The first thing Scar registered when he woke up was the dull, throbbing ache radiating through every muscle fiber in his body. He slowly opened his eyes, a groan escaping his lips. The stadium lights pierced his vision, revealing the empty, sprawling tiers of the stadium grandstands. He was lying on a long, padded bench in the shaded, open-air dugouts of the grandstands.
Every part of his body screamed in protest, heavy and drained, yet the searing pain of his scorched skin was entirely gone. He had no visible wounds. He glanced down at himself. The charred, ruined remains of his jacket and shirt were gone. In their place, he was wearing a massive, oversized white shirt that smelled faintly of vanilla and orange blossom. His original running pants were still on, though the fabric was heavily scorched and torn at the knees. The Talaria-X boots remained tightly laced to his feet, their gold alloy completely untouched by the flames.
