A Long Ways From Home

Chapter Seven: An Unlikely Awakening

She wakes with a gasp. In a bed that isn't her own. From a nightmare she has only seen glimpses of before. Without any inclination of why it appeared.

She dreamt of New York City. She has never been to the city or state before, but it was easy to identify it as the one; the statue of liberty is a common landmark of the place worldwide, even to an alien like her. But why? She had seen the skyline destroyed; absolutely obliterated. There were bodies lying over bloodied streets wherever she walked. There were voices echoing in her ears, voices from people she knew but couldn't see. Her Cêpan, Reynolds. Jordan and Emily, her fellow Garde. Katarina and Sandor. She saw bombs fall in the central park. She saw the soldiers march, shooting their energy weapons at anything that moved in and out of decrepit buildings. She saw Him.

There was a stage of sorts. Midst it all. She thought it was strange. She saw Him give a speech, speaking words in an otherwise perfect accent that the humans understand. "Rest assured, my work is done," He had said with His hand in the air. A friendly gesture as if to ensure he means no harm. "The war has been waged. To my followers, the resistance has been terminated. To the viewers, there is nothing left to fear." She knew it was Him because of the nine silver amulets that He wore around his chest. They belong to them, to her and her kind, the Lorien Garde.

It was the aftermath of war. Their war. The war they've been training for, the war they've spent so long trying to stop, the war that they failed to end. She saw it with her own eyes.

It could not have been real, but still, she saw it with her own eyes. It felt real.

But if she is here – wherever 'here' is – then that means she didn't die.

Then, where is she? And why?

She sits up from the bed, which is much more comfortable than any she has slept on before; the sheets are an elegant white and they are made of the softest material she ever felt. When she moves a pair of automatic lights turn on, and she is able to see. The bed is large, greater than a king, taking up at least half the room. There is a dark wooden desk next to her with a matching furnished chair tucked into its space. Though other than that, there is nothing hinting to where it is that she is.

She sits straight; pulls herself from under the silk covers and lays her bare feet flat on the cold ground. The floor is polished with a neat and shiny sound. A sparkle glints under the bright fluorescent light above. She also feels her body itch at the collar of the long black gown.

Gown? One that is formal and elegant? Where did it come from? It doesn't suit her style at all. She normally loves wearing dresses in a casual sense, but this one is so itchy and unpleasant, it makes her body feel rigid and tense. It doesn't even fit her slim body well; it is nearly an entire size too large!

"What the hell is going on?"

Atop of the small desk that she sits near, is a tall glass of cool water alluringly placed for her dry mouth to parch on, the sight so dear. She reaches for it. And takes a nice long sip, the water refreshing when it touches her tongue and flows down her throat. By the time the glass is half full, she places it back down. There is only one other item on the desk, and it doesn't interest her at all.

A book. A fat one. One that must have over a thousand pages as thin and boring as dictionary sheets. Its cover has a snaky texture, a dark swampy green and scaly feel that makes her shudder at the words on its front.

The Great Book of Mogadorian Progress, it reads.

She flips the cover over and finds that there is no author or publication information. It is all unknown.

"What kind of person writes a book this big and thinks it's going to be entertaining to read?" Mae thinks aloud, oblivious to the camera in the corner of the room.