Chapter Text
Scar knows a lot of things. For example, bananas are, botanically speaking, berries, while strawberries are technically classified as nuts. He is full of these odd facts. Did you know an octopus has three hearts–two that pump blood to the gills and one for the rest of its body? Or that, in the summer, the Eiffel Tower can stretch a few inches taller as the metal expands in the heat? He even knows that it rains diamonds on Jupiter and Saturn.
Scar's curiosity wasn't always confined to trivia. As a child, he used to dream of traveling to those distant planets, stuffing his little Stitch backpack with sparkling gems to bring home for his mom, who loved collecting shiny crystals. But that dream fizzled when he realized just how much math and science he'd need to get there–well, that and his neuromuscular disease, which made any kind of adventure like that impossible.
He knows a lot about this disease, too, but that's not really by choice, considering how it affects his life. His body doesn't let his muscles and peripheral nerves communicate properly, leaving him with muscle weakness, limited movement, and legs that go numb far too often. It is what keeps him bound to the wheelchair and stuck in hospitals most of the time.
Yet another unfortunate side effect of this illness was the need for extra oxygen to help him breathe. Thin, clear tubes looped around his ears and rested beneath his nose, supplying his lungs the air his weakened muscles struggled to draw in on their own. The disease hadn't just affected his movement and breathing; it also made swallowing difficult, so a feeding tube was sometimes necessary to provide the nutrients his body couldn't process normally. Fortunately, he didn't have to rely on it all of the time. Still, these tubes were a constant presence in his life, a quiet but unignorable reminder of his condition.
He doesn't like any of it–who would?–but he's learned to accept it and live with it. At least he has his parents, who care for him when he needs it, though they hover a bit more than he'd like. He works hard to stay as independent as possible, clinging to the small freedoms he still has, even as those moments get harder to hold onto with each passing year.
Sometimes, when he looks at the tubes or feels the weight of his chair, he catches a flicker of his younger self–the boy who dreamed of space travel and diamond rains. The boy who imagined bringing the universe home in his Stitch backpack. And even though that boy's dreams have changed, Scar sometimes wonders if maybe, just maybe, there's still something big left out there waiting for him, something he hasn't discovered yet, something just out of reach.
But there is one thing Scar knows for sure: He doesn't have all the answers. Sure, he knows a lot of random little facts, but there is just as much he doesn't understand. Like, how on earth do you solve a Rubik's cube? Why is the American healthcare system so atrociously bad (seriously, how does a single day in the hospital cost $2,883–even without surgery)? Which Star Wars movie is his favorite? And what is it about Brad Pitt that makes his mom blush whenever his name comes up? He also has no idea how math became so frustratingly difficult, or why his dad is so unbeatable at UNO (He's got to be cheating somehow)? But the biggest mystery at the moment: How did he end up in this mess?
Now, Scar had his fair share of bad luck over the years (and that doesn't even include his disease, mind you). There were pebbles that always got stuck in the wheels of his wheelchair, or the times where he forgot to charge his phone just when he needed to make an important call to his insurance company. And, of course, there were the keys–how he always managed to lose them just as he was about to head out, even though he was certain he'd left them in the designated bowl by the door. But none of that compared to this.
If he remembered correctly, it was a warm evening in mid-August (or was it still July? Time always tends to blur when most of it is spent in hospitals or mindlessly playing games on his computer) when everything he thought he knew changed. He could still feel the longing to be outside after an eternity of being cooped up, recovering from yet another surgery. He finally convinced his parents that he was fine, that he would be gone for an hour at most. With that, he had set off on his custom-built, electric wheelchair for a ride through the woods behind his home, promising to return before the sun fully set that night. How wrong he was.
About half an hour into his ride, Scar noticed that something wasn't quite right. At first, he couldn't put his finger on it, but when it dawned on him, it was already too late. If he could turn back in time, he would've never left home that evening.
You see, when you live near a forest, you quickly learn that it is never truly silent. There's always the distant chirping of birds, the skitter of a rabbit through the leaves, or the droning buzz of countless insects weaving unseen patterns in the air. The constant hum of life is a comfort. It reassures you that the world is as it should be. Silence, though? Silence is unnatural.
That's what tipped him off. The only sound he could hear was the whirring of his chair and the cracking of sticks beneath his wheels as he slowly rolled to a stop. No Birds, no rustling, no buzzing. Just an oppressive, suffocating stillness. He remembered reading once that a silent forest could signal the presence of a predator nearby, but he had never encountered anything larger than a fox round here. But even foxes didn't silence the woods like this. Maybe a bear? Or a pack of coyotes?
In hindsight, it was neither.
He remembered a prickling unease creeping over him, raising the fine hairs on his arms. He had the unsettling feeling that something–or someone–was watching him. The sensation sent a chill down his spine, but Scar brushed it off and tried leaving the clearing, pushing the joystick forward to pick up speed.
That's when he had heard it–a whistling growl, low and guttural, followed by an odd clicking noise and a jolt of his chair.
Then came the worst sound of all: the soft beep of his wheelchair shutting off.
Panic set in as he frantically flicked the on switch, but it was to no avail. The chair refused to turn back on. His heart pounded in his chest as his eyes darted around the clearing, desperately searching for a way out, something that could have helped him. That was when he saw it–a shadow, tall and strange, shifting between the trees. It wasn't human, and it wasn't an animal either. It had moved unnaturally, its shape barely discernible in the gloom.
Before he could react, a sudden flash of bright green light filled his vision, blinding him. The light wasn't warm, but it left a strange tingling sensation racing down his spine. Scar's mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. His vision blurred and then–nothing.
Darkness swallowed everything.
The next part was somewhat of a haze–a fragmented blur of sensations that refused to form a clear picture. To be fair, Scar wasn't fully awake for most of it. His body felt oddly weightless, like he was floating above reality. Whenever he managed to crack his eyes open, all he could make out were vague shapes and muted colors, fading in and out of focus as consciousness slipped through his grasp.
In the few moments of sharper awareness, he took note of his surroundings: stark white walls, glaring overhead lights, and the steady beep-beep-beep of a machine. It was eerily familiar, so much like the hospital rooms he had spent countless weeks in. The dull ache in his muscles and the subtle sting of what felt like fresh scars added to the illusion. Just another nightmare, he thought, another endless loop of surgery and recovery.
But something was… off. Scar had spent enough time in hospitals to know the routine. His half mushy brain began to notice some discrepancies between the usual procedures and this.
The first thing that struck him as truly odd was that he could actually think clearly–or at least somewhat. That alone felt strange. The surgeries he'd undergone in the past always left him heavily sedated, his mind trapped in a fog of anesthetics. Waking up mid-procedure was theoretically possible, but it had never happened to him. He found it unsettling that he could form a thought in the first place.
The next strange thing he noticed was his ability to open his eyes. Through his blurred vision he could make out shadowy figures around him, their blurry silhouettes flickering against the harsh light. They seemed to be talking, but their voices weren't right.
Instead of English–or any language Scar recognized–he heard an eerie cacophony of sharp whistling tones and low, guttural growls. The sounds tugged at the edges of his mind, strange and unsettling, like a melody played backwards.
Hallucinations, he told himself. It's just the anaesthetics messing with me. It has to be.
The thought didn't bring him any comfort.
Another thing Scar noticed–the third sign that something was undeniably wrong–was his ability to move. Granted, it wasn't much, just a faint twitch of his fingers and a slight tilt of his head, but it was already more movement than he'd ever managed during any of the surgeries he'd undergone. And he'd had plenty of them to compare it to. Still, he tried to tell himself it was all in his head, another trick of his imagination.
But the fourth–and most alarming–clue was how his body felt. The longer he lay under the glaring lights, the more the familiar dull ache in his limbs began to change. It wasn't just discomfort anymore. It spread and sharpened, swelling into an unbearable burn that pulsed through his muscles and down to his bones. Scar could feel each agonizing cut on his body, while he lay there, helpless.
Maybe they miscalculated the sedatives, he thought hazily. But even as it crossed his mind, he knew better. With his luck, it was far more likely that something had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong.
A groan slipped out before he could stop it, his body instinctively shifting in a feeble attempt to pull away from the pain. That's when it happened–the dark figures around him froze. The strange, sharp voices–half snarls, half shrieks–rose in a sudden frenzy, like some kind of argument breaking out. Scar didn't understand the words, but he felt the tension, thick and electric in the air.
Then came a sharp stab. A needle, maybe? He couldn't tell–only that it sunk into his shoulder like a dagger of ice. Within seconds, everything began to slow. The pain dulled, hiss muscles sagged, and the sounds around him warped into an incomprehensible hum.
Scar fought to hold on to his awareness, straining to focus on the voices, the shadowy shapes, something. But the harder he tried, the further away it all seemed. The figures blurred, their movement slowing, melting into one another until they dissolve into nothingness.
And then–
Darkness.
When Scar regained consciousness, the world around him felt… wrong.
The distant voices and shadowy movements he'd heard before were gone, swallowed by an oppressive silence that pressed down on him like a weight. The only sound was the steady rhythm of his own breathing, loud and deliberate in the absence of anything else. It was strange–so strange–that he stayed still for a moment, listening, as though expecting the voices to return. But they didn't.
Slowly, he forced his eyelids open, blinking against the light that hit him like a physical blow. At first, all he saw was white–overwhelming, glaring white–so bright it made his head throb. Squinting, he waited for his vision to adjust, willing the vague shapes to take form. When they finally did, the pit in his stomach deepened.
The room around him was stark and featureless, bathed in an unrelenting brightness. The walls stretched outward, impossibly smooth and seamless, the corners sharp and perfect, as though the space had been carved from a single solid block of material. No doors. No windows. No shadows. Even the ceiling and floor, though flat and solid beneath him, shared the same sterile, unbroken whiteness. It didn't feel real.
Hospitals, for all their cold efficiency, still felt human. Scar had spent enough of his life surrounded by those too-clean walls and flickering lights to know the hum of machines, the shuffle of footsteps, and the distant murmur of conversations that filtered through closed doors. This wasn't a hospital. This place felt empty, abandoned–like no one had ever been here before him.
Scar squeezed his eyes shut again, a dull ache throbbing at his temples as his thoughts scrambled for answers. Where was he? What happened? The last thing he remembered was the forest, the shadow among the trees, and–
The green flash.
The memory jolted through him like an electric shock, his breath catching in his throat. He felt his heartbeat pick up, too fast, too loud, as though his body remembered the panic even before his mind did. He needed to focus. Think. What now?
He took stock of himself the way he always did after a surgery or injury, slowly cataloging the sensations in his body. His legs were numb, as usual, but not completely dead–there was a dull ache beneath the surface, familiar and constant. His torso throbbed with each inhale, like bruises had been pressed deep into his ribs. The worst of it was in his arms–sharp, stabbing pins and needles, as if they'd been held in place for far too long. His muscles protested with every slight movement, trembling from the effort.
He swallowed thickly and let his head rest back, staring blankly at the white void above. Not great, he thought grimly. But it wasn't the worst he'd ever felt, and that alone was unsettling. If he were in a hospital, someone would've checked on him by now–adjusted a machine, fussed with his blankets, whispered about his condition.
The silence here was absolute.
Drawing in a slow breath to steady himself, Scar tried lifting his arms. They shook with the effort, but he managed to raise them toward his face, intending to rub the lingering fog from his eyes. Instead, his hands froze mid-motion.
Something was in the way.
Confusion flared as his fingertips brushed against something cold and hard, covering his mouth and nose. His eyes flew open again, wide and darting, as he traced the thing strapped to his face. It felt metallic, smooth yet rigid, almost molded to his skin. His breath echoed softly inside of it, confirming its purpose: it was some kind of mask.
Not a hospital mask. Those were soft and flimsy, easy to slip off. This was different–heavier. Solid. Alien.
He felt along its edges, fingers searching for a seam or a strap, anything to pull it away. A small hole near the side caught his attention–just about the size of his pinky–but it offered no answers. The mask wouldn't budge. He tugged harder, his panic rising, but it held firm, fused to his face as if it had been welded there.
His breathing quickened, echoing louder now, amplified inside the mask. The sound filled his ears, drowning out the silence around him. He forced himself to stop pulling, to calm down, reminding himself of one simple fact: I can still breathe.
That thought grounded him, at least a little. He wasn't suffocating, and the mask–whatever it was–wasn't hurting him. Not yet, anyway.
Scar let his arms drop, his muscles trembling from the effort, and blinked up at the pristine ceiling. His mind raced to make sense of everything, to put together a puzzle that had no pieces. Where was he? Who–or what–had brought him here? Why couldn't he remember how he got from the forest to this place?
As the questions churned, a new realization crept over him like a chill: the silence hadn't changed. There were no footsteps. No distant voices. Nothing.
Scar was alone.
Or at least, he hoped he was.
Scar let his hand drop back onto his chest, the small motion sending a dull wave of irritation through his already aching body. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to ignore the discomfort as his gaze wandered across the room once more. It didn't help. The emptiness was suffocating–just endless, sterile white stretching out around him like a void.
Something gnawed at the edge of his thoughts. It wasn't just the unsettling brightness or the silence that unsettled him. It was the absence of his wheelchair. Or any mobility aid, for that matter. Where was it? Scar's stomach twisted at the realization. They were always nearby–always within reach. He relied on them, needed them. But here, they were nowhere to be found, as if someone had deliberately taken them away.
The thought sent a fresh jolt of unease crawling through him.
Time passed–or at least, Scar thought it did. Minutes? Hours? It was impossible to tell in this featureless place. The silence made every second stretch on like an eternity.
Eventually, he mustered enough strength to try moving again. With a determined inhale, he pushed his trembling arms against the surface beneath him, slowly forcing his upper body upright. The thin, white sheet covering him slid down to his waist, pooling loosely at his sides. Scar glanced down and froze.
The oversized white t-shirt he wore looked unsettlingly familiar–too much like the hospital gowns he'd spent far too much of his life wearing. It hung off his frame, draping over his bony shoulders, the hem brushing his wrists like it didn't belong to him. A bitter taste rose in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.
Pushing the sheet further down, he caught sight of something even stranger. His fingers, arms, and legs were wrapped in what looked like tape. Not the flimsy adhesive kind, but thick, sturdy bandages that ran along his limbs in precise lines. His heart skipped a beat as his fingers twitched instinctively, testing. It wasn't easy–there was stiffness, a reluctant ache–but they moved. Slowly. Carefully. And that was enough to let him breathe just a little easier.
At least nothing's broken. Small mercies.
He flexed his hands again, noting how the sensation stung at first but loosened with each faint motion. More scars, he thought with a wry, tired sigh. Just a few more to add to his ever-growing collection. At this rate, his body might as well be a map of them, marking every surgery, every injury, every time life had taken another piece of him.
He let the sheet fall back into place and slumped forward slightly, his strength already wavering.
Scar knew a lot of things. He knew how hospitals worked, how surgeries felt, how to endure the relentless ache that came with recovery. He even knew how to accept the cards life had dealt him, no matter how bad the hand.
But whatever was happening to him now? This?
This wasn't something Scar knew how to understand.
And that terrified him more than anything.