The world is ending. Thea's world, more than anyone's. Worms writhe underneath her skin. A knife twists, tearing at her heart. She clutches at her chest. There's no knife there: just handfuls of her cassock's heavy — very much intact — fabric. Above, white ceiling tiles rush past and lights interspersed beat her eyelids into a flutter.
Bump.
The stretcher underneath Thea shudders and her back floats above its cushioned bed. A moment later, she falls. Her back hits. Breath explodes out of her lungs, leaving her gasping. Bereft of air.
An emergency medical technician to her right places a firm hand on her shoulder, pressing her against the stretcher. "Sorry! Ran over a cable cover. Don't worry, we're almost to the ambulance. Hold tight."
With one hand already clinging to the stretcher's handrail, Thea squeezes until her knuckles turn white. "I already am!"
You're dying. You're having a heart attack. You've got a blood clot.
Twist. Another dagger plunges, hilt deep. She screams.
They're taking you to the hospital. They'll help. Then they'll take the rest of it: your money; your television; your apartment. Everything. Even your choices.
Your control.
Her heart rounds third and sprints for home. Its beats metaphorical, stampeding feet. Each one a new pressure on her chest — crushing. Forcing air out of her. She gasps; she claws after dregs of oxygen until another beat blasts it out of reach.
No! I can't go back.
There are actually two EMTs scurrying alongside her stretcher, guiding it through propped open double doors. They chatter. About her, where they're going, what they can do for her. Trying to figure out what's wrong.
She knows, though. Those thoughts aren't hers; she can't control them anymore than she can control the beat of her heart. They're reactionary. A tree of thoughts with branches upon branches, doubling by the second. Hopping from potential disaster to potential disaster too fast for her to ignore.
Digging her knuckles into her chest, she squeezes the bundle of fabric in front of her heart. Breathe. I have the breathe slower. It's just a panic attack; I'm fine.
Ceiling tiles disappear past a door's threshold. Ahead, blue-tinted moonlight spills through an expanse of windows. Metal bars crisscross atop glass and cast shadows that flow over the careening three — a web, complementary to her feeling of being caught.
Trapped.
Her body doesn't heed her metal command. Gasps, sweat, daggers. She squeezes her eyes shut, interrupting their pain-driven flutter. Come on, breathe! Slower. Visualize.
Everything beyond her eyelids disappear besides an impression of those flitting shadows. She focuses: she tries to drag her consciousness away to somewhere else. Flickers of a different space, half-formed. A recliner. One of the stretcher's wheels skids; a screech of rubber and painful vibrations. The image falters. She yanks at the cloth in her fist, pulling the cassock's fabric taut. Home. Go home.
A recliner: soft, warm — a little scratchy, maybe, but it's hers. She lets herself sink into its cushions. Baseball plays on the television: a game between the Cordia Ravens and —
Cold sweeps over her, washing away the vision. They're outside. She keeps her eyes closed, but alternating red and blue light blooms diffuse behind her eyelids. An ambulance sits beyond the veil — waiting to swallow her up.
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You'll never have a home again.
Thea's stomach flips, falls, and flounders. Daggers twist. Pain drives away red and blue in burning white. She wrenches open her eyes. Everything drowns; for inches or miles, all she can see is that unyielding white.
A few seconds pass and it fades. Right in front of her, the back of an ambulance: both EMTs pull one of its double doors open. A one-way portal to destitution. There's a lot of medical equipment and whatsits too, but with enough room left to slide her stretcher in between it all and seal her fate.
Each EMT splits off. Right EMT circles around behind her. Left EMT barely moves, taking position at the end of the stretcher near Thea's feet. He grabs onto the metal frame and his muscles tense. "Alright, lift on three."
Thea yanks herself up by the handrail. Pain peppers her chest, shooting her back into endless white space. She doubles over into her own lap. "No! Wa— augh — wait! Wait, p-please wait!"
No response. Except for the man near her feet, but he doesn't speak to her. "One." He calls, directed to the man behind her.
White fades, but pain doesn't. Thea struggles up out of her crumpled over state. She pushes and pulls and groans until she's sitting up, face to face with the man. "I s-said wait! I don't—" Another surge of pain. Wincing, she clutches at her chest. "I don't want to go."
On either side of a massive, rocky nose, the man's face droops. He lets his arms fall limp at his sides and groans. "Come on. Really? You could die; actually sounds like you partway there."
"I can't — augh — afford it."
He trudges a few steps away. "Well, Gary, guess we better pack it up and roll on back to Sickbay. I'll get the paperwork."
"R-really?"
Gary speaks up from behind Thea, his voice gruff yet soft somehow. "No. We'll do our job and get her taken care of. Now get back here, Benjamin."
Benjamin stops. He stands there: stoic, back towards them, and giant nose silhouetted against the light coming from inside the ambulance. "Not Benjamin: just Ben. How many times do I have to tell you until you remember, old man?"
Tension and awkwardness thicken the night air. It's got nothing to do with Thea. So, struggling, she grasps the handrail in both hands and pulls herself over it in an odd kind of wiggle. Wormlike; graceless; painful thanks to the metal bar digging into her sternum, stomach, and nethers. One more wiggle and she falls free, landing on her feet.
She starts to hobble off, but the dagger twists. Pavement, the ambulance, and three figures off in the distance disappear in white. She collapses to her knees — one hand pressing against asphalt, the other clutching at her chest. Within seconds both EMTs are at her side.
Gary — judging by the voice — grabs her upper arm. "What in the world— we're just trying to help, miss!"
Ben grabs her other arm and the two of them start to lift.
Gritting her teeth, Thea shrugs them off. "It's a panic attack. That's all. T-that's all it is: I don't n-need a hospital."
One of them kneels in front of her: salt and pepper hair; glasses; an overwhelmingly kind, yet concerned face. Gary. He lays a hand on her shoulder and waits for her eyes to meet his. "We can't force you to go with us. Looking at you in this state, I wish we could... Are you sure about this?" He says.
"I'm— eah — I-I'm sure."
His eyes linger for a moment, but he nods and calls past Thea's head. "Benjamin, can you get the paperwork from—"
Ben's voice comes from far behind her. Near the ambulance.
When did he let go?
"Just Ben, and I'm already getting it." He says.
The world that was ending changes in that brief exchange. It's cold. Colder than when Thea arrived at this godforsaken aquarium. The night air: she can feel it again, but when did she stop?
Supported by three limbs, she stares up at the underside of Gary's stubbled chin. "T-that's it? You won't take me?"
"Almost. You've got to sign a waiver, then we'll be out of your hair." Gary says.
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The paperwork is quick. Gary gives Thea a spiel about how they won't be liable or whatever; she doesn't listen. Instead, she fiddles with her fingers, picking at a hangnail here and the scab of a shallow cut there. Ben's nose appears from around the ambulance before he does — possibly the sphinx's that went missing, though it fits his face. He approaches her bearing a pen and a packet of paper. As soon as they're in reach, Thea yanks both out of his hands. Leafing through to the last page, she signs a line at the bottom before Gary can finish vocalizing an endless list of fine print.
"— without— oh, already signed?" Gary says. "You sure you don't want to hear the rest?"
Thea jabs the packet into Gary's chest, crumpling it ever so. "Nope. Rather not feed the anxiety more things to blow out of..." Her words trail off. Behind the EMTs, those three figures are much closer. Close enough to make out their details.
Waylon limps, flanked by that chrome-helmeted hero and another one wearing a purple leotard despite the cold: all three creep forward, heading straight at her.
But, why isn't it cold? Why can't she feel it anymore? Thea's eyes meet Waylon's. They stare, both bloodshot and bagged amid age's wrinkles. There's an odd look in his, though. A harsh, unwavering resolution. Dread infects her — it eats her from the inside out and strips her mind of thought.
A new dagger tears into her chest.