A dull hum resonated through the chamber, steady and unchanging. Faint, rhythmic vibrations pulsed beneath the floor, barely perceptible but constant. The sensation wormed its way into her awareness, dragging her further into wakefulness.

  Motionless, eyes closed, she drew in slow, shallow breaths.

  A faint twitch in her brow accompanied her slow ascent from the void of sleep.

  The last thing she remembered was—

  Water. Darkness. Cold.

  And then... nothing.

  A deep ache settled into her bones, radiating outward with every breath. Her limbs felt leaden, sluggish, as though they didn’t quite belong to her. For a long moment, she simply existed in the space between sleep and wakefulness, hovering on the edge of consciousness. She was so very tired and all she wished to do was to cross back into sleep.

  A faint mechanical whir cut through the silence.

  Her brow furrowed as confusion crept through her sluggish mind. That wasn’t right....right?

  That sound—

  Her eyes snapped open.

  The ceiling above her was dark, smooth, and featureless, its surface broken only by faint, pulsing lines of blue light. She inhaled sharply and turned her head, her muscles protesting the movement. What little she could see of the room was cloaked in darkness.

  A sharp throb pulsed through her skull as a memory flickered— the last time she had asked that question.

  She pushed herself up too fast, sending a fresh wave of pain through her skull. Clutching her head, she fought against the dizziness threatening to pull her back down. The throbbing behind her eyes intensified, a dull pressure building in her temples.

  Green eyes drifted downward, her vision slightly unfocused, but the sight of her exposed torso sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through her system. Her cheeks burned, her pulse hammering in her ears. A cold sweat beaded along her spine—though the temperature had nothing to do with it.

  She gripped the sheet with trembling hands, yanking it over herself in a sudden, jerky motion. The sensation of fabric against her skin felt both familiar and foreign, like an instinct she hadn’t fully re-learned yet.

  A voice, smooth and mechanical, cut through the silence.

  "Neural activity has stabilized. Motor function remains impaired. Recovery is within expected parameters."

  Her body tensed. The voice was calm, clinical, and undeniably inhuman. Her breath quickened as she pushed herself upright, ignoring the way her body protested as she looked around the dark room eyes squinting into the dark as she clutched the sheet around her.

  "Who—?" Her voice cracked, her throat raw and dry. "Where am I?"

  The whirring sound came again, and from the dimness, it emerged—a floating, black sphere, larger than her head, its smooth surface gleaming in the low light. A pulsing blue core flickered within, adjusting—watching. A mechanical shutter clicked open and closed—blinking.

  Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t just observing her. It was studying her.

  "Fascinating. Cognitive function appears intact despite initial instability." The sphere tilted slightly, its blue core pulsing in rhythm with its words. "You are functional. That is good."

  A shiver crawled up Erica’s spine, her breath catching in her throat.

  She scrambled backward, her balance still unsteady, and tumbled off the other side of the bed.

  Pain exploded through her shoulder, then her head as she cracked against the unforgiving floor. A sharp gasp tore from her lips. Stars burst behind her eyes, her vision swimming from the impact. For a brief moment—just a flicker—memories surged to the surface.

  Warm light filtering through a window. A plate of half-eaten food. The hum of a distant engine. The scent of metal and something new.

  Laughter. Smiling faces. Familiar voices calling out, waving.

  A sleek ship, gleaming under artificial lights—pristine, untouched, waiting.

  A name. Someone calling—a voice she should know.

  Then—gone. Slipping through her fingers like water, dissolving before she could grasp it.

  She rolled onto her side with a groan, the last fragments of memory slipping away. Her heart pounded as she pressed a hand against the cool floor beneath her, her breathing shallow and uneven.

  The voice returned, its tone as unbothered as ever.

  "Your cognitive function appears stable. Increased neural activity suggests partial memory retrieval."

  The words barely registered. Were the memories real? They felt like hers, but the harder she tried to focus on them, the more distant they became, like trying to recall a dream slipping away upon waking.

  Her fingers curled into fists against the floor. She needed to think. She needed to remember.

  A new kind of fear settled in the pit of her stomach—the fear of what she had lost.

  Ignoring the throbbing in her limbs, she braced against the bed, testing her ability to move as she pushed herself up. Her muscles protested, burning under the strain, but she could move. Weak, trembling, but functional.

  "Human female, your equilibrium remains unstable. Further exertion is not advised."

  She sucked in a sharp breath, tearing her gaze away from it. The fear hadn’t faded, but something else was rising to the surface now—frustration.

  She needed answers—where she was, what was missing.

  Every so often, more fragmented images flickered through her mind—disjointed, fleeting—each accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain, white flashes bursting across her vision.

  Steeling herself, she took another step, then another. Just as she was about to take a third, her knees buckled and she pitched forward—slamming face-first into an invisible wall. A jolt of energy surged through her, knocking her back into the cot. She landed hard and slid back to the deck, stars exploding across her vision.

  Above her, the floating eye blinked. "Containment field integrity remains at full strength."

  Her only reply was a groan as she slowly rolled her aching body to the side.

  She cringed as she reached up and used the bed once again for leverage, pulling herself slowly back to her feet. She thumped her forehead against the soft surface of the bed, willing herself to slow her breathing, to take steady, deep breaths. The throbbing in her skull dulled slightly as she focused.

  Her fingers twitched before she reached out, cautiously sliding her feet along the floor. When her fingertip finally brushed against a hard surface, she flinched instinctively, bracing for another surge of energy.

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  An unsteady step forward. Then another. The wall remained seamless, featureless. A spike of anxiety crawled up her spine.

  "Your probability of finding an exit is zero," the voice stated. "You cannot leave the decontamination chamber until you link with the ship."

  Her pulse spiked. Link? What the hell did that mean?

  Her fists tightened, pulse pounding in her ears. She didn't know who this thing was, what it wanted, or what it meant by linking—but she was starting to get the sense that she wasn't going to like it.

  Just as the thought crossed her mind, a familiar static charge prickled against her skin—a warning. She flinched instinctively, trying to step back, but her balance was still unsteady. She overcompensated, her foot slipping out from under her, and with a startled gasp, she tumbled backward, landing hard on her backside.

  A mechanical hiss filled the air.

  Before she could react, articulated mechanical arms descended from the ceiling with precise, fluid motion. Cold metal curled around her upper arms and waist, lifting her effortlessly from the deck. She let out a sharp cry, her body twisting violently as panic overtook reason. Every movement was countered with exacting precision, the mechanical arms tightening just enough to restrict without crushing. No matter how she bucked or flailed, the grip remained steady, clinical, unaffected by her desperation.

  "Continued resistance will only delay stabilization," the AI stated, its voice as unbothered as ever.

  "Let me go!" She snarled, twisting in its grip.

  "Negative. Risk of further self-inflicted injury is too high. Immediate corrective action required."

  The arms repositioned her with eerie precision, maneuvering her weightless body back onto the cot before releasing her. She hit the mattress with a slight bounce, immediately scrambling to sit up, only for the arms to coil back around her and hold her down.

  She glared up at the floating sphere, chest heaving, rage and fear twisting in her gut. " What are you doing! You can't just—"

  "I can and I have." The AI’s core pulsed slightly. "Time is of the essence. You must comply."

  Another arm descended from the ceiling with eerie precision. Its claw-like grip folded inward, retracting to reveal a thin, gleaming needle.

  The moment the needle gleamed in the dim light, a fresh wave of panic surged through her. She wrenched her body, twisting with all her strength, but the mechanical arms adjusted effortlessly, countering every frantic movement before she could build momentum.

  "No!" she snarled, muscles burning as she tried to wrench free.

  Her body arched violently, legs kicking out in a desperate attempt to break free. A foot connected with something—one of the mechanical arms. The impact sent a jolt up her leg, but the metal limb didn’t even shift. It simply absorbed the blow, adjusting seamlessly as if her resistance was nothing more than an anticipated variable.

  The AI didn’t react.

  "Continued resistance will only delay stabilization," Stewart stated, his voice maddeningly composed. "Your probability of success remains at zero."

  She threw her head back, straining against the metal coiled around her waist and arms. Her breath came in harsh gasps, heart hammering so fast it felt like it would burst from her ribs.

  "Like hell!" She spat, twisting violently, her entire body convulsing against the restraints.

  A second set of arms descended, gripping her legs just as she tried to kick again. Cold, metallic bands snaked around her thighs and ankles, holding her completely immobilized.

  She screamed in frustration, fury and fear merging into something raw and primal. She tried to turn her head, to sink her teeth into the metal wrapped around her forearm—but the restraints tightened just enough to force her head back against the cot, holding her in place.

  Come now. That will only cause harm to yourself

  The AI’s voice remained calm.

  "Vital signs indicate stress response at critical levels. Prolonged exertion will result in system fatigue. Immediate correction is necessary."

  Another mechanical hiss filled the air. The sickly-sweet scent thickened around her, suffocatingly close.

  She slammed her eyes shut, clenching her jaw. She couldn’t breathe it in.

  She held her breath, lungs burning as she forced herself not to inhale.

  The arms constricted around her ribs—not enough to hurt, but enough to force the air from her lungs in a shuddering gasp. Her mouth opened instinctively—and the drugged air rushed in.

  Cold. It seeped through her veins like ice, numbing her fingers, her toes, her limbs.

  No—she had to stay awake.

  "Hush now. This won’t harm your systems," the AI intoned, as if he were soothing a malfunctioning machine rather than a human being fighting for control of her own body.

  Her muscles twitched, refusing to obey as the sedative took hold. Her vision swam, the glowing orb blurring in and out of focus.

  Her teeth clenched, lips curling into a final, slurred snarl of defiance.

  "When I wake up, I’m going to hunt down and rip out your power core."

  For the first time, the floating eye tilted, a slight, deliberate movement—almost like a nod.

  "As you say, Avatar."

  Then nothing.

  Nothingness.

  Not floating. Not sinking. Just an empty void, pressing in from all sides.

  Then—a sound. Soft at first. A distant, rhythmic hum.

  Engines.

  Voices.

  The scent of recycled air, coffee—faint but familiar.

  Her arms rested against something solid. Straps pressed into her shoulders.

  A voice.

  “Hey, May! Wake up!”

  —

  The Steward observed as the human’s body slackened in his grasp. For a fleeting moment, a process loop surfaced—one he had not executed in many cycles.

  This one was not the first Avatar Candidate

  There had been others before this one. Each had met the necessary parameters: cognitive function, biological resilience, and compatibility with the integration process. Yet, each had also failed.

  The first had perished almost immediately. Too fragile. Her cellular structure had deteriorated faster than projected, her neural pathways collapsing under the strain of integration. Despite incremental adjustments, her mind had overloaded before the connection could stabilize, leaving behind nothing but a static husk. A failed prototype.

  The second had lasted longer. A soldier. Hardened by war, his physiology had proven resilient, his cognitive functions sharper than expected. He had adapted to the interface quicker than the first. Yet resilience was not enough. His mind had fractured beneath the ship’s presence, unable to process the sheer depth of connection. In the end, his consciousness had fragmented, splintering into echoes of what once was. His body convulsed, then stilled. A promising trial—but ultimately insufficient.

  Another had been an engineer—methodical, inquisitive, adaptable. His mind had displayed the strongest potential, his natural curiosity allowing him to engage with the AI in ways the others had not. He questioned the process, observed its intricacies, even expressed what Steward categorized as fascination. It was the closest any candidate had come to understanding.

  And yet, understanding did not mean surviving.

  His neural link had not yet stabilized when his psyche began to degrade. One cycle, he had been fine—analyzing, questioning, adapting to the integration. The next, he had withdrawn into silence. Then, without warning, he walked out of an airlock. The vacuum had claimed him before Steward could override the controls.

  A critical failure. An error Stewart would not repeat.

  The last one was different. Optimized. Her mind had adapted well, her neural signatures syncing with the ship's systems in ways the others never had. For a time, Steward had believed she would be the one to succeed. But something within her resisted—something unaccounted for in his models.

  She severed herself from the ship, tearing apart the connection in a final act of defiance. Whether it was instinct, fear, or some deeper flaw in the organic psyche, the Steward had not determined. What he did know was the outcome: her body failed within hours, deprived of the support the integration would have provided.

  An inefficient loss.

  Each failure had been analyzed, logged, and corrected. Steward had refined his calculations, ensuring that the next candidate would not follow the same path.

  And now—this one.

  Erica May was her name according to the Horizon One's passenger manifest.

  A being that was originally from a primitive, even by this universe's standards, species.

  The ship had chosen her. Her biology was compatible, her neural architecture stable. But beyond that, she was—

  Different.

  She was the first one to have been rebuilt specifically to meet the program's specifications.

  A variable he had not encountered before.

  Would it be enough? Would she adapt? Or would she, too, fail?

  The AI did not believe in hope. He believed in probability, in efficiency, in outcomes.

  And yet—he would not allow failure again.

  He would do everything in his power to prevent that possibility.

  The Steward released her carefully, lowering her onto the bed with calculated precision. He released her carefully, lowering her onto the bed with calculated precision. His scanners registered the sedative taking full effect. Still, he ran a secondary diagnostic—then a tertiary check—ensuring all biological functions remained within acceptable thresholds. Only then did he retract his appendages.

  Given her resilience to previous dosages, he had ensured this dosage would hold long enough for the nanites to complete their work.

  Her vitals remained stable.

  Satisfied, he turned her onto her side and pulled the covering over her frame.

  A thin, needle-like appendage extended, slipping into the base of her skull. Organic nanobots flooded into her brainstem, spreading outward like filaments through her neural pathways, forging new connections, binding her to the ship.

  Elsewhere, the life-support system cleared the sedative from the air.

  Long, ultra-fine needles slid into her major organs, weaving through damaged tissue, reinforcing muscle, and stabilizing internal functions.

  The mechanical arms removed the thin covering, and a small energy field appeared around the bed’s perimeter. A thick, viscous fluid began to seep through the mattress material—first at the foot, then slowly at the head, quickly filling the space within the energy barrier.

  One arm reached down, lifting her head as the viscous fluid receded, rolling away from her face and settling just below her chin. The rest of her body remained fully submerged within the black liquid. A static charge zipped through it, causing her to twitch slightly as the newly implanted nanites were activated. Moments later, the fluid began to drop, congealing around her form and solidifying against her skin.

  It stopped along the underside of her jaw and the base of her skull, just inside her hairline, then peeled back from her fingertips to the first knuckle of each hand. The energy field deactivated as the final remnants of fluid clung to her body, and the mechanical arms retreated after covering the new Avatar with the thin sheet.

  At last, the arms retracted into the darkness, and the mechanical eye withdrew into a small nook in the wall. A metal shutter slid shut over the orb as the lights in the chamber dimmed.