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When Scythe wakes in the morning, reprieved from her dreams of smoke and blazes, she realizes one factor had refused to part with her - the pain.
An ache rests in what was left of her right arm. Of course, it wasn't as intense as the burning agony she experienced in the Scorch all those years ago, but she knows firsthand that it can get pretty close.
For now though, it lingers not so severe that it hinders her movement, but enough that the constant throbbing was more than an annoyance to her. It only inflames when she slips on her sleeve and attaches her prosthetic, and the pressure from the heavy metal on her stump increases the strain.
Scythe could already tell that the day was going to be exhausting.
She's supposed to attend an early meeting to recieve information on her next target for when she travels to Crossroads in about a week. The meeting room is small, and only a few of Father Overseer's most trusted are there for the same purpose as her.
Scythe tries to settle in and listen well, but with every position she shifts her prosthetic into, her stump cramps in protest. It doesn't help that every little movement chafes the skin under her sleeve, the prickling sensation building into something impossible to ignore.
In the end, she doesn't manage to retain much of the details of her mission well, and only earns a few pointed looks from the others instead. Whatever, she could simply look over the file provided to her at a later time. She snatches the folder from the table and stalks out of the meeting room.
Thoroughly miffed, Scythe takes a walk through the city, gaze sweeping over the teal flags waving off every building around. Pain jolts all the way up her shoulder each time she's jostled, and she ends up snapping at a couple of Inphernals for bumping in to her. The growing ache has worn her patience thin.
Eventually, she emerges at the edge of town to the view of the sprawling desert. Her eye immediately pinpoints the horizon, and zeroes in on the very faint rising smoke in the distance.
Her left arm goes to clutch at where the metal meets her skin on instinct.
A slight orange glow radiates from the spot, and it's enough to give her a picture of -
screaming, overwhelming heat and blinding red. Smoke fills her lungs as she runs froms the flames, but they're everywhere, neverending and consuming everything in sight. Through the noise, someone's calling her name, and she turns to the familiar voice only for more fire to spring up and engulf her arm and suddenly she's the one shrieking as her skin is burning, melting down to the bone and traveling up to her shoulder and oh Swords she's going to die -
Scythe blinks hard, breaking free from the memory and turning away.
Later in the evening, Father Overseer hosts a hearing for the entire Church to attend. It's well-articulated and inspiring - much like all of the speeches that Father presents - but Scythe once again finds her focus on the words slipping away.
She's stood on Father's right side as he stands before the crowd, yet despite his booming voice that echoes around her, her attention is more towards the pain in her stump than on the subject of his speech.
The ache has festered into a constant panging at that point. She has her hands clasped together behind her back, unmoving, but the throbbing still doesn't let up.
She feels someone brush up against her elbow, and Scythe nearly jolts at the contact. She glances out of the corner of her eye to see Broker tilting his head questioningly. Annoyed, she simply ignores his pestering, and gestures her head for him to pay attention. Father's words weren't to be disregarded.
Finally, when night comes and Scythe is relieved from her duties, she damn near sprints to her quarters so she could rip the weight off her stump.
Scythe sighs as she closes the door before immediately beginning to strip her layers down. She's just thrown her tie off, eager to roll her sleeve up and get the fucking prosthetic off when loud knocking startles her from her throughts.
She internally groans, pulling her suit jacket back on to at least look partially presentable as she makes her way to the source.
This better be something important! If Broker is there to bother her over something trivial, she swears she's gonna-
Medkit is on the other side of the door when she yanks it open.
Scythe is actually caught off guard, her eye widening slightly at the doctor in the doorway.
She wonders if she missed something, an initiation into the Church or something else that explains why Medkit would be visiting her in her personal quarters, when he suddenly clears his throat.
"May I come in?"
As if right on queue, another spike of pain surges up her right shoulder, and Scythe's bad mood rears its ugly head back around.
"Is it so important that it can't wait 'til morning?" Because she's just about passed her damn limit at that point.
Medkit's gaze flickers from her face down to her prosthetic.
"You were distracted throughout the Father's speech, because of the pain from your arm, right?"
Scythe raised a brow at that. How did he..?
As if reading her mind, he simply deadpans: "I'm a doctor. I'd know if you had so much as a paper cut."
Well, what could she say to that? She steps aside, and Medkit briskly walks in, making a beeline to her desk.
He gets to work immediately, placing his gear down and flipping it open. Scythe sneaks a glance at the contents: bandages, gauze, threads and needles, wipes, bottles filled with disinfectants, and many other medical equipment, but the most eye-catching ones were his signature glowing crystals.
He grabs a small jar filled with a light blue cream, turning expectantly towards her.
Right, her prosthetic - she hurries out of her tops, finally achieving the relief of the lifting pressure from her stump, and peels off the black sleeve covering it as well.
The skin there is inflamed and a little swollen, and it tingles in the open air.
Medkit's hands are calloused, but he still takes great care and gentleness in spreading the cream over her stump. It stings for a moment before the cold starts to soothe the burning pain that had built up, and Scythe feels the tension from between her shoulders melt away.
She whistles low as Medkit pulls away.
"So, is that all? You've cured me just like that?"
She almost can't believe it. For years, she'd been living through days where the pain from the Scorch would return and take over her for weeks, yet Medkit had healed her with what - just a little soothing cream?
"You've been experiencing residual limb pain." Medkit says as if she should know what that even means.
"Pardon?"
"It occurs in areas where a limb has been amputated for a myriad of reasons. In your case, the cause is lack of proper care. Judging by the way your skin was irritated, you haven't been taking off your sleeve very often, haven't you?"
Scythe laughs, unbelieving. "Spot on, doctor! Wow, you're really the best at your job, huh?"
Medkit continues his explanation unfazed.
"You need to let your arm breathe more. Some rubbing cream will help you with your aches. Sometimes, old injuries will act up for the simplest of reasons."
"Sometimes?"
Medkit hums. "Sometimes there is no physical cause. There is nothing wrong with the wound itself, the body simply yearns for something that is no longer there. It will ache no matter what you do. You can try every healing salve in the book, wish and beg for the pain to leave, but it won't, and you'll just have to live with it."
Scythe watches Medkit carefully, and notes the way the left side of his face twitches.
She leans back and smiles.
"Well aren't I a lucky duck, then?"
Medkit turns back to his gear, placing the cream back in its designated spot and packing it up with practiced precision.
He suddenly looks very tired as he faces her, and she probably would have pitied him more had she not known of all the traitorous little thoughts going on in his head.
"I'll have a personal jar of salve for you by tomorrow. Try not to irritate it too much in the meantime."
"How generous. Your a real valuable member of the Church, y'know?"
Of course she knows that Medkit knows. He hears it nearly every day - from Father and Broker and the other Inphernals he helps to heal - and conversation about him tends to be in a positive light. What she also knows is how badly Medkit wants to leave.
No harm in reminding him of all the lives that depend on his work in case he ever considers fleeing, right?
Medkit's mouth tightens, and then he's making his way to the door in quick, long strides.
"Night, 'Kit!" She calls, satisfied.
"Goodnight, Rifle." Medkit says, ever so professional.
Scythe kicks her legs up on the desk once the door shuts, enjoying the way the aching in her stump continues to wane.
She wasn't lying - Medkit was a miracle worker. The pain has almost fully subsided by the time she puts her hat up and hits the hay. There's no tossing or turning as she lies peacefully and she's lulled to sleep relatively easily.
She really is grateful for Medkit. His gear was a blessing to the Church, suited to help so many suffering Inphernals and ease their pain. Once the Church takes full control of Lost Temple, they'd be able to extend his healing across the entire region.
The thought is a comfort to her as she dozes off.
That night, her dreams aren’t filled with endless walls of fire or torrid heat, but instead she’s back at the ranch with both working arms and perfect sight, and she’s laughing with Hook as they watch one of the youngsters try to feed the vultures.