Callum opens his eyes again, and things are… different. Brighter, he thinks, sharper, clearer.

The most notable change though, is the distinct lack of pain. He flexes his hands, and the only thing he feels is the tremendous amount of potential they hold. He sits up, and glances down.

There isn’t a mark on him. Burns, bruises, cuts; they’re all gone, leaving behind just fresh, new skin. He stretches leisurely, delighting in how smooth it feels, rolling his shoulders, his neck. He blinks, once, twice, and the movement seems faster than before, somehow.

He glances around, but where there were four other beds before, now he’s alone. The room is smaller, yes, and much more sterile, he thinks. It’s white, so very white, and it should hurt his eyes it’s so bright, but if anything they are reveling in it, pupils opening to take in the light, and is it weird that he can feel that? He closes his eyes, and yes, there they go again, spreading themselves further until there can’t be much iris left, really.

Weird…

Callum stretches again, and settles his hands against his knees.

Oh hang on, that’s new: stamped down the underside of his left forearm in black block letters is the word ‘COMBAT.’

His door swings open, brilliant light outlining a tall man in a white coat, who beams when he sees Callum sitting up in bed. “Ah! Striker One, you’re awake!”

He thinks he’s worried now.

Previous: Scene 5-I

Scene 5-II

Next: Scene 5-III