgot to put my splint back on," I replied. "Must've banged it up last night."

She frowned. "What do you do at night? Sleep-fight? Looks like you punched a wall with that injury, Dive."

I shrugged again. I had a hazy memory of beating the hell out of the punching bag, but I did not dare mention it. Forgetting the splint had been stupid enough; using the punching bag (at all, much less how I had been going at it) filled me with shame. I still could not remember why I had done it, aside from the sudden lack of pain.

"Having…? Uh, never mind." Mallory closed her mouth and began inspecting her cereal so intently that you would have thought the answer to life itself, the universe, and everything, was spelled out among the pellets. I glanced at my brother; Wildwing, over his cup of coffee, was starring daggers at the poor girl.

I had heard the question, even it had been cut off. Nightmares. Even though I had barely had any since the incident – and none that the team knew of – I could feel the question hanging in the air like a dark cloud, especially recently. I could also feel their reluctance in asking about it. It would: 1) force an admission from me that something was wrong, and, 2) mean that there might be something else going on that stretched beyond just my obvious physical issues. Not that I blamed them for not asking; in fact, I was grateful. I don't think I would have been able to answer them even if they had asked. Not to anyone but myself. I had done enough to them.

I forced a smile and shook my head. "Nothing like that. No worries. I guess I rolled over and smacked it good or something. I really don't remember." The lies stung my tongue, but I was no amateur. Not anymore.

Tanya x-rayed my hand right after breakfast, only pausing to wash her dishes and get dressed for the day. The medical bay had become too familiar to me, but it churned my stomach all the same. It was as though the abduction had set in motion a chain reaction in my life, knocking down each pillar until there was nothing left but rubble, shattered and not quite the same, even with repair. It was how it had felt; living through it all gave me a bias, though. The constant feeling of shame, guilt, and despair…it was all beginning to become normal. And I didn't want that kind of normal.

I had lucked out, Tanya said. Surgery wasn't necessary, but the recovery time had been set back, way back. Some good had come from it. She said that, judging from the x-rays and how quickly my hand had healed on the first go-around, it looked like I would get almost-to-full range of motion back…but it was going to take double the amount of time to heal. I was grateful for the news, but Tanya was not finished. As punishment for the splint malfunction, she stuck me in a full sling, the material wrapping around my entire upper-right body, or so it felt. Oh, that level of trust.

I fidgeted around with the straps, cursing my luck in being right-handed. Seeing my obvious discomfort, she gave me a smirk and said, "Next time, maybe keep from punching something." A raised eyebrow and knowing look was all that she would offer in reply to my stunned expression.

The question she wanted to ask hung in the air above us, almost choking me with its thickness. "I, uh…I don't know. It felt better. I was…stupid."

"Obviously."

"I just wanted…normal."

Her expression softened. There was a pause, and she clearly wanted more from me, but my mouth could not form the words. "Listen, I, uh, won't tell anyone. Just, um, if you are feeling anything, you know, weird, you should tell me. Medically." More secrets between me and my teammates, and wasn't that the new name of the show? I was just not at the point where I was ready to admit to…anything. Like the fact that I might have been seeing stuff that couldn't have been there. I could see the words zipping through my head, everything I should tell her, the things she should know, but I couldn't.

I shook my head and gave her a smile, so earnest, and she dropped it. She was kind that way; they all were, so trusting of me. Why would I lie? I asked myself that same question as I exited the medical pay, the fingers of my left hand tugging on the sling's straps in a makeshift rhythm.

While the team had a fun day apprehending bad guys (Klegghorn had called, in a fit, over some robbery of the something-or-other at the someplace, as my superb detective skills deduced), I was stuck…excuse me, I decided to stay at the Pond. Before he left, Wildwing turned to me and said, "Maybe get out of this place for a while, bro. Take in the fresh air. It'd be good for you."

I nodded, a scoff itching in the back of my throat at the idea of something being "good" for me, especially a lap around the Pond, or whatever he had in mind. Instead, I forced out, "Maybe," and he ruffled my hair, donning the mask and heading out with the team. He had stopped wearing it, I noticed, when he was home, unless we—they were at practice. I had almost asked him about it, once, weeks back, but decided against it. No response would have left me feeling satisfied.

The walk had been unplanned on my part, but I had the sense to leave a note. Sure, the fresh-air adventure had been my brother's idea, and I was really only following my team captain's directions, but I felt it would be the right choice. It had been the first time Wildwing had encouraged me to do something, on my own, even, and if that wasn't a sign that I was going stir-crazy, I don't know what would have been.

The mid-morning air was, I had to admit, quite refreshing, coating my lungs with such a sense of relaxation that I was half-convinced the air had been tainted somehow. I smirked, a vision entering my mind of the earth as a dentist's office, the air nothing more than nitrous oxide and wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth? So to speak.

I rolled my eyes. Maybe I needed to get out more than I thought.

For a while, I just walked, my free hand stuffed deep into the pockets of my jacket. When I had first started rehabilitation, I remembered feeling naked without my battle gear and armor. Now, the only thing I had that even signified that I had been part of the crime fighting team was the communicator on my wrist (left wrist, now, somehow even more foreign than anything). Other than that, there was nothing, alien form aside. Light jacket, shirt, jeans, and regular boots (if I would have dared call Doc Martens "regular") were now my uniform of choice, and it had become scarily commonplace. I could feel myself being distanced – or distancing myself – from the team, and the outfit was a loud reminder of that every time I looked down.

The park in which I ended up was empty. It was February, so off-season had hit. I had been here before, once, with my friends. It had been a summer festival with local bands no one had ever heard of, and some of them I wish I still hadn't. There had been hundreds of people, so the park looked completely different than I had remembered. There was a small footpath, leading around in an oblong loop, measuring, according to the signs, 2.3 miles altogether, which sounded fine by me. I had walked here from the Pond, which was a mile or so away, so what was another 2.3?

Trees hugged the path, and I remembered those. I could see myself asking Mookie what the hell was up with the construction of this place. Trees were scattered in an absentminded pattern all around the park, making little makeshift forests every half-mile or so. "Failed architect and the city is cheap as hell," she had replied with a smirk.

I strolled past the trees, exhaling a "finally" when I emerged from the shadows. The trees were not so much tall as they were thick and wide, so walking beneath them almost erased the sunlight completely. The path began to twist toward a bridge, dipping down and continuing beneath. I followed, coming to a stop under the bridge and glancing down at the small stream to my left. A short chain-link fence barred the stream off. Couldn't have people swimming there, no way. They might disturb whatever ecosystem they had tried to create.

I placed my hands on top of the fence, allowing myself to exhale. A smile flickered over my face, and I let it spread. Maybe Wildwing had been right. I would never tell him as much, but maybe I could attempt some skating tonight with him as a thanks. I owed him as much after all this crap.

I continued my trek, emerging from under the bridge and back up into the sunlight. Up ahead, there was another strange patching of trees, and failed architect indeed. There was eccentric and unique, and then there was ridiculous. Having sudden clusters of foresting was the latter. Not wanting to deviate from the path, I pushed on. These had, somehow, been planted even closer to the path, their trunks so close that I could reach out and press my hand against the bark. Maybe they had wanted to imitate different types of atmospheres? Awesome and terrifying? Or maybe the trees had already been there, and they decided to utilize them instead of being, I don't know, normal and going around them.

Scratch. I stopped in my tracks, turning and looking behind me. Nothing, nothing but the path, the stupid trees, and the occasional chirp from a bird overhead. I frowned; the scratch had been familiar, as far as scratches go. I adjusted my arm in the sling then turned back around. Footsteps hit the pavement a bit quicker than before, and I could feel my mouth drying out. Scratch. I screeched to a halt, jerking back around. "All right, what?" I snapped, not quite as brave as I had been hoping.

Nothing. Even the bird had stopped chirping, apparently embarrassed by my outburst. I furrowed my brow, fear quickly replaced with anger. I kept walking, refusing to stop even as my ears caught the sound of another scratch. My eyes never lost sight of the path in front of me until something ghosted at the back of my neck. I sprinted, then, running like I had been suddenly thrust into a derby, and the path wound to the right, left, and around, and I could see the sunlight up ahead. I felt momentary relief, so close to safety, but I heard that damn sound again, up ahead this time, and I backpedaled, so quickly, too quickly, and my heart hit the roof of my mouth as I felt to the ground, all limbs and roots and dirt.

My fingernails dug into the ground and I gritted my teeth. "Fuck!" There were too many things to think about, all hitting me at different wavelengths. What else could I do? I brushed the dirt from my palms and stood, wishing that something had been there; at least then I wouldn't have felt like such an idiot.

Scratch.

I clutched my head. The sound, right there, in my head. I stumbled, grabbing onto a trunk to steady myself. Oh, DuCaine, it was coming from my head. I fought the urge to rip out of my sling and dig into my scalp, choosing instead to squeeze my eyes shut.

I was able to confide in myself that, okay, maybe there was a bit of...something going on that I could not quite grasp. Something that had been set in motion by whatever the hell had happened to me. At first, I had thought it was just my imagination, the PTSD or whatever, but it was all getting more and more real, hitting upon every sense. It was living. In my head. I know how that sounds, now, but that was it. Just that.

Scratch. The sound had blossomed, manifested, maybe, into something painful. I staggered, suddenly intoxicated, pushing from tree to tree to just get the hell out of there, God, before—

Scratch.

I hit the ground again, slumped against a trunk. My head was spinning, spinning, and that was it, I decided. Whatever the hell it was, it was done. It won. With its stupid, fucking scratching and digging into my head and making me crazy, it had won. The quick, fleeting thought, unfair fight, bubbled before my eyes, and it was almost funny.

I sighed. Scratch. Pain hit me, again, a quick, sharp bolt to the head and the chest, and I took in a quick breath, and then, with a huff of air, expelling from deep within my lungs, I was gone.

To be continued…