Author’s Note: Hello! Thank you for reading all the way up to Chapter 63 – Wow! That’s a lot of text. The next arc is an intermission that will detail Sam’s recovery and some other interstitial events. It can, if desired, be skipped during archival reading – relevant information will be recapped during the next arc.
Begin Intermission 4.5: Amnion
I’m waking up in a hospital room that’s too bright, the kind of bright that makes your head throb just a little harder. I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. It’s a typical hospital room, I guess, but I’ve never been in one like this, not for myself. The walls are a soft, pale blue, probably meant to be soothing. There’s a TV mounted on the wall, turned off. A couple of chairs, a small table with a vase of flowers. I can’t smell them, but they look nice. My bed is propped up, and I’m sitting sort of half-upright, a bunch of wires and tubes connected to me. I feel… groggy, like my brain is trying to swim through molasses.
Feels bad! Don’t like it.
Dr. Lin walks in, her footsteps quiet against the linoleum floor. She’s got this kind smile, the kind that’s meant to be reassuring. I’ve seen a lot of smiles since waking up, but hers feels genuine, like she actually cares.
“Good morning, Samantha. How are you feeling today?” she asks, pulling up a chair next to my bed.
I want to say something witty, something cool, but all that comes out is, “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. A big one.” My voice sounds rough, like I haven’t used it in forever. Which, I guess, I haven’t. Well, two weeks isn’t forever, but it’s a long time for someone like me to not say anything.
Dr. Lin chuckles softly. “That’s not entirely unexpected, given what you’ve been through. Do you feel up to talking about your recovery plan?”
I nod, trying to focus. Talking means thinking, and thinking still feels a bit like wading through wet dirt. “Yeah, sure. Hit me with it.”
She pulls out a tablet and starts scrolling through what I assume is my medical file. “Well, Samantha, due to your unique physiology, your recovery is progressing faster than a typical patient’s would. However, you’ve sustained significant injuries, and we need to be cautious.”
I nod. Yeah, the regeneration. That’s known. “I take it a normal person would be dead by now?”
“Extremely,” Dr. Lin says with a small, worried smile. “Your regenerative abilities are remarkable. But even with accelerated healing, your body has been through a traumatic event. It’s going to take time and effort to fully recover, and now that the worst of it is over, your regeneration has slowed down.”
Time and effort. I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I mean, I get it, but it’s frustrating. I’ve always been the one jumping into things, not lying in a bed watching the world go by. “Slowed down? Does regeneration and radiation not mix? Er, do they? Grammar…”
Dr. Lin laughs, which makes me feel like I’m getting a good grade in social interaction. “Not quite. It’s more like your regeneration is special. You have what medical science refers to as a ‘regeneration factor’ as you know, and everyone that regenerates does so a little differently. After two weeks of tending to you, we’ve come to the conclusion that your regeneration is more effective the more damaged your body is,” she explains, while I just nod along.
That makes sense, given what I know about… myself. “So I should go put myself in danger again, or…?”
“No, definitely don’t do that,” she replies with a small chuckle. “I won’t bother you with terms like ‘LD99’, but, suffice to say, even if you didn’t have to heal from a gunshot wound or broken bones, you’ve also absorbed a dosage of radiation that would’ve been about a hundred percent lethal to a fully grown adult. Not to mention, you have severe internal scarring from absorbing microwave radiation – you’ve gotten cooked from the inside out. You’ve still got several months of recovery ahead of you before you’re back to the normal physical state of a girl your age, much less the, uh, fighting force I’m told you used to be.”
Several months of recovery… It grates at me like a cheese grater. I fold my arms over my chest, and I don’t like the way it all feels. My muscles are all… gone, like all the work I did to get them was for nothing. Just vanished. My fingers are thin enough that you can see the bones real easy, and even my… chest is smaller. I look like a twig. I feel like a twig.
“What about… what about my hair?” I suddenly blurt out, reaching up to touch my head. It’s weird, feeling the smoothness where my hair used to be. “It’s all gone.”
Dr. Lin’s expression softens. “Acute radiation syndrome can often result in hair loss. It’s temporary. Your hair will grow back, Samantha.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay, good. Because, no offense, but I look terrible bald.”
She laughs, and it’s a nice sound, kind of infectious. I find myself smiling a little, despite everything.
“We’ll need to start with some physical therapy soon,” Dr. Lin continues. “Your muscles have atrophied a bit from disuse. You can only rely on your regeneration to take you so far, and I don’t think it counts atrophy as an injury to be fixed. We’re going to have to work our way back up from square one, maybe square zero or negative one. With good old fashioned grit and medicine.”
“Wait, hold on – did you say I got microwaved?” I blurt out, the words slipping from me before I can think them through. It sounds so absurd, so sci-fi. Is that what the sharp pain was? I just assumed that’s what radiation felt like. Did Chernobyl microwave me too in addition to giving me radiation poisoning?
Dr. Lin nods, her expression serious. “In a manner of speaking, yes. The microwaves caused internal burns, which are particularly tricky. We’ve managed the immediate dangers, but there’s still a lot of healing to be done inside, and there’s no guarantee that your muscle tissue will heal all the way. For someone like you, of course, you’re better positioned to recover than most, but… still…”
I frown, trying to wrap my head around it. “So, like, my insides got cooked? That’s… gross.”
“Yes, it’s a bit unsettling to think about,” Dr. Lin agrees. “But the good news is, your body’s handled it remarkably well. You’re a very resilient young lady, Samantha.”
I guess that’s something to be proud of, even if it’s in a weird, freaky sort of way. “Okay, so what’s the plan? When do I get out of here? When can I go back to… normal stuff?”
Dr. Lin pulls up a chart on her tablet, showing a timeline. “Your recovery is going to be in phases. First, we’re focusing on your internal healing – making sure everything inside is working as it should. That’s already underway and going well, thanks to your regeneration. Then, we’ll move on to rebuilding your muscle strength with physical and occupational therapy.”
I squint at the chart, trying to make sense of it. It’s got a bunch of lines and dates, and it looks like it goes on forever. “So, like, how long are we talking here? Weeks? Months?”
“Realistically, a few months at least,” she says gently. “Your body’s been through a lot, and we want to make sure you’re fully healed, not just patched up. That does, unfortunately, mean zero fighting and zero strenuous exercise. No sparring, no aikido, no criminal fighting, and no soccer.”
Months. The word sits heavy in my stomach, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest again. My school doesn’t even have soccer available this week, but just knowing that I can’t – even if I could’ve, I can’t now – it just makes it feel that much more uncomfortable. Like a heavy metal weight is settling somewhere in the bottom of my lungs.
“I get it,” I say, even though a part of me really doesn’t want to. “No shortcuts, right?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Lin says with an approving nod. “We’ll start with some light exercises, see how you handle them. Then, we’ll gradually increase the intensity. It’s going to be a lot of work, but I know you’re up for it.”
I nod, more to myself than to her. I am up for it. I have to be. “What about school? And… you know, other stuff?”
“Your parents have already made arrangements with your school to have work delievered to you electronically, to the best of your teachers’ ability. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s very likely you’ll have to take remedial courses during the summer to stay on top of things – although, of course, I’m not an educator, so I can only guess based on similar cases.”
I can’t help but feel a little bit like I’m being benched, sidelined in my own life. But I know she’s right. I can’t do much of anything if I’m not at my best. “Okay, Dr. Lin,” I say, sighing, defeated.
It’s a lot to take in, and the thought of being so… inactive for so long is daunting. But then, Dr. Lin shifts in her seat, and I can tell there’s more she wants to say.
“There’s another aspect of your recovery we need to discuss, Samantha,” Dr. Lin begins, her tone shifting slightly. “Your physical injuries are only one part of the equation. We also need to consider your mental and emotional well-being after such a traumatic event.”
I feel a knot form in my stomach. Therapy? I’m not crazy, and I don’t want people thinking I am. I have a ‘therapist’, but it’s more of a school person, and I try to keep the amount I talk with them about my real thoughts to a minimum. I think they’d need to report me to someone if they knew about all the violence in here, in my skull. They mostly just teach me, like, stress coping skills. But a real therapist? I’m not so interested.
“I guess… talking to someone could help,” I admit, though the idea still makes me a little uncomfortable. “If you think I need it?”
Dr. Lin smiles, nodding in understanding. “Absolutely. And that’s why we’ve arranged for you to meet with Dr. Rajiv Desai. He specializes in counseling young individuals like yourself, particularly those who’ve experienced trauma in relation to their… extraordinary abilities.”
I nod slowly, processing this. “A superhero therapist? Do you see a lot of people with powers like mine needing therapy?” I ask, trying to hide my skepticism.
It doesn’t work. Dr. Lin leans in a little closer. “Of course. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a superpowered individual not in need of great therapy and psychiatric care. The circumstances behind acquiring powers typically impart a great deal of trauma, and usually happen at a young age. And now you’ve experienced another great deal of trauma, and had your life upended. Certainly, it was for a good cause, but that doesn’t negate the damage, Samantha.”
I stare at her, silently. Then, I lower my gaze to her feet, unable to tolerate the eye contact. “Sure. I’ll try it.”
“That’s great to hear,” Dr. Lin responds warmly. “Remember, Samantha, we’re all here to support you. Your recovery, both physical and mental, is our top priority. Before I go, there’s just the matter of medication to discuss. We’ll try to keep it simple.”
“Oh boy, pills,” I say, mirroring my dad’s tone of voice. It’s a sentence I’ve heard out of him a lot. My mom is a very… pill-positive person. My dad is not. So I’ve overheard a lot of intense conversations about it.
Dr. Lin smiles, understanding the sentiment. “Yes, there’s a bit of a regimen we need to follow to ensure your recovery goes smoothly. Let’s go through it.”
She starts listing off the medications and I feel like I’m back in biology class, except this time the test is about keeping me alive and not flunking the semester.
“First off, for pain management, you’re clear to take whatever NSAID suits your fancy – Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen, et cetera. That’s every four to six hours, as needed – don’t take them too much, or you might damage your liver. Only as needed. And Morphine, well, that’s more serious, so we’ll monitor that closely,” Dr. Lin explains, her voice steady and informative.
I nod along, though I’m not thrilled about the Morphine part. “Don’t worry, I have high pain tolerance. No popping painkillers like candy.”
“Exactly,” she says with a laugh. “Then there are the antiemetics for nausea – Ondansetron and Metoclopramide. You’ll take these before meals and at bedtime. Helps keep the stomach settled.”
“Great, because puking is not on my list of fun activities,” I quip, though the thought of being nauseous makes my stomach churn a bit.
“Understandable,” Dr. Lin replies with a sympathetic nod. “Now, we’re also putting you on Ciprofloxacin and Fluconazole. These are antibiotics to keep infections at bay.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds intense. But as long as I don’t start glowing in the dark or something.”
She chuckles. “No glowing, I promise. There’s also Filgrastim for your bone marrow, Omeprazole for your stomach, and a range of supplements like multivitamins, B12, Folic Acid.”
I sigh, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “This is starting to sound like a grocery list.”
“It’s important, though,” Dr. Lin reassures me. “Each of these plays a role in your recovery. And don’t forget the skin care products. Your skin needs extra care right now.”
“Right, can’t forget about my modeling career,” I joke, but I’m actually kind of worried about the scars and how I’ll look. Ever since I’ve woken up, my skin has been weird and pinkish, like a baby mouse. Almost translucent.
“And finally, there’s the psychological support. We have antidepressants if needed and Zolpidem to help with sleep.”
I nod, trying to keep up. “Got it. Happy pills and sleepy pills.”
Dr. Lin gives me a gentle, knowing look. “It’s a lot, I know. But we’re here to help you through it, every step of the way. Remember, hydration and a balanced diet are key. And we’ll be monitoring you for any side effects or interactions.”
“Thanks, Dr. Lin,” I say, feeling a mixture of gratitude and trepidation. “I guess it’s time to buckle up for the recovery ride.”
She stands up, ready to leave. “You’re going to do great, Samantha. Just remember, we’re all rooting for you.”
“Thanks, me too,” I crack. She smiles again, and I don’t know what to make of it. I think there’s pity in the smile.
As she leaves, the room suddenly feels a lot bigger, a lot emptier. I’m alone with my thoughts again, which is both comforting and terrifying. Part of me feels hopeful, knowing I have a clear path to recovery and people who want to help. But another part is apprehensive, unsure about the future, about what all this means for me, for Bloodhound. For my family, my friends. For my life.
It’s all so much. All the time. Forever.
I’m staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, when the door to my room creaks open. It’s Pop-Pop Moe first, his familiar face breaking into a smile as he sees me awake. Behind him, Mom and Dad step in, their expressions a mix of relief and worry. The air feels heavy, like there’s a storm brewing, but no one’s quite ready to start it.
“Sammy, my dear, you’re looking… well, as good as one can in these circumstances,” Pop-Pop Moe says, his voice warm.
I can’t help but smile at him, despite everything. “Hey, Pop-Pop.”
Mom comes over first, her steps hesitant. She reaches out, gently brushing my hair – well, where my hair used to be. Her touch is light, afraid, as if I might break. “Oh, Sam… we were so worried.”
“I’m okay, Mom. Really,” I say, though ‘okay’ is a stretch.
Dad hangs back, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s never been good with hospitals, or emotions, or… well, a lot of things. “We’re glad you’re awake,” he says, and I can hear the unspoken ‘but’ in his tone.
Pop-Pop Moe pulls up a chair, his old bones creaking almost as much as the chair. “Your parents and I, we’ve had a little talk while you were… out.”
I brace myself, expecting the usual lecture about being a superhero, about the dangers, about how I should be a normal kid. But it doesn’t come.
“Your father and I… we’ve come to understand that we can’t stop you from doing what you think is right,” Mom says, her voice soft. “We just want you to be safe.”
Dad clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me. “Your Pop-Pop made some good points. I don’t like it, Sam, not one bit. But I’m not going to be the cliché dad who stands in the way of his kid saving the world. Don’t expect me to be on your team and enabling it, but I’m not going to stop you either. You did a good thing. And it’s important we recognize that.”
It’s not what I expected, and for a moment, I’m speechless. They’re giving in? Just like that?
Pop-Pop Moe nods sagely. “A mensch is one who understands their duty to others, and you, my child, have shown you are a true mensch. But,” he adds, raising a finger, “that doesn’t mean recklessness is wisdom.”
“I know, Pop-Pop,” I reply, feeling a lump in my throat. “I’ll be careful. I promise,” I lie.
Mom sits down on the edge of my bed, her hand finding mine. “We just want you to get better, Sam. That’s all that matters right now.”
“Yeah, about that,” Dad interjects, finally looking at me. “The house repairs should be done before your birthday. It… it was a mess, Sam. I’m just sorry you got mixed up with people who thought trashing our home was a good way to get to you.”
I feel a pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. “I’m sorry, Dad. I never wanted any of this to happen.”
“We know, honey,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “We know.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
It stretches out like a tightrope, each of us balancing our words carefully. I can almost hear the creak of the rope, the tension in the air. Mom’s the one who finally breaks it, standing up with a determined look.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, leaving the room briskly.
Dad shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh, school’s still important, Sam. Don’t think you’re getting a free pass just because of… all this.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t worry, Dad, I wasn’t planning on dropping out and becoming a full-time superhero.”
He cracks a small smile at that, the first real smile I’ve seen from him since I woke up. It’s a relief, like a bit of the old Dad peeking through the clouds.
Mom returns, lugging in a backpack that’s bursting at the seams. “Lily dropped this off for you,” she says, setting it down with a thud. “She’s been collecting your schoolwork.”
I blink, surprised. “Lily did that? Wow.”
Pop-Pop Moe chuckles. “That girl cares about you a lot, Sammy. You’ve got yourself a good friend there.”
I nod, feeling a wave of gratitude for Lily. I’ll have to thank her properly when I see her next.
Mom starts pulling out papers and books from the backpack, and it’s like she’s unpacking a magician’s endless scarf. “Your teachers have been sending assignments. They’re all here. We can help you get caught up.”
The pile of work looks daunting, like a mountain I have to climb with no gear. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll… I’ll try to get through it.”
Dad looks at the stack, then at me. “We know it’s a lot, Sam. But we’re here to help. Right, Moe?”
Pop-Pop Moe nods sagely. “Education is the foundation of a meaningful life, Samantha. Even superheroes need a good head on their shoulders.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “I’ll do my best, guys.”
Mom sits back down, her hand finding mine again. “We’re just so relieved you’re okay, Sam. That’s all that matters.”
“I know, Mom. And I’m sorry for… for everything.”
She shakes her head. “No apologies, Sam. You’re alive, and that’s more than enough for us.”
Dad’s gaze is heavy on me, like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “Just… be careful, okay? We can’t go through this again.”
“I know, Dad,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The conversation shifts, ebbing and flowing like the tide. We talk about mundane things – the weather, the neighbors, how it’s been living in Ventnor. Mom still has her old job waiting for her, but she’s been also working at one of the libraries in Ventnor just to pass the time, while Dad’s been able to do most of his work remotely. “A T-Rex destroyed our house” is generally a good excuse for getting your bosses to play nice with you.
After lunch, my parents decide to give me some space. They think I don’t notice the worried glances they exchange, but I do. The door closes behind them, leaving me alone with the bland taste of hospital food and a nurse who’s trying too hard to be cheerful.
Once the nurse leaves, the room falls into silence, except it’s not really silent. The walls in this place must be paper-thin because I can hear voices outside, just barely. It’s Dad and Pop-Pop Moe, their voices tinged with tension.
“You’re encouraging her, Dad. You’re pushing her to be this… this superhero,” Dad’s voice is strained, frustrated. “It’s like you’re living vicariously through her, getting a thrill from her risking her life.”
There’s a pause before Pop-Pop Moe responds, his voice calmer but carrying a weight to it. “I won’t deny that I find what Samantha does exhilarating. But, no, it’s not about me. It’s about her. She has a gift, a responsibility to the world.”
“A responsibility? She’s a child, Dad! She should be worrying about grades and dates, not fighting criminals and getting hospitalized!” Dad’s voice rises slightly, a note of desperation creeping in. I find myself folding up. “I mean… How many times are we going to have this conversation before she turns 18, for… For fuck’s sake?”
“Mensch doesn’t pick the time, the time picks the mensch, and she was chosen for this. She’s more than capable,” Pop-Pop counters.
“Capable? Look where her capabilities got her, Dad! Lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life!” Dad’s voice cracks a bit, and I can almost picture his face, the mix of anger and fear.
“Yes, she’s in a hospital bed, but think of how many people she’s saved. Think of the good she’s done, the lives she’s changed. Isn’t that worth something?” There’s a fervor in Pop-Pop’s voice now, a belief so strong it’s almost tangible.
“It’s not worth her life, Dad. Nothing is worth that. She owes the world nothing if it means sacrificing herself,” Dad argues, his voice firm.
Pop-Pop Moe lets out a heavy sigh. “She’s doing what she believes is right, what she feels she must. That man turned himself in because she could touch his heart in a way that clearly nobody else could. That enough should show that she’s no ordinary child. She has to be true to what’s in her heart. She has to be true to herself.”
“And what if being true to herself gets her killed, huh? What then, Dad?” Dad’s voice is a mix of anger and fear, a father’s worry laid bare. I pull the blanket up to my chest and try to ignore the creeping feeling of disgust – from where it’s coming, and to who it’s directed, I’m not sure.
There’s a moment of silence, heavy and thick. “Then we know she lived and died for something she believed in, something greater than most dare to dream. Isn’t that a life well-lived?” Pop-Pop Moe’s question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.
Dad doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, resigned. “You’re just as reckless as she is. Is it too much to ask for sane family members? For my daughter to… you know, have a week of safety and security? I don’t even care about the house, Dad. I don’t mind living with you. I’ll uproot my life if that’s what we need to avoid these supervillains, but what’s it doing to her?”
“No, it’s not too much to ask,” Pop-Pop Moe agrees softly. “But it might be too much to ask of her. She’s not just your daughter anymore. She has a life outside of school and sports. It would’ve happened eventually.”
He doesn’t say anything about the comment about his recklessness. Instead, he just continues. “Benjamin, you know I would do anything for any one of my grandchildren. I don’t even mind that she chewed up the boat. It’s worthwhile to see my progeny doing something good and important with their lives.”
I can almost hear the pain in what comes next. “Am… Do I disappoint you, Dad? All I do is zone housing. Is that good and important to you?”
Hearing my Dad sound so close to crying makes my gut feel queasy. I eye the nausea medication sitting on my nightstand. There’s a pause, a deep, aching silence that fills the space between Pop-Pop Moe’s wisdom and Dad’s vulnerability. It’s a rare moment, hearing Dad question his worth in the grand tapestry of our lives. I can almost relate.
Pop-Pop’s voice softens, tinged with an emotion I can’t quite place. “Benjamin, every person’s contribution to this world is important in its own way. Zoning housing, ensuring people have a place to call home, it’s as noble a cause as any. You’ve provided stability, a foundation for many lives. That’s more than good and important. It’s essential. It’s not flashy, but neither is a good stew. Even superheroes need a place to live.”
Dad’s response is barely audible through the door. “I just… I want to protect her, keep her safe. Is that not my most important job as her father? To protect her from the world until she’s ready to take it on herself?”
“And you have, in so many ways,” Pop-Pop reassures. “But Samantha has grown, she’s not just our little girl anymore. She’s making choices, difficult ones, for reasons she believes in. We might not always understand or agree, but we have to respect her journey. She’s ready.”
There’s a minute of deeply painful silence.
“I love you, Benjamin. Don’t ever forget that,” Pop-Pop says quietly.
“I love you too, Dad,” he responds.
The conversation shifts then, turning from the philosophical to the practical. They talk about the logistics of living with Pop-Pop, the arrangements for the house repairs, and the everyday minutiae of life that goes on, even when your world feels like it’s stopped spinning. The conversation dwindles into a quiet, uneasy truce. I’m left alone with their words echoing in my head. They’re debating my life, my choices, like I’m not even here. Like I’m just a character in their story, not the one living it.
I lie there, listening to their voices fade away as they move down the hall. The nausea medication on my nightstand looks more appealing now, but I push the thought away. I don’t need it, not yet. I can handle a little queasiness.
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