She couldn't see. Burlap clung to her sweat-slicked face and judging from the hard, prickled ground beneath her, she was indoors. Hands bound behind her back, Emma was lying on her side as she struggled to ease her breathing and gather her bearings. Don't panic. Do not panic. She took a breath.
They were attacked. Guns. So many guns. The prisoner—Mohammad. No, no, he got out. Neal, Neal was hurt and—
A clang of metal creaked opened and Emma stilled. Deep even breaths. In and out. In and out. Her breath echoed in her ears as low, resounding thuds approached her.
A hard boot to the ribs. She groaned. She didn't have to see to know there was bruising there. The dull hum over her lungs was all the sign she needed.
The booted being crouched down by her, and Emma could feel eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of her chest. In and out. In and out. Suddenly she was jerked upright, and a pain in the back of her calf ripped through her. She couldn't steady her breathing anymore as a guttural groan ground against her throat from the rough handling.
"Still." A thick accented voice commanded when she resisted.
Hands, big and calloused, gripped her waist. Bile rose to her throat. Her face was pressed against the ground again as his hands wandered around her back. Not again. She kicked instinctively, but a pain so strong shot through her left leg that it left her momentarily immobile. She tried to push up onto her knees, but the man shoved her back down, her cheek colliding with the cold concrete.
"No," Emma growled, kicking with her right. She must have caught him with her boot since he yelped and fell backward.
"Sharmoota!"
She squirmed away, trying to put as little weight on her left leg as possible when another sound boomed. Heavy boots echoed, bouncing off the wall with a tinny hallow. Must be little furnishings. Enclosed walls. Another presence. Yelling in Arabic. Still, Emma tried to get to her feet. Get out. Get out. Get out!
She screamed when another kick came to her stomach, curling into herself instinctively and mentally preparing herself for a second. She could have sworn she heard the whoosh of a foot being whipped back, but it never connected. More yelling. Above her. Someone was crouching over her again. One held her shoulders down. The other fiddled at her back again. And then liquid, so burning hot she screamed so loud the fibres of the burlap stuck to her lip and forehead. Her hand was on fire, and every instinct in her told her not to cry, but the sting behind her eyes appeared anyway. The fire simmered to a low hiss, and then a cloth, dry, taking away the pain just a little bit, was wrapped around her hand. Her cries quieted to a whimper and the weight on her shoulder slackened.
The looming figures retreated into the furthest corner of the room, metal creaking shut once again as the only sound that filled the room was Emma's panted breathing.
Emma stared down at her hand, a prosthetic thing that reminded her of Edward Scissorhands with fewer blades but just as mechanical. Her own hand had been mangled and mutilated and every other word that came to mind that could only describe how much she couldn't use it. The nerves in it were too badly damaged. Not from the gunshot, no. From the infection that resulted after god knows what was poured over it to get it 'clean'. Assholes couldn't even spare a drop of alcohol to use instead. She could still see the faint outlines on her forearm, just by the crook of her elbow, where a belt was excruciatingly tightened to slow the spread of infection from the rest of her body. In a few years they would develop more advanced flesh-like limbs, so Emma could upgrade. The thought made her think of August, and she nearly snorted. Henry would have a field day when he saw her. August would love it. And Regina — sometimes it frightened Emma to think of her. Most times she just missed her like crazy.
But she was alive. Small victories. They'd make movies about her, they said. She shut her eyes and slowly curled her fingers in to close her fist. She hoped to god they didn't.
"Captain."
Emma looked up and sat up straighter when Dr. Gambit, a balding man in a pastel purple dress shirt and wire glasses stepped in with her file folder in his hand.
"Emma," she corrected.
"Emma. So." Dr. Gambit sat in front of her in a plush winged-back chair. She was fidgeting nervously with the sleeve of her shirt. "Dr. Mitchell said you say you're ready to go home today?"
"Yes, sir."
"Evan," he corrected in kind. She nodded her understanding. "Why is that? You've been pretty adamant to stay for the last sixteen months since your arrival to Brookhaven."
Emma unconsciously fiddled with the swan necklace still dangling from her neck. Her ID tags still hung there, but like a magnet her fingers always found the small pendant keychain that burned in reminder against her chest. The rehab facility that she had called home for the last year and a half was a place of safety, where people were equipped and trained to help her deal with her own raging mind. They had. Even she could see it. She could be touched now. Not without warning or too fiercely, but the slightest brush didn't make her jump. Her violent outbursts were tamed to a simmering aggravation, and even those were fewer and further between. Some days she would inadvertently trap herself in the memories of her mind, but before when she had no means of escape, she learned how to turn the key and release herself. Breathing exercises, mantras, remembering the good she had done and the good that she was. There was a time where Emma welcomed death, begged for it to come. But for all the bad, Emma thanked whatever god wished her home that she was alive.
"I wasn't ready," she answered quietly yet certainly. Her gaze met his with determination. "I didn't want to hurt anyone if I had a flashback. I didn't want to burden anybody. I needed help that was more than just going back to every day life and dealing with it on my own. I needed to learn how to help myself."
"According to these papers, you've been quite forthcoming with admitting weaknesses and on top of your exercises," he mentioned impressed.
Emma fought the pleased smirk at his compliment even though the doctor was currently enraptured by her file. Emma was a fighter, never quite the sharer. But if fighting meant she had to be open, then she bit the bullet and allowed the doctors the help that they offered. It wasn't an easy road, and there were so many times where Emma physically became sick whenever she was asked to write down or talk about her experiences, but as soon as she was mentally able she was back on that metaphorical horse because she was given a second chance and wasn't gonna waste it.
He nodded then looked over her file, his forehead crinkling in thought before glancing back up. "In Landstuhl, it says here, you attacked a doctor when you woke up from your seven-month coma. It's been a while since then, and while we've already made our assessment, but how do you feel about your progress?"
"That's just proof that I wasn't in a good place," she admitted easily. "Or a good state, for that matter. I think over the past year I've reclaimed the control that was stripped from me. I'm ready to go home, be a part of that again."
"Where is that? You tried to locate Sergeant August William Booth whom you once shared a foster home with but failed."
She nodded and uttered the one place she had been thinking of returning to for over three years. "Storybrooke."
She was in a prison. Literally. They had finally ripped the bag off her head, and Emma could see that the metal creaking had been a jail cell door. An abandoned prison fortified by enemy rebels. How ironically fitting. The air smelled stale and mouldy, and the walls were covered in a permanently damp residue as if the piping was leaking throughout the entire building. When they had taken the bag off, she had looked them in the eye asked if they were going to kill her. Their negative response coupled with the semi-automatic in their hands did nothing to assuage the overwhelming fear simmering inside her.