oo8. 𝘖𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘏𝘜𝘕𝘛

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WASHINGTON, DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

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WASHINGTON, DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.
2018

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IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, EVERY hospital in the world was just a purgatory for fallen souls standing on the brink of life and death. In one room, a mother delivering her first child; while in another, one who lost hers to a battle against Death itself. One unpredictable room was either producing life—or ending it.

She's forgotten who had told her that—maybe it was that stranger from one of the many bars Stacey had dragged her to—but either way, that comparison was part of the reason why hospitals irked Estela so much. For all she knew, the very room she had just come out of was the same one where some poor person had died.

The events from the last few hours flashed in her mind blurred at the edges, making them almost forgettable when Estela woke up with a nasty gash on her temple. She barely remembered how they got off the roof, or the car ride to the hospital; she hadn't even realized that Rachel was missing.

Everything only came hitting her all at once when the doctor finished patching up her temple with a gauze—even going as far as to place some butterfly bandages on her split cheek—and Dick rose from his chair to ask her if she was okay.

He half expected her to shout and pin the blame on for everything that happened, but the first words that escaped Estela's mouth was, "Where's Dawn?" So Dick silently led her to the ICU, the two of them standing outside in silence as they watched the machines monitor their friend's lifeline.

"You're lucky that you didn't get a concussion," the doctor had told her. The comment seemed like such a minuscule problem compared to Dawn's comatose state.

Hank was seated on a chair beside the bed, eyes solely focused on Dawn's rising chest. Even from meters away, Estela could see the dark circles that began taking form under his eyes. How many hours had passed since the fight?

Estela was still wearing her suit with Dick's jacket, which should have received some odd glances but the passing nurses their way just acted indifferent to her get up—even when they had seen the dried blood that crusted under her fingernails.

She let her mind drift back to a few hours ago, the reality of events hitting her with the force of a ten-wheeler truck. Her fight with the guys at the warehouse, the uncanny resilience of that cereal-packet family, and when she used her powers—Estela thought about it all while she kept her eyes on Dawn, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip worriedly.

Dick was standing beside her too, worry also brewing in his chest. But it couldn't compared to the panic that gripped him in the balls when he saw Estela unconscious on the roof. For a split second, he pictured her in Dawn's place. Pale and unresponsive on the hospital bed, multiple wires and machines hooked to her body; the image was enough for him to almost break down.

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