Cythiria opened her eyes. She squinted at the gentle blue light that washed over her. She sniffed the odorless air. A low and generic hum of running equipment filled the space around her. Electric flashes occasionally sparkled as holographic spheres floated in the air before her, turned, and morphed, while insect-like rows of characters skittered nervously up and down them.

She took a deep breath as she lay on her back. The pallet under her body was hard, unmoving. Her ribs ached and her slashed arm throbbed and stung. Her legs were stiff and sore and felt bruised. She lifted her hands and gazed at her arms. The injured one was wrapped in a fresh, white, almost wispy gauze. She touched her face with her hand, stroked the side of her cheek and then her brow. Her fingers groped along the two scars on her forehead. They felt like tiny craters. Her fingers slid over to her temples and then up to the top of her head. Her skin was smooth, shaven. She gasped as she gripped air where hair should otherwise have been.

“What happened to me?” she mumbled as she pushed herself up with her uninjured arm. She groaned and then lay down again.

“I wouldn’t try too hard just yet,” she heard. The voice was soft, gentle. She glanced towards it. “You’ve had quite the journey.” A man stepped forward and stood next to her as she lay prone on her pallet. His hair was white, his figure slim, his face delicate and reassuring. His soft, gray eyes gazed into her own, gently probing, yet remaining distant. Cythiria felt her body deflate, her tense muscles relinquish their tight grip.

“My name is Benj, Cythiria.”
“Ooookay.” She felt her neck grow warm. “And how do you know my name?”
Benj smiled gently. “You’re the one we’ve all been waiting for,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Cythiria grimaced. “You sure about that? I think you were probably waiting for the wrong bus.”