It was a long flight back to New York, and, on top of the adrenaline crash he was experiencing, Blue hadn't slept for over thirty hours. Once they were up in the air and cruising, Scott had let him know he was allowed to get out of his seat if he wanted to. He had immediately unbuckled and curled up in the back corner of the plane behind one of the empty crates that held supplies when the team went on missions.

Scott let him be. The kid had been through so much in the past few days, the least he could do was allow him some alone time. If he felt safer curled up in his jacket on the ground behind a crate, who was he to tell him to stop. Besides, there wasn't anything in the back that he could harm himself with, nor was it really feasible for him to escape 31,000 feet above the ground.

When he was given this mission, the Professor has made it it's urgency clear. He was to do a locate-and-rescue of a kid in Kansas who was being trailed incredibly closely by Mutant Control. Although the Blackbird was a state-of-the-art aircraft, the prep time added to the flight time had still ended up being a couple of hours. Scott hadn't known what he would find once he arrived, but he had been hoping against all hope that MC hadn't gotten to the boy yet.

When he had landed just outside the small Kansas town and finished cloaking the jet, it was a race against time to find him before they did. Using a small device he wore as a watch, he followed a hazy and inconsistent signature that had been programmed in before he left. Another half hour was added to the ticking clock, each second diminishing his chances, before he found him. He was standing stationary halfway across a bridge, staring up at the sky with his hands in his pockets.

Relief had encompassed Scott. He had made it in time. There wasn't even a sign of MC yet. He had begun to make his way across the bridge to meet him when the boy sighed heavily and turned his head away from the sky. He looked down and stepped over the railing with his right leg, followed by his left. Scott's eyes widened and adrenaline surged through him. He didn't really remember what had happened between then and when he had his arms around the kids waist and they were both on the street.

It was incredibly hard to fight the boy and keep him from launching over the railing, because everything Scott had learned about fighting had been ways to protect himself and ways to harm his opponent. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt this kid anymore than he already was, but he had to in order to protect him. It was ironic and difficult, but he did what he had to. By the time Blue had agreed to get on the jet with him, Scott had completely forgotten about the very real and time sensitive threat of MC.

They were flying back to the mansion safely and the mission had been accomplished successfully, but Scott couldn't shake the bad feeling in his stomach that something had gone terribly wrong.

Blue awoke from his heavy sleep on the plane in a frantic state. He yelled in surprise and instinctively threw his arm towards the one that had suddenly been resting on his shoulder, shoving it away. His other fist punched in the direction of the body in front of him. His scabbed palm cracked as his knuckles connected with flesh and started to bleed again. He didn't even notice. He struggled to his feet and got into a defensive stance. His eyes were wide and shifting around, his chest heaved with every breath and his heart beat rapidly behind his ribs, transferring adrenaline throughout his body.

Someone was saying something to him, but he couldn't make out what it was. Unfamiliar shapes and smells surrounded him everywhere he turned. His senses were going into overdrive in an attempt to comprehend his environment, but even they didn't know what was going on. Bright flashes of light permeated his vision and sharp, painful bursts of sounds echoed in his head. He stumbled towards one of the bursts of light and found himself running before he lost all control of himself and each sense disappeared in rapid succession.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again, waking up this time on his own accord. He was in a narrow bed with soft, dark sheets. The air in the room was chilly, but he was warm. It took a while for him to process that he was awake, but it was the throbbing in his head that finally brought him out of the cloudy haziness of sleep.

To his right in the middle of the wall there was a closed door with a nightstand next to it. A lamp sat on the dark wood of it, emitting a gentle yellow light that filled the room just enough for him to make out his surroundings clearly. Directly in front of him was a white countertop with a sink in the middle of it. To the right of the countertop in the corner of the room was a tall, stainless steel cabinet with both its doors closed. The floor was white tile. To his left stood an IV stand with a bag of fluids with tubes extending from it, down into his arm.

He tube was held in place with a piece of tape above it, but the entry point wasn't covered at all. The skin around it was red and irritated, bulging slightly where it entered and extended into his veins. The sight it brought bile to the back of his throat. He heaved once, then quickly turned his head to the side and threw up over the side of the bed.

He heaved a couple more times, but nothing came out of his empty stomach aside from stomach acid that he spit out into the puddle on the floor. The smell was awful as it filled the room. He made sure not to look at his arm again. Bandages covered his hands and forearms up to his elbows, covering the scrapes he received at the bridge.

The bridge. The man. Scott. Failure.

He involuntarily jerked his head to the side in response to the voice, the nausea quickly returning. More stomach acid burned his throat and coated his tongue in its repulsive taste before he spit it out over the side of the bed. The taste stayed.

His head throbbed, his throat was raw, and the tube in his left arm felt like it was grinding against his bones. He brought his right hand up to poke at the tube, maybe shift it to make it hurt less, but it stopped less than a foot away from his side. The rattling of metal and the sight of the handcuff around his wrist connected to the metal frame of the bed brought a lump to his throat. Repressed memories that he had yet to process properly were barking and throwing themselves at the wall he had put up in his mind at the sight of the handcuffs, trying to force themselves to the front of his thoughts.

He focused on the tube in his arm again, forcing himself to change the subject and forget about the cuffs. He wanted it out, but the idea of pulling it out made him gag again.

Despite the attempts by whoever had put him here to make it a less jarring and frightening place to wake up to with the dark sheets and soft light, he was freaking out. The entire situation was wrong and uncomfortable. He lie back down onto his right side and curled his legs into his chest and felt the lump in his throat grow as tears began to fall on their own accord down his cheeks.

Eventually, he was able to force himself asleep again.

It seemed not five minutes after he closed his eyes that the door to the room clicked open. He was jarred harshly out of his light sleep and was sitting up in the bed before the person opening the door had even stepped into the room.

It was a young man with short, dark brown hair and glasses that framed his face nicely. He was wearing semi-formal day clothes and held a clipboard in his left hand. He smiled at Blue when he saw he was awake.

"Hey there, kid. My names Hank," he said. He took another step into the room and a grimace filled his face as he scrunched up his nose at the smell of the vomit.

"I'll be right back. I'll go get someone to clean that up," he said and promptly left without shutting the door behind him, allowing Blue to get his first look at the world outside the room. It was, from what he could see, sleek metal walls and no windows.

When Hank returned, it was with a janitor and a mop. Blue hadn't moved.

"I'm sorry," he said in a soft voice.

The older looking gentleman who was the janitor looked up at him with a smile in his eyes. "Don't worry about it, kid. I've worked here for thirty years. This ain't the worst I've seen," he said in a gruff voice.

He did his job efficiently and deftly and was out of the room before long. It smelled like bleach, now, but Blue supposed that was better than vomit.

"Sorry about that, Blue," Hank said. "I'm here to check your bandages and see if there's anything you need, if that's alright with you."

He nodded, and Hank walked over to him and set his clipboard on the end of the bed. He reached for Blue's left arm and Blue immediately flinched back and retracted his arm, which in turn causes the tube in his arm to shift and shoot pain through his arm. He winced and cradled his arm against himself.

Hank was professional enough not to react negatively. "Is it alright if I touch you to check the bandages? I will talk through exactly what my hands are doing.  I promise there won't be any surprises."

Blue looked at him carefully, but he saw nothing but professional intentions behind his eyes. He slowly extended his arm back out for Hank to examine.

True to his word, Hank let him know exactly what he was going to be doing. "I'm going to grip your wrist with this hand," he held up his left hand, "and then your arm over so I can look at the bandage on your palm and the one covering your forearm, okay."

Blue nodded and prepared himself. He watched as he gripped his wrist gently and saw himself instinctively retract his arm again. A small flicker of annoyance fluttered through Hanks eyes, causing Blue to scoot backwards in the bed to the best of his ability. The handcuff rattled as he moved.

Fear spiked through his system and he was suddenly in a different room, in different clothes, and three years younger. There was a man in the room with him.

Hank watched as Blue retracted his arm again. He felt himself growing frustrated at the boy, believing that he was just being difficult. He looked up from the bandaged arm to his face. His eyes were unfocused and fluttering and his breathing had rapidly increased.

Hank rapidly went through all of the possibilities for what was happening. He wasn't as accustomed to treating psychological trauma, meaning he wasn't as versed on the topic. He knew that his touch had most likely triggered Blue, but to what extent he wasn't sure.

To the best of his abilities, he figured that the kid was either experiencing a flashback or had pulled into himself to escape the situation.

He swore under his breath at his own inability to see the signs from the beginning and causing Blue to have a negative response.

"Hey, Blue. Can you hear me? I'm right here in front of you. Maybe you can feel the sheets under your fingers. Try and ground yourself," Hank began. He didn't know what was going on exactly, but he would help as much as he could. "Just focus on my voice and try to bring yourself back."

Unprompted, Blue shuddered and flinched away from something, his blank eyes widening. Unintelligible murmurs escapes his lips and his hands twitched.

Flashback, then, Hank thought.

He continued to talk to Blue, trying to get him to realize that he could return to a safe place. He knew that it was possible that he couldn't hear him, as each person has different experiences with flashbacks. Some are fully immersed in the memory and are unable to connect with the real world, while others can be brought out of the experience by grounding techniques.

Despite Hanks prompting, Blue remained within the memory. Touching him could easily make the experience worse for him, as it was the initial trigger. He hated that his hands were tied, but there was very little he could do except help Blue out when he came out of it, providing assurance and water if needed.

Blue whimpered and pulled at the handcuff that still held him to the bed, gently at first, then violently. His arm thrashed against the chain, the metal immediately cutting into his skin and a thin cloud of blood scattered onto the bed.

Hank reacted as fast as he could, snatching the keys from his pocket before lunging at the boy's arm and holding it in place before he could hurt himself more.

At his touch, Blue sucked in his breath and held it deep in his lungs. Hank unlocked him as fast as his shaking hands would allow. One it was done, he immediately dropped Blues arm, where it fell limply onto the bedsheet, blood dripping into a pool, but slowing considerably.

Hanks heart was beating heavily in his chest, his adrenaline still high. The two stayed where they were, as if in a stalemate, waiting for the other to move.

Finally, Blue let out the air in his chest, his eyes fluttering at the same time, as if trying to get something out of them. He looked to Hank. Old tears stained his cheeks, but his burning eyes were steady. Blue had yet to return to himself, and something wasn't right.