Heather hauls herself through the fifth story window and practically falls into her room. Her vision is swimming as she lays on the dirty carpet, trying to collect herself. She almost certainly has a concussion, but she can't really find it in her to care right now. It's not like she could go to the hospital: "Oh, this? I got cracked upside the head by a cop when I stopped him and his buddy from hassling a couple of homeless folks, please don't turn me in". She closes her eyes and just breathes, four seconds in, six seconds out. She'll just ride out what's left of tonight on the floor, slam some aspirin when she wakes up, get through another shitty shift at the Target, then another fun night of vigilante justice.
Things had been so much easier when it was just an inter-dimensional warlord trying to conquer the Earth. Of course, that might also have something to do with the fact that that was over twenty years ago and she had a team fighting alongside her. Then they defeated the Void Empress, and the world took notice. Turns out most governments weren't exactly comfortable with a bunch of super powered teenagers running around "accountable to no-one"; by which they meant not easily controlled by the rich and powerful. Most agreed to quietly retire, the rest sold their souls for paychecks. Now she's flying solo; fighting much less glamorous battles and more mundane evils. It's fine. It's fine. She doesn't need help from cowards and quislings anyway.
She rolls over onto her side and immediately regret it as her head roars in pain. Sure, the whole magical girl transformation thing still supercharges her and gives her the body of a teenager again, but the injuries don't just go away when she changes back. Turns out broken bones, stitches, and mild head trauma are a lot easier to deal with and heal a lot better at sixteen than thirty-nine. She grits her teeth, gets on her hands and knees, and crawls to the bathroom. She pulls herself to her feet using the sink and stares into the mirror. She can see the lump on the side of her head even under her hair, big enough that it won't be easy to explain to her coworkers. Maybe she can pass it off as falling down the stairs again. They're starting to get suspicious, though; a couple have even voiced concern. It might be time to find a new day job, maybe finally look into some of this "gig work" she keeps hearing about. Skip the Dishes probably doesn't care if you look like death when you make deliveries.
She digs through the medicine cabinet for her aspirin, swears when she finds the bottle empty, and slumps back down to the floor. She curls up with her face against the cool tile and presses her hands to her eyes. She doesn't feel nauseous, but better to lay on her side so she doesn't drown in her own puke if she does throw up. Eventually she drifts off into a fitful sleep, plagued with visions of old enemies and people she thought were her friends. Over twenty years later, she's still not sure which bothers her more.
