Chapter 121 : No More Targets
New York, Manhattan, Midtown Hospital – Alex's POV
Hospitals at night don't feel real.
Not fake exactly. Just disconnected from normal human existence.
The lights never change. The air always smells vaguely recycled. Coffee somehow continues existing long after it should legally count as chemical warfare. People whisper automatically even when nobody told them to.
Everything feels suspended.
Like the building itself is trying very hard not to wake something.
I'm sitting in a plastic chair near the edge of the waiting area, elbows on my knees, hands locked together hard enough my knuckles should probably hurt.
They don't.
Or maybe they do and my nervous system is still sorting priorities incorrectly.
There's a television mounted in the corner running muted news coverage with captions sliding endlessly across the bottom of the screen.
|CONCERT ATTACK|
|MUTANT TERROR FEARS|
|ONGOING INVESTIGATION|
I've been staring at it for at least thirty seconds before realizing I haven't actually read a single word.
My leg keeps bouncing.
I stop it manually.
Five seconds later it starts again on its own.
The waiting room smells like antiseptic, stale coffee, overheated electronics, and exhaustion. Somewhere down the hall a printer spits out paperwork with mechanical determination. A nurse laughs softly at something another nurse says before both voices disappear around the corner.
Normal.
Everything is painfully normal.
A few hours ago I was standing in a Purifier transit station surrounded by enough blood to turn concrete black.
Now there's a poster on the wall explaining proper handwashing procedures.
My brain genuinely doesn't know how to process that transition.
I lean back in the chair.
Sit forward again almost immediately.
Too much energy under my skin.
Not adrenaline anymore.
Something worse.
My body spent hours operating under one very simple rule:
Move or people die.
Now there's nothing to hit. Nothing to fix. Nothing to optimize. Nothing trying to kill someone I love every thirty seconds.
And apparently my nervous system has no idea how to function without that.
I check the hallway again.
Then my phone.
Then the hallway.
Then the clock.
5:13 AM.
I swear it was 5:13 five minutes ago.
God, I hate hospitals.
Not because they're unpleasant.
Because they force you to wait while people you care about are reduced to information other people control.
Stable.
Under observation.
Responding well.
Every update feels like someone handing you fragments of oxygen one sentence at a time.
A nurse finally walks toward me holding a tablet.
I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move.
The sudden motion makes her pause slightly.
Right.
Human behavior.
I forgot that was a thing.
"Mr. Orzat?"
I nod once.
"She's still stable. No complications overnight."
The pressure in my chest eases maybe half an inch.
Barely.
"She woke briefly during observation around an hour ago," the nurse continues gently. "Still heavily medicated. Mostly disoriented. They're letting her rest again."
I swallow once.
"Did she say anything?"
The nurse checks the tablet.
"She asked for you."
That hits harder than it should.
Or maybe exactly as hard as it should.
For a second I can still see her collapsing on stage.
Blood spreading across her shirt.
The sound Gwen made behind me.
I force the memory down before it finishes forming.
Not here.
Not now.
The nurse gives me the kind of sympathetic look medical staff learn after years of dealing with exhausted people at impossible hours.
"The doctor should speak with you soon."
"Thanks."
She nods and walks away.
I sit back down.
Stand up again ten seconds later.
Try walking instead.
The hallway lighting is aggressively fluorescent in the particular way only hospitals manage to achieve. Everything looks slightly desaturated under it. Like the building itself is tired.
A janitor pushes a cleaning cart past me without really looking up.
Someone coughs behind a closed door.
My shoes squeak faintly against the polished floor.
I end up near the coffee machine mostly because my body needed a destination.
I buy coffee I don't actually want.
Burn my tongue because I forgot the cup was hot.
Good.
At least that sensation makes sense.
I lean against the wall beside the vending machines and stare at absolutely nothing.
That's when the exhaustion finally starts catching up properly.
Not earlier.
Earlier there wasn't room for exhaustion.
There was movement. Violence. Priorities. Targets.
My body could fall apart later.
Later apparently arrived all at once.
My shoulders ache.
My ribs hurt.
There's dried blood under one fingernail I somehow missed washing off.
My eyes feel like sandpaper.
I stare at my hands for a second.
Still steady.
That bothers me more than if they were shaking.
I pull my phone out mostly because I need something to focus on besides my own thoughts.
Three unread messages.
Wendy.
Rosalie.
Gwen.
Hours old now.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary before answering Wendy first.
Alive. Back at the hospital. MJ stable for now. You should sleep.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Fuck you, I'm not sleeping.
Are YOU okay?
I stare at the question.
I honestly don't know how to answer it.
Eventually I type:
Tired.
I'll come home later.
Her response comes back almost instantly.
Good.
Don't disappear again tonight.
My chest tightens slightly.
I switch to Rosalie next.
Back at the hospital. MJ stable. Sorry for worrying you.
Long pause.
Then:
Wendy told me what happened.
Please don't apologize for surviving.
I close my eyes briefly.
Jesus.
Another message appears.
Did you eat anything?
Despite everything, I let out a tired breath that almost qualifies as a laugh.
Of course that's what she asks first.
Not really.
Idiot.
A few seconds later:
I'm glad you're alive.
That one lands harder.
I stay staring at the screen for longer than I should before finally opening Gwen's messages.
Dad brought me back.
MJ?
And later:
Alex answer me when you can.
Simple.
No pressure.
No accusation.
Just Gwen.
I type back slowly.
She's stable. I'm at the hospital now.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Stops.
Starts again.
Okay.
I'm coming down.
Part of me almost tells her not to.
Not because I don't want her here.
Because I suddenly realize I have absolutely no idea what state I'm in emotionally right now.
Everything feels slightly… desynchronized.
Like my brain is still moving at combat speed while the rest of the world returned to normal hours ago.
I lock the phone instead of answering.
A few minutes later I'm pacing again without realizing it until one of the older nurses passing nearby gives me an amused look.
"You should try sitting for at least five consecutive minutes."
I blink at her.
"…Working on it."
That actually gets a tired smile out of her before she continues down the hall.
I lean against the wall instead.
Better.
Still not good.
Outside the windows the sky has started shifting from black to deep blue.
Dawn approaching.
And now that everything is finally quiet enough—
The fear starts catching up.
Not abstract fear.
Specific fear.
MJ on the stage.
MJ not moving.
The horrifying split second where my brain genuinely accepted the possibility that both her and the baby were about to die in front of me.
My jaw tightens hard enough it hurts.
I push the thought away before it spirals further.
Movement near the entrance pulls my attention up.
Gwen steps into the waiting area wearing yesterday's clothes under a gray hoodie that definitely belongs to George.
Her hair's a mess.
Eyes red from exhaustion more than crying.
She spots me immediately.
Then slows down slightly.
Just for a second.
I recognize the look instantly.
Not fear.
Adjustment.
Like part of her brain is still trying to reconcile me with whatever she saw at the concert.
Honestly?
Fair.
"You look awful," she says quietly once she reaches me.
I let out a tired breath.
"Yeah. I've had better nights."
For a second she looks like she wants to hug me immediately.
Then hesitates.
I solve the problem by stepping forward first and pulling her against me carefully.
The moment Gwen wraps her arms around me, something inside my chest loosens slightly.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
Just… less unbearable.
God, I'm tired.
I can feel faint tremors in her arms from adrenaline withdrawal and exhaustion. She's holding me hard enough to tell me she was scared without actually saying the words.
Neither of us talks for several seconds.
The hospital fills the silence instead.
Footsteps.
Machines.
Distant voices.
Eventually Gwen pulls back enough to look at me properly.
"How's MJ?"
"Still stable."
I hate that word.
"She woke up briefly earlier apparently. Didn't really process much. They sedated her again."
Gwen nods slowly.
"And the baby?"
I swallow once before answering.
"Still okay."
Saying it out loud helps a little.
Not enough.
But a little.
Gwen visibly exhales.
"Jesus…"
She rubs both hands over her face.
"I kept thinking about the blood and I just…"
Her voice dies there.
I know.
We stand there quietly for a few seconds before she asks:
"The mutants?"
"They're safe."
"And Dazzler?"
"She survived."
Another visible release of tension.
"Okay."
Then comes the heavier silence.
Because we've reached the subject both of us have been carefully avoiding.
"The Purifiers?" Gwen asks eventually.
I look down at the floor tiles.
White linoleum. Tiny gray specks. One cracked corner near the wall.
Meaningless details suddenly easier to focus on than memory.
"They won't be a problem anymore."
Gwen's jaw tightens slightly.
Not shock.
Not confusion.
Confirmation.
She already knows enough.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck.
"I'd rather not go into details right now."
My voice sounds flat.
Not cold.
Just exhausted.
"Knowing doesn't help you. It just gives you images you can't really get rid of afterward."
Gwen watches me quietly.
"You think I can't handle it?"
"No." The answer comes immediately. "I think you shouldn't have to."
That lands between us heavier than I intended.
Because the truth is I know exactly what those memories look like once they settle permanently inside your head.
And I really don't want those inside hers if I can avoid it.
After a few seconds I add more quietly:
"If you want to know later… I'll tell you."
Gwen looks genuinely surprised by that.
"You would?"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No deflection.
Just honesty.
And apparently that affects her more than the actual answer itself.
Because trust has always been the complicated part with me.
Not affection.
Not loyalty.
Information.
Compartmentalization.
Locked doors.
Tonight cracked some of those open whether I wanted it to or not.
Gwen leans back against the wall beside me.
For a while neither of us speaks.
Outside the windows the sky keeps getting lighter.
I check my phone again automatically.
Gwen notices immediately.
"You've checked for updates like twelve times since I got here."
"I know."
"You expecting another attack?"
"No."
Pause.
"My brain just hasn't figured that out yet."
That gets the faintest tired huff of amusement out of her.
Then she studies me more carefully.
Not my injuries.
Me.
"At the concert…" she says slowly. "You felt different."
I stay quiet.
Gwen searches for the right words.
"Not stronger exactly." She frowns slightly. "Just… farther away."
Yeah.
That's unfortunately accurate.
I stare down at the coffee cup in my hand.
For several seconds I debate internally how much energy I even have left for this conversation.
Eventually I settle on honesty.
"There's a bigger conversation we need to have." My voice comes out rougher than usual. "Probably several."
"About what you can do?"
"About a lot of things."
I finally look at her directly.
"But not tonight."
I'm simply too exhausted to dissect my entire existence coherently right now.
"I need MJ awake first," I admit quietly. "I need to know she's actually okay. And I think if I try explaining everything right now my brain might physically shut down."
That gets a weak laugh out of Gwen.
"Honestly? Fair."
I lean back against the wall beside her.
Our shoulders touch lightly.
Neither of us moves away.
"I'm not trying to dodge the conversation," I say after a while.
"I know."
And she does.
That's the strange part.
I can feel it.
Something shifted tonight.
Not just for me.
For us.
The walls I usually keep between different parts of myself feel… damaged somehow. Not gone. But harder to maintain after everything that happened.
Gwen rests her head carefully against my shoulder.
I go still automatically for half a second before relaxing into it.
The hospital continues moving around us in quiet early-morning rhythms.
A doctor walks past carrying charts.
Someone laughs softly somewhere down the corridor.
Fresh coffee starts brewing nearby.
Life continuing normally around the edges of catastrophe.
"You should probably sleep eventually," Gwen murmurs.
"So should you."
"Yeah, but I asked first."
That pulls another tired almost-smile out of me.
Then silence settles again.
Not awkward.
Just exhausted.
Shared.
Outside the windows, the first pale traces of sunrise finally begin pushing through the dark. And for the first time since the concert—
I'm not moving.
Not planning.
Not killing.
Not fixing anything.
Just sitting there with Gwen beside me while the world slowly crawls toward morning.