The first thing that registers in her mind when she finally comes to is thirst.

Her throat is so parched; every breath she takes is practically grating into the back of her mouth like some barely used sandpaper. The dryness in her tongue is probably just as bad, if not for the unyielding object that keeps it from touching the roof of her mouth. Come to think of it, whenever she tries to breathe, the same object is the one harshly rubbing against her throat, and not the actual air she breathes per se. Weird.

Wait… what is it anyway? Is she wearing a mouthpiece? Retainers?

Ugh. Retainers. She shudders at the thought. She only tried that once, wore it for like a week. It didn't work so well—both for her and the retainers.

Those were really dark times.

She then hears the whooshing. Odd, because they seem to go in concert with her breathing. Every sound rushes to her chest, sending whirls and whirls of vibrations that are not exactly very comforting. It is like she's doing pushups with her arms tied behind her back—her chest being the only thing that pushes her off the ground every single time. That could probably explain why she's so tired right now. Too damn tired, she could hardly goad her eyes to open. It is also not helping that her eyelids feel like they're made of lead, and lifting them, along with those strange chest pushups, requires so much work.

She fights the said pushups for a couple of seconds; however, for every beat that passes, instead of relieving her of her troubles, the only accomplishment she achieves is getting herself more drained.

It does not take her so much time to find out that she can only fight it for a very short while. The sad truth is: the more she tries to stop each movement, the heavier her chest becomes. The longest time she manages to hold them is about fifteen seconds, but by then the strain against her lungs triples, followed by a cacophony of shrill bells whose sole triumph is to make her head pound harder than it already does. She does not recall any other time when she had hated sounds this much.

She then wonders if her head had been split right across her temples recently. As in a few minutes ago recently.

Perhaps she should check her forehead for a pickaxe.

Or a bayonet.

Or a rake.

Or Thor's hammer.

Ooooh. Maybe she just got abducted by an axe murderer. An Asgardian axe murderer.

Because as much as that particular scenario sucks, it would definitely explain a lot.

"Skye?"

She hears a voice, it's a female one. She thinks she should know that voice well, but for some strange reason she could not place it right away. Her pulsating headache is messing with her ability to think.

"Can you hear me?" The voice comes from somewhere, she's sure. She's not just imagining it. Is it from underwater?

It really sounded like it comes from underwater.

"Skye…" The tone—her tone—sounded desperate… relieved, but desperate. Her accent rings… nice. It is nice. Comforting.

The whooshing continues. She eventually gives up and stops fighting it. She's so tired. She still struggles to open her eyes though. Like everything else that she tries to do today, it's surprisingly difficult.

After about four and a half whole-hearted attempts, she finally makes it.

Cue the victory dance.

Her happiness, nevertheless, proves itself to be shortlived. Opening her eyes—big mistake. It's torture in its purest form. Everything is so fucking bright she could scream. The light literally felt like they are burning huge holes through her retinas that she is left with no other choice but to quickly jam her lids shut before half the fog could clear out. Agony bursts from each of her pore as the pounding inside her head intensifies.

Maybe it really was an axe murderer.

God, is this how having one's skull chopped off feels like?

"Skye?"

Something beside her head beeps too quickly, suddenly pulling her out of her reverie. She senses some panicked movements around her. It is starting to worry her.

"It's okay. I promise it's okay. You're okay." Skye hears the reassurance in the woman's tone; she's just not entirely sure whether it's directed to her or to herself. She didn't have time to ponder much though. She couldn't breathe.

Skye's mind immediately goes haywire when that particular information sinks in. Why can't she breathe? Oh god. Oh god.

"Look at me please." The voice begs. A pair of hands caresses her cheek. "Open your eyes."

No… no. She couldn't breathe. Something is stuck in her throat. Why aren't they removing it? Oh god.

She tries to make a grab for the offending object in her mouth. If they won't remove it, then she will. She has to breathe.

"Wait, stop! No!" Her visitor screams. The hands on her face disappear. Something suddenly holds her down. It's incredibly strong. Much stronger than she is. She can't move. She needs to breathe. Why can't they understand? She needs to breathe!

"Heyheyhey… it's okay, Skye. Calm down. Calm down." A man's voice unexpectedly takes over. His voice is soothing. Soft. Like an autumn morning. She feels a gentle hand touching her forehead. Her heart slows down a little. Her lungs clear slightly.

"You are doing really great. That's good. Very good. Don't fight the machines, alright? They're helping you breathe."

Helping her breathe? What kind of person needs help breathing? She doesn't need help breathing.

Does she?

Finally, she finds the strength again to open her eyes. She's more successful this time. Kind of. Brightness assaults her from all directions, but she perseveres. Her head throbs some more. Everything is a blur. She can't see anything clearly. It's very confusing.

"There you are." The man greets her. She couldn't vividly see his face, but she knows him.

It's Coulson.

She attempts to speak, but she couldn't. Her eyes widen in panic. Why can't she speak? What happened?

"You can't talk yet." Coulson tells her softly. "We still can't take the breathing tube out. It's okay."

She blinks at him. His face is starting to clear up, but her mind isn't.

"In a few days, we'll be removing it. I promise." He answers her unsaid question quickly. She feels him squeeze her hand. Tightly. "God, you really scared us, Skye. I almost thought—"

He lets the statement hang and shakes his head. He seems like he couldn't bring himself to finish it. She stares at him blankly. Did something happen?

What the fuck happened?

Resigned that she would probably not get any answers from him, Skye braves to look around the room for the first time. There is glass everywhere. She is in a glass room.

Then there is this weird… shudder.

She then focuses on the subtle shaking she feels. It's too familiar for her to miss. She's been living with it for far too long not to recognize it. She's still in the bus.

But then again, she couldn't recall having any glass rooms like this in the bus. This, wherever she is, it's too lighted. Too bright. Is there a hidden room she overlooked? A secret door she missed?

She sees a figure somewhere beside her, opposite Coulson. Of course, she thinks, mentally cursing herself for even forgetting. Of course it's her friend, Jemma. She gives herself a mental headslap. How can she even fail to recognize her?

However, barely a beat after being aware of her slip-up, Skye finds her eyebrows furrowing. She notices her friend's face.

She's crying. Jemma Simmons is crying. Wiping angry tears. Wait, were they angry tears? They seem like they're angry tears. Or at least, mildly pissed kind of tears. With perhaps a tinge of relief. Is there such thing as relieved-pissed kind of tears? "Don't you dare do that to us again, Skye!"

Skye blinks some more. What the hell did she do now? She's clearly missing something. And by the way, where are the others?

As if on cue, a group of very loud footsteps rushes quickly towards wherever she is. They're thunderous enough to make her head throb again. She winces.

"Is she really, is she, um—" It is Fitz who speaks first. His face is obstructed from view, but she knows his voice too well. His accent is too distinctive to forget. Coulson's blocking him though.

Skye hears him sputter a bunch of nonsense before finally, her boss decides to move over a bit to the side. Fitz's face is revealed. Their eyes meet. Skye couldn't explain why she feels a sudden urge to cry.

He looked so happy to see her. The last time she saw him like that was when they visited the Moroccan embassy to get Ward and Simmons after the biochemist's unexpected jump from 30000 feet above the air months back. "Skye!"

Wait, she didn't just jump at 30000 feet too, did she?

They are all smiling. Well, Fitz is crying. Or tearing up at least. May is smiling. Ward is smiling. It's so weird.

"She's okay." Fitz exclaimed, looking at everyone using those very bright eyes of his before finally stopping at Simmons. "Jemma, she's okay!"

"Yes, Fitz." Jemma wipes something from her own cheek before leaning down and doing the same to her. Wait, is that—

"Don't cry." Tear tracks are glaringly present on the biochemist's face even as she says it. "Everything's going to be alright now. The hard part is all over now."

The scientist blurs in her view. Why is Jemma even crying?

Why is she crying?

"Simmons." Coulson nods at Jemma. His eyes are communicating with the biochemist in a language that Skye couldn't quite get. She tries to blink back the moisture forming in her own eyes, trying to control its progressive blurring. It didn't work quite as she wanted.

"Okay, Skye." Jemma says gently. "Enough activities for you today. You've really done a pretty good job. Now I think it is time for you to rest, alright?"

Rest? Yes, she's tired but they can't expect her to just rest without hearing any sort of explanation as to why they are all acting so strange. Why aren't they telling her anything?

Her eyes flick to Coulson who just tapped her slightly by her hand. He gives her a small smile. "We'll talk more soon, okay?"

Talk about what?

"Just rest for now, Skye." She hears Simmons say as she begins to tinker with her IV.

Wait, why does she even have an IV? Is she in a hospital? Wait—

Her lids fall close before she could even protest.