Somnolent Days

C1 : Little birdy leaves the cage.

The girl hugged her knees closer to her chest, staring blankly at the neatly folded garment by the side of her bed. It had been placed just a while ago by what appeared to be a three pronged appendage, each pronge ending in five-fingered hands, attached onto a roomba. Or at least the flat circular base of the object looked like a roomba. In the few days she had been conscious, the girl had noticed that the little machines carried out whatever actions the voice on the intercom said it would do. They were its 'arms'. They did no vacuuming though, so they were decidedly not actually roombas.

The voice that spoke was cold and steely, tinged with authority like it owned the place and chances are, it did. The voice told her to stay put in bed.

"Do not leave the room," it said.

"It is too dangerous outside," it said.

But just several hours ago, it told the child this:

"Thiri May, it is time for you to leave. Please remain calm and put on your protective gear. An associate shall arrive in exactly thirty-five minutes to escort you to a more suitable residence."

The child wanted to question the voice. She wanted to object. However, every time she gathered up her breathe to do so, her throat went dry and she would feel her insides clench, crumpling into a quivering lump of anxiety.

And it was no different now.

For the first time, she was having doubts about leaving the building. It was cold and lonely, yes, but this was where she had been ever since she came to consciousness, immobile on soft white fabric and encased within a pod, which she now considered her bed. The tubes which had been carrying fluids in and out of her veins ever since she had first awoken had being removed a mere week ago. The puncture marks were already healing.

Day after day, while she was still bed bound, she would stare into the screen fixed above the bed. It played the same videos over and over again: a droning safety briefing on mass fungal infections, a humorless sitcom called Tiny Pop Hypothesis, and a few episodes of a French cartoon about a talking ball of moss.

That was it.

That was all the girl had been watching. That was all whoever that was taking care of her had in their possession. In other words, the voice on the intercom had the absolute worst taste in media entertainment and the girl would have called them out on it if she weren't so afraid of authority. She could almost feel her brain rotting and melting into the laugh-track of Tiny Pop Hypothesis.

And yet, it was still much better than to lay in absolute silence. She would just keep the videos playing while she closed her eyes and engage herself in imaginary scenarios, enjoyable adventures. Sometimes she would make believe her fingers were people, and that they were her friends. She had ten friends.

"Five minutes. Your guide shall be here in exactly five minutes. I suggest you hurry up with getting dressed, child."

".....what if I don't," the child muttered under her breathe, leaning against the edges of her pod-like bed.

"What was. That?"

"...wh-what was - nothing. I said nothing!"

Tiny hands wrung at each other. The voice on the intercom did not reply.

She waited for a response. It did not come.

Left with no other option, Thiri struggled into the full-body suit. It was just like one of those hazmat suits she saw on tv, except child-sized and with a much more compact breathing apparatus fitted into a large pouch at the back.

"Two minutes. Your guide shall be here in exactly two minutes."

A three-armed 'roomba' slid to the side of her bed to help Thiri with the boots and the sleeves (which were a tad too long for her scrawny arms).