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At a Crosswalk

Mags looked out the window and saw the scene slide past. She felt cold and tired and she wanted nothing else to do but sleep. She had fallen into the routine of waking, working, sleeping. She knew that there was something more to this, but she couldn't remember what. 

She had awoke, it seemed, from a coma a few months back. She had no memory of who she was and where she was and what she was doing. Apparently, she had fallen through someone's roof and onto the floor. The mystery was how the hell did she fall in the first place?

She didn't know, how could she? And she felt empty inside because of it.

She snapped back to reality when the transit came to a stop. Mags stood up and exited out the door, stepping out into the crisp and cold New York air. She walked down to the crosswalk at the corner, stopping at a street vendor to pick up a few newspapers. Glancing over the headlines, she knew that something major was happening somewhere.

She waited at the crosswalk for the light to change and then went across the street. The car slammed into Mags, sending her flying up and over the the hood. Newspapers scattered through the air like an exploded pinata. She impacted on the ground with a sickening thud, her head hitting the hard pavement.

The car came to a screeching halt and a man stepped out. An imposing figure, built like a jock, and brandishing a huge chrome prosthetic gun-hand, strolling towards Mags.

Mags slowly moved her body. She winced and spat out some blood, but then a wicked smile came across her face. She glared up at the man stalking towards her and said, "Thanks, I needed that!"