my knuckles into my eyes to clear the image away, waiting for my heart to stop racing. Wondering if this is another symptom of being stuck so long in cryo.
Wondering if I’m losing it completely.
Looking around, I realize I’m in a different room than yesterday. My glass walls are gone. Now, I have four gray ones, which make a nice match for the gray carpet and the gray ceiling. My new room is small, dim light coming from hidden fixtures where the walls meet the ceiling.
My memory’s a patchwork of doctors coming and going, and somewhere in there is a meal that was surprisingly normal. Of course, that’s the only normal thing I can really point to today. Because it’s the future. And I’m two hundred years old. And I’m seeing things. And there are freaking aliens here, wherever here is.
I think I’d like to be unconscious again, please.
I’m lying in a bed, still tangled in soft, white sheets, and as I sit up, I find I feel a little better. My heart’s still pounding, but I’m not dizzy, or fuzzy. And score, there are clothes waiting for me at the bottom of the bed, folded in a neat gray pile.
I lean toward them, and with a soft patter, two drops of red land on my perfectly white sheets.
Blood.
I touch my nose, bring my fingers away smudged with red. There’s a mirror over a small sink in the corner, and I wobble over to it to clean up. There’s blood smeared across my upper lip in a gross mustache, and …
Holy cake, what’s happened to my hair?
The cut’s still the same messy pixie as it’s always been, but looking at my reflection, I can see there’s a wide streak of white through my bangs. I run my fingers through it, wondering if maybe it’s another symptom of my long-term cryo. Wondering if I’m sick. Maybe I should mention it to someone. Though I suppose it’ll be a miracle if I get out of two centuries in suspended animation on a malfunctioning ship with nothing more than a bloody nose and a few white hairs.
Well, a bloody nose and a few white hairs and hallucinations.
I wash my face in the sink, then focus on getting dressed. I trade my white pajamas for what looks like a cross between a school uniform and some kind of sports gear. There’s underwear, a bra that’s a little optimistic given my assets, leggings, and a long-sleeved tunic with a logo I don’t recognize on the chest.
I spot a pair of boots by the door, which is when I notice a small red light on a panel beside it. I allow myself a minute to wonder if that means it’s locked, and debate whether there’s any value in confirming this.
Not really. Where would I go?
There’s a second red light up in the corner, probably a camera. I’m looking at it when there’s a soft knock at the door, and when it slides open, it reveals Captain Hotness—the guy who rescued me from the Hadfield. He’s in the same blue gray as me and my imaginary visitor from earlier, and he’s got a faint bruise along his jawline, just a shadow. He’s carrying a little red package with a bow on top, the only real spot of color in the room. Unless you count my blood, I mean.
It’s the gift that makes me think he’s probably another hallucination, because it’s so out of place. At least no one’s bleeding or screaming in this one, I guess. I wonder if I’ll get to find out what he brought me before he fades away.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
When I don’t answer, he makes his way to the end of the bed and sits, keeping a polite distance between us. I’m staring at him and he’s staring back, looking a little bit worried. My heart’s going thud-thud-thud in my throat, and I’m going to panic if I’m not careful.
The visions are getting more frequent, and more real.
“… Are you okay?” he asks. “It’s Tyler, remember?”
“I remember,” I say. “Are you going to vanish, or what?”
His brows lift, and he looks over his shoulder toward the door, like he’s checking if I’m talking to someone else. “Um, vanish?”
And that’s when I realize the mattress is bending a little under his weight.
Wait, is he real?
I poke at his chest, encountering solid muscle. I yank my finger back, scrambling for an explanation and desperately hoping I got rid of every last trace