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Scar had assured the others many times over that he was okay with this. This was what he brought to the table, this is what he was good for, this is what he liked to do, because it kept his friends out of danger and kept the heroes in control. Scar was able to activate and deactivate his pain. He named himself Scar because the torture he endured always left marks, marks he was proud of, because this was his duty. He would get caught on purpose, taken by bad people, and would often be mistreated and tortured. But while this was happening, he was gathering information—sweet talking the bad guys—and being tracked by the heroes.
Nine times out of ten, Scar was the reason they found hideouts, caught criminals, and he always found a way to put himself in the strapped chair before his friends got there. He’d be rescued, his wounds were tended to, and he’d heal without any pain, because he could shut it off. Sure, his body didn’t love losing blood, and his ribs felt a little weird when they were out of place, but it didn’t hurt, and since Scar always kept a straight face, he was allowed to operate like this.
The others didn’t love it, though. They tried to stop him all the time, they told him that it didn’t matter that he couldn’t feel it, because his body deserved to be treated kindly. And Scar didn’t really get it. He healed faster than non-powered folks, and he signed up for these kinds of injuries when he opted into the training program. Of course, if he broke a leg or something it needed to heal properly so he could keep doing his job, but a few lacerations? Some bruising? That was nothing.
It was nothing until now. Until Scar was kneeling in the middle of a concrete room. The floor was sunken, moisture gathered at his knees, and a short chain hung around his ankle, attached to a rusty metal ring on the ground. Scar cradled his stomach with a shaking hand. He forced his chest out and sucked it back in but no air came with it. He cupped his own throat. Why—why—how?
The masked man in front of Scar knelt in front of him, planting the iron rod against the ground before him to balance.
“I want to know how the code names work,” the man said.
All of the heroes dressed the same. In all black, with their faces covered, and their voices modified by their helmets. While on patrol or in the midst of a battle they used code names to communicate who was where, so they knew what powers were available in what position. But they changed their codenames every week, or as soon as someone was figured out.
Scar couldn’t answer. The man stood up, and for the first time since Scar was a little kid, he was afraid of pain. The iron rod struck Scar in the side. He fell sideways with a strangled cry and a clattering chain. The rod rose over him again and he flinched. Scar never flinched.
“Tell me how the code works!”
Scar kept his hands up. The rod barrelled down on them with a crack.
If Scar gave up the code, their radios could be intercepted and anyone who had something against the heroes would know exactly which of them was where. They would be able to target heroes with their weaknesses, target the less potent powers, and learn their chain of command.
“I’ll kill you,” the man seethed, “don’t think I won’t.”
Oh God, Scar had promised everyone he’d be alright. He promised he would hold out until they could track him. He couldn’t give up the code.
The rod came down again over Scar’s arms. Then his side. It struck over and over, sending shimmering hot waves up each rib. The man grabbed Scar’s wrist and yanked him up, with his back hovering off the ground.
“I’ll beat you til’ you’re ground meat,” the man hissed. He threw Scar back on the ground and raised the rod. “How does the code work?”
Would the heroes forgive him? Would they all turn their backs on him the next time he walked into a briefing? Would Grian hate Scar for not listening? Would the city forgive him for the jeopardy he’d cause?
Scar caught the rod, grunting at the sting in his palm. The man reeled back his foot and slammed it forward. Something cracked and Scar screamed. The man kicked again, sending Scar into a brief pit of darkness. He blinked, wheezing, dizzy, with his face held in a crushing grip.
“The longer you let me break you, the harder it’ll be to explain it to me,” the man said, tapping the rod next to Scar’s face. “And if you can’t tell me how it works,” he slammed the rod next to Scar’s ear, “it’s going through your head.”
Scar had never felt the true pain of a punch before. He had never known what it felt like to be hit, or kicked, or to fall from a high place, or be cut. He had only ever seen it happen to his body. Seen it in the mirror. Imagined it in dreams. Scar had never been truly hurt before and it was nauseating and humiliating and visceral and loud.
The man grabbed both of Scar’s hands. He held them out of the way and struck Scar’s ribs. Scar rasped out another scream, lifting his head, pulling on his hands. The already… bruised? Broken? Crushed ribs were jostled. Scar fell limp again, head slapping the concrete. There was nothing around him. Nothing above him. Air under him.
“I heard rumours,” the man said from the darkness, “that you lot don’t tend to scream like this.”
Scar’s vision came back in slow, fading pulses.
Almost all of the “heroes” that had been tortured were Scar. And all of those times, he’d had his powers. Why now? How?
“How does it feel to be the weakest one?”
The rod rose. Scar turned his cheek.
There was a thunk. Then a grunt, followed by muffled words and other pained noises. Scar’s hands were dropped, leaving them resting weakly to his right. A hand brushed Scar’s side. He weakly twitched an arm, aching to fight the hand away.
“Scar…” Grian whispered—Grian? “Were you screaming?”
Grian swiped tears off of Scar’s cheeks. The chain over Scar’s ankle shuddered, the cuff released, then a hand that wasn’t Grian’s gently touched down on his ankle.
“Are you feeling all of this?” Grian asked.
Scar squeaked and cringed, choking on air. He held his breath for as long as he could, breathing shallowly, as little as he had to so fire didn’t lap up the insides of his lungs—every time he breathed—if he dared move his arms.
“Oh no, no, turn your power back on.”
Scar promised he would be okay. He promised he could do it but he was so close to giving up their code. He would have done it. He would have saved himself. If he had been able to talk, the heroes’ secrets would be no more.
“What’s going on?” Etho asked, letting go of Scar’s ankle.
No, not Etho. Anyone but Etho—he couldn’t see Scar like this.
“His power’s not working,” Grian choked. He took a deep breath. “We need the medics fast. Tell them we need the painkillers this time.”
“On it.”
Scar had to take another breath. It made him groan and grind his teeth. He stopped short, lightheaded, crying still.
“We’re gonna help you, Scar,” Grian said quietly, wiping the tears again. “You need to try to get your power back on.”
Scar choked, writhing in pain as he had to breathe. Grian tried to hold him steady. Scar pressed his face into the floor. Grian spoke lowly, calmly, but it was distant. He passed his hand over Scar’s cheek and his hair.
Grian gasped. “Stay awake.”
**********
When Scar woke he was overwhelmed with the first-time pains in his body. He was sitting against a plump pillow, kept warm in blankets, but he had no shirt on. His skin was clammy, he had an IV, his face was sweaty, and his right arm was in a cast. And Grian was staring at him, waiting for him to make eye contact.
“I’m here,” Grian said, flattening his hand over Scar’s. “You’re fine. I know it hurts, but you’re completely stable and you’re fine.”
This wasn’t fine. Scar was reaching for his power, calling on it with all of his instincts, screaming internally that he was hurt and he needed his power more than ever. But nothing answered. And none of the pain dulled.
Feeling his heartbeat begin to rise, Scar tried to take a deep breath. His chest ignited. His heartrate monitor beeped and beeped. Grian rubbed his thumb over Scar’s hand.
“The painkillers will kick in. I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”
Scar weakly flipped his left hand so he could hold Grian’s hand back. Then, he licked his dry lips and took a painful, shallow breath.
“I don’t know why,” Scar said, gravelly, dry.
“Don’t worry about it. We think we know what happened, but I don’t want you to worry about it yet.”
“I need to know.”
Scar gasped in another short breath and held it.
Grian shook his head. “I can’t explain without telling you some scary things, and I don’t want to worry you. Please trust me on this.”
Scar breathed out. “Okay.”
He pushed his head back and closed his eyes, but it pulled his ribs, so he moved it back down.
“Do you want your pillow higher?” Grian asked, standing to adjust it.
Scar squeezed his hand. When the pillow was higher, Scar didn’t have to put his head back so far. He squeezed Grian’s hand again to thank him.
“You were really lucky,” Grian whispered. “You didn’t have any internal bleeding. And you didn’t puncture your lungs or anything.”
Scar didn’t want to think about how much more this could have hurt.
“Sorry, sorry,” Grian said, passing his thumb over Scar’s wrist. “I just need you to know you’re safe now. You’re not doing that again. Ever.”
Scar clenched his eyes shut, ashamed.
“You—no, don’t look guilty like that. You weren’t supposed to be able to feel any of that. We came in as soon as you screamed—it wasn’t supposed to go down like that, so don’t think for one second that you failed.”
Scar looked tiredly at Grian. “I told you I’d be okay.”
“You didn’t know,” Grian stressed. “Nobody did. And if I had known you were going to feel even a second of it, I wouldn’t have let you do it.”
Grian was no higher on their chain of command than Scar. He had no say in whether or not Scar went on that mission, but Scar knew that if Grian didn’t want him to do it, it wouldn’t happen.
“We shouldn’t have been letting you do it at all,” Grian continued. “You could have done permanent damage—I mean you already have some and—I’m just sorry, Scar. Getting hurt is not all you’re good for.”
Scar closed his eyes again to avoid crying.
“I’ll give you some more time, then we have to do some breathing exercises. It’ll prevent pneumonia.”
Scar desperately reached for his power again. Nothing. Grian guided him painfully through the exercises. They used an Incentive Spirometer. Scar got dizzy. A doctor came in, Grian talked to him a lot, they did more exercises later. He tried to sleep as much as possible but it was hard to relax when every breath stung. Scar had to stay in the infirmary for multiple days, but Grian wanted him to stay longer. Etho, their team lead, told him he could leave whenever the doctors discharged him, but he would not go back on patrol for a month or two. Two months. Scar’s longest break from an injury had been five days.
When he did get out of the infirmary he was bed bound in his and Grian’s quarters. Grian didn’t leave his side often. And barely let him leave the bed. Not that he wanted to. It was numbing and empty and boring to lie there all day, but he needed it to pass quickly, so he let himself drift hollowly in thought. He’d listen to Grian ramble, or watch something on the TV.
And one night they talked about it again.
“We think the guy that took you had developed, or bought some kind of… power blocker,” Grian explained, slowly and cautiously lying on his back next to Scar. “We’re expecting it to leave your system and your power will come back.”
“That’s,” Scar had goosebumps, “bad.”
It was the first time they had encountered anything like this. And of course, Scar had to be the first victim. It was just his luck.
“Yeah. And it’s why you’re never doing that again. Because we don’t know who will have it. We don’t know how widespread it is, or how easy it is to get.”
Scar turned his head away from Grian. “I was going to tell him the code.”
“You should have.”
“No,” Scar sighed.
“We can make a new code, we can’t make a new Scar. And all I want is the original anyway.”
“The code is complicated. We’d all have to learn a new one. Don’t pretend it wouldn’t be a problem—don’t pretend I was worried about nothing.”
Grian rolled onto his side, facing Scar, and picked up his hand. “You’re right. That was a lot to have on your shoulders. And… it is fortunate that you didn’t tell him. But you are more important.”
Scar turned his head back to the ceiling. “That was the first time I ever experienced the pain of being hit.” Grian went still and silent. “I can’t believe you guys do that all the time. You know everyone thinks I’m so tough, because of the pain thing, but I’m the weakest one here.”
“No, absolutely not. Don’t you remember? You got tortured and didn’t give in.”
“That was only because I couldn’t speak,” Scar said shakily.
Grian went quiet again. Scar had to look at him. Grian’s eyes were red and watery. He turned his head up to the ceiling as soon as Scar looked over.
“Grian—”
Grian felt responsible. But he didn’t want Scar to see that because he knew Scar would feel even guiltier. Grian had heard him scream for goodness’ sake. Scar never screamed.
“It’s okay,” Grian said. “I just don’t like thinking about you in there.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“But, maybe you should talk about it more.”
Scar shook his head, a little too hard, and hissed. Grian jumped up on one elbow, hand hovering. Scar recovered.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“Not tonight,” Scar agreed. “But I will say, I really wish Etho hadn’t been there.”
“What, why?”
“I didn’t want him to see me like that. I didn’t want you to see me like that either but Etho’s… well, everyone wants to impress Etho.”
“You do impress Etho, Scar. He was worried about you and he respects you a lot.”
“I don't want him to think I can’t handle things.”
“Scar. I know you’re used to getting tortured, but, you never really were tortured. Okay? And the rest of us? We don’t get tortured, we rarely ever deal with anything like that. You just went through something unimaginable to all of us, that was not something small. Don’t diminish it. Nobody can just ‘handle’ torture.”
“But that’s my thing.”
“Not anymore.”
Scar closed his eyes with a grumbly hum.
“Have you done your exercises today?” Grian asked.
Scar hesitated. “Yes.”
“Sit up. Come on.” Grian poked Scar’s shoulder.
“Hey, I’m sleeping here.”
“Pneumonia, Scar, remember?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Up.”