Stasis

(2) Awakening

When my eyes open, it's startlingly white. Too white, too bright. My eyes burn, like I haven't seen light in years. Maybe I haven't.

I'm in a pod. I can see the semi-translucent plastic above my face. I'm suddenly very aware of my own claustrophobia as my breath fogs up the clear surface in front of me, and I'm clawing at the side of the pod, my fingers closing around the exit latch. Right where I knew it would be.

The tops swings open and I'm free, albeit in a locked room. It's barren and white, very minimal. I remember it. A computer screen on the opposing wall flickers on.

"Hazel MacMillan," says the computer, "It is not time for you to exit stasis yet."

I know it's useless to assign emotions to a computer, but it sounds upset. Its voice sounds hoarse. I wonder if there was something wrong with its speakers.

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"Four years, two months, three days, six hours, and twenty-nine minutes," the computer answers, before adding, "It is not yet time to exit stasis."

"Yes, I know. You told me that. How much longer, though?"

"Calculations are inconclusive."

I pause, surprised.

"What do you mean inconclusive? That's your job, computer, you monitor conditions and calculate how long until the surface is livable again!"

Maybe I've been unconscious too long. I could swear that the computer sounds apologetic.

"The surface cannot support human life yet. It is not yet time to end stasis. You must return to stasis, Hazel MacMillan."

"But for how long?" I whisper. It was meant as a rhetorical question, but computers never did learn to understand those.

"Unknown." says the computer. Even for the computer, the answer comes quickly, sounding almost rushed.

I stop, and I think. About the world. About the simulation, and then I venture, "How bad is it out there? On the surface? I...want to go out there."

The computer sounds disappointed. I can almost hear it tut-tut-tutting, waving a dismissive hand at me.

"Conditions are deadly. The Earth is experiencing nuclear winter, combined with a reduced ozone layer. The Surface cannot sustain human life. Only destruction is out there, Hazel. In the simulation, you are safe and warm, surrounded by people who care about you. You should stay there."

The computer stops, then adds, "Until the Surface can sustain life."

I think about the death that awaits on the Surface, then about the simulation. How it's always perfect weather, and I have friends, and loved ones, and life is peaceful. I think about Faye. I lay back, my eyes on the ceiling. I've just woken up, but I feel tired, incredibly so.

"You will be returned to the simulation." the computer informs me. The top of the pod starts to close itself.

"I jumped off a cliff," I say suddenly, blocking the pod from sealing, "I killed myself. Everyone saw."

"The simulation will be reset." The computer assures me, "You will return home."

The top continues closing. I'm closed in, I can feel my breath on my face. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hear my breath quickening, then gasping.

Crap, I think, I'm having a panic attack

I hear my breath catching. I hear my own sobs.

Only, my eyes are dry. I'm not crying. I open my eyes. Red and blue lights are dancing about, casting an odd light-show about the canyon.

Faye is there, her electric blue eyes staring into mine. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, catching the police lights and fragmenting it into tiny technicolor beads on her face. It seems so bright, so real.

"Please, Hazel," she begs, "Come away from the ledge. You'll get through this. There's people that love you. I love you."

She's reaching out to me, and I barely hesitate. In seconds, I'm away from the ledge and I'm hugging her. She's still crying; I can feel her tears against my neck. My nose is buried in her hair. I smell her lavender shampoo, the kind she always uses. She seems solid, unmovable, permanent.

Like she's forgotten that she's the one crying, not me, she whispers comfortingly into my ear. Her voice sounds hoarse from crying.

"I'm so glad you're home, Hazel. You're home."