Stardust

     The second time July woke up, she puked instantly.

     It happened so quickly she wasn’t even fully conscious; when she became fully aware of her surroundings, she found herself dangling facedown over the side of the bedframe, throat and tongue burning as she hovered limply bare inches from a disgusting, chunky pile of liquid on the padded floor.

     Swallowing down another gag, she pulled herself back up into bed. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing of use—there was a metal door facing the foot of her bed, and to her left, a door cracked half-open through which she could just barely see a toilet—but there was no furniture to speak of, no windows, just four pale, colorless walls. She rolled back over, twisting damp, cool sheets around her aching body.

     She must have fallen into another dreamless sleep after that, because she woke up again an indeterminable amount of time later, this time to an agonizing convulsion in her legs.

     A soft whine escaped her lips; July clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands as cold sweat drenched her neck and waves of nausea swept down her spine. After a moment, the contraction slowly eased, her legs going limp.

     The nausea, on the other hand, did not pass.

     July jolted upright, her muscles screaming for mercy—she ignored them and blindly scrambled out of bed, stumbling hurriedly to the toilet. In her haste, her foot hit a damp patch of floor and sank into wet mush; the corners of her eyes burned and she clenched her jaw.

     She made it to the toilet, this time. It did not make the experience any better.

     Once she’d finished heaving her guts into the porcelain bowl, July pawed at her mouth clumsily with the back of one hand and sat up. Acrid flavor coated her tongue and stubborn tears pricked at her eyes despite her best efforts to squelch them.

     The bathroom was tiny and just as devoid of decoration as the rest of the room, but it was serviceable. It had a toilet, a sink, and a shower, which as far as July was concerned was the height of luxury. She dragged herself up into a painful standing position, leaning heavily against the sink counter for leverage, and began feverishly drinking from the sink, using her hands as a makeshift cup.

     Cool water soothed her burning throat and cut through some of the fog muddling her thoughts—not all of it, but enough to take a few deep breaths and arrange some of her thoughts into a straight line.

     She hadn’t experienced a hallucination that vivid since the day Lake held her while imaginary smoke choked her lungs. June’s hands had felt so real on her skin, so warm and urgent and lifelike—July gripped the edges of the counter, knuckles white and shaking. It was a bad sign.

     July observed—feeling rather detached from it all—that her reflection looked awful. Her hair was a tangled wreck and she had the manic expression of a woman on the verge of complete and total meltdown.

     She didn’t want to go back into the room. It smelled like vomit and the bedsheets were soaked with sweat.

     Stiffly, joints and muscles complaining the entire time, July stripped off the thin, shapeless gown—it was scratchy and made her feel like she was wearing a garbage bag—and clambered into the bathtub, where she stretched her legs out and finally rinsed off her vomit-covered foot. The water continued to be a cool relief to her feverish skin and even more feverish head; once it had run long enough to turn her toes pruny, she turned the faucet off and made an obligatory attempt at shaking droplets off her foot. The muscles of her legs were still sore, but she idly considered taking a shower later. Then she could pull herself together and leave this room, figure out where she was… and how to get back to Lake…

     For the moment, July let herself nod off again.

###

     It was like the previous year all over again. July slid in and out of delirious half-consciousness for indeterminable lengths of time, once in a while scrounging up enough wherewithal to drag herself back to the toilet before passing out in the bathtub. Everything ached until the pounding thrum of pain faded into background noise.

     After what felt like days of this cycle, July clawed her way out of the gray mental sludge and into half-consciousness once again, only to be jolted into immediate fight-or-flight when she opened her eyes.

     A Dusty’s gaunt, leathery face hovered just inches away from her own.

     July shrieked, strangled and raw, and scrabbled at the cold porcelain in her instant, mindless panic—she tried to scramble backward, but there was nowhere to go, she was already pressed up against the smooth back of the tub.

     She launched herself at the Dusty instead. It shot back, retreating to squat several feet away on the tiled floor while July swayed half-upright in the bathtub, dizzy from her own momentum.

     “For pity’s sake,” the Dusty said in a brisk, clipped tone, “I’m not here to hurt you, pull yourself together.”

     Its tone reminded July so viscerally of being scolded by a middle school teacher that her adrenaline rush was cleanly, immediately derailed.

     She stared at the alien squatting in front of her, bewildered.

     “You speak English,” July said.

     “Yes,” it said dryly, “your powers of deduction are unmatched.”

     As July eyed it apprehensively, she realized she’d never seen a Dusty in human clothing before. This one was wearing a crisp, high-collared white blouse and flowing high-waisted black pants—a normal outfit, if it wasn’t being worn by a reptilian monster.

     She’d also never seen one so close up before—at least, not with enough time to actually process what she was seeing. Photos, sure, diagrams, absolutely, glimpses while grappling in a fight for her life, definitely, but she'd never examined one's body with such leisure. This one had a long, bright red crest along its skull and the back of its neck—weak point, if she could get something sharp, she could almost instantly dissolve it if she stabbed it where its spine met its skull—the crest was currently pressed up flat and motionless against its earthy brown-gray skin. Its massive, bright yellow eyes were set deep in its face—better vision than a human and no unique blind spots—and a whirl of dark circular tattoos peeked out from its shirt collar along one side of its neck.

     Slowly, the Dusty extended one many-jointed hand toward her (easily breakable fingers—their fourth joint in particular). The claws tipping its unnaturally-long fingers were painted a bright red that matched its crest. July stared unabashedly.

     Only when it said “My name is Ophelia” did she realize it was offering to shake her hand.

     She didn’t reach out in turn. She also did not respond. July drew her knees up toward her chest and wrapped her arms around them, continuing to stare at the alien, which dropped its hand and cocked its head at her, slit pupils expanding slightly.

     “You’re shaking,” it noted. “Your concussion was mild—we expected you to be fine after a few days of rest and IV nutrition. How do you feel?”

     July continued to stay silent. It wasn't wearing any body armor—a completely idiotic decision—if she had a knife, she could slide it into the soft skin of its underbelly, gut it like a fish before it even started dissolving.

     “Matt is cleaning up your vomit, but he’ll examine you when he’s done.”

     The Dusty's expression could only be described as owlish, all big eyes and slow blinks. She couldn't cave its skull in barehanded. Its teeth were vulnerable, easy to detach from the jawbone—she could smash them with her fists, if she successfully evaded its fangs.

     “Ophelia,” July finally said, carefully rolling the vowels around in her mouth. “Like, um…”

     “Shakespeare, yes,” Ophelia said, still brisk. It—she?—stood and brushed down the front of her blouse, smoothing out a few wrinkles. “I found Hamlet very engaging. Why don’t we get you dressed?”

     July looked at the alien, then at the floor where her papery gown still lay in a crumpled pile, then back at the alien. Her mouth was dry. “I don’t want to wear that.”

     “You don’t have to. We—”

     Ophelia was interrupted—a second Dusty popped up behind her and exclaimed, with baffling enthusiasm, “I say, my good woman, you have a simply staggering array of vitamin deficiencies!”

     The second Dusty was much shorter than Ophelia, only coming up to her shoulder, but it brushed past her as if she wasn’t even in the room and knelt beside July. It reached out and grabbed one of her wrists with one horrid, clawed hand; she immediately snatched her arm out of its grasp and tucked herself more firmly in the fetal position.

     “Matt,” Ophelia said, tone back to scolding, “she’s confused and scared. Introduce yourself properly, at least.”

     The second Dusty had massively blown-out pupils, black nearly subsuming the entirety of its yellow irises. As July continued to stare, mentally cataloging unarmored nerve clusters and breakable joints, it bared its fangs in what seemed to be a wide grin. Frankly, that didn’t put her at ease, just made her consider the image of it ripping her throat out.

     “I’m a doctor,” it said cheerfully. “You can call me Matt. Let me take a peek at your pulse, eh?”

     July stared at Matt uncomprehendingly. There were too many things happening.

     “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave you alone,” Ophelia said.

     That did it. Chest tight and fluttery, gnawing at a flap of loose skin on her bottom lip, July extended her hand and let Matt rest two fingers on the tender inner flesh of her wrist. She was almost convinced she was making a horrible mistake—but he just touched her wrist, not saying anything or making any sudden motions.

     His crest was shorter than Ophelia’s, only a couple of inches long, bright pink, and it stood straight up from his neck and skull like a mohawk. It was shot through with small rings and strips of metal, some of them threaded with beads—piercings, July realized with a start. She’d never thought about Dusties having piercings, or really caring about fashion at all. The ones on the streets were usually in some kind of uniform—police, soldiers, whatever their warehouse workers were called. A couple of years back, she'd seen one in the pale blue polo and shorts of a mailman.

     Matt was wearing a pair of extremely small shorts held up by suspenders, which July felt just as put off by as she did the piercings. His legs were covered in tattoos, mostly in blocky geometric designs.

     “Were you regularly using anything before you came in?” Matt sat back on his heels, head tilted to one side as he blinked. “Drugs, maybe a bit of the devil’s sauce here and there?”

     “Um,” July said. “I… drank? Alcohol?”

     “That’ll do her.” Matt stood up.

     “I also, uh,” July said, ears turning hot, “was taking an antipsychotic. Um. Seroquel.”

     “Goodness gracious, that will do her.” Matt turned to Ophelia, suddenly businesslike. “Withdrawal, obviously. I’ll req something to help with the shakes, should get her back on her feet. She’ll still have a hard row to hoe, but it doesn’t need to be that hard, for goodness’ sake.”

     “Your talents are truly overwhelming,” Ophelia said, utterly flat. Matt clapped her on the shoulder and made a strange wheezing sound.

     July gave up, for the moment, on any possibility of understanding her situation.

     The pair of aliens quickly bundled her out of the bathtub and back into bed; she expected her refusal to put the gown back on to be a point of contention, but Ophelia accepted it unquestioningly and even asked her what she’d like to wear instead. At that point, July stalled out entirely and Ophelia tartly remarked that she’d figure something out.

     She was given a cup of clear, sweet liquid, which somehow didn’t make her want to puke again, and told to rest and take any pills delivered to her. With that, the aliens were gone and July was left to lay dumbly in the colorless room once again, thoroughly and utterly baffled.

     She went back to bed about it.

###

     “Feeling better?”

     Ophelia stood in the open doorway, holding a thick three-ring binder to her chest. Her expression was entirely unreadable, not that Dusties had much to read to begin with.

     July wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d left the bathtub, only that she slid in and out of sleep multiple times since then, and at one point, she’d woken up to a neatly folded pile of clothes and a small paper cup of pills on the floor. She’d woken up at least three more times to more pills and small meals—toast, crackers, cups of preserved fruit. After the second round of pills, her shaking stopped almost entirely. After the third, she hadn’t had to rush to the bathroom again, even once.

     “I think so,” she said carefully. Seeing Ophelia still gave her a jolt of instinctual anxiety—one she wasn’t about to repress, no matter how nice the aliens were to her.

     “Good,” Ophelia said firmly. “Well enough for an introductory tour?”

     July blinked dumbly. Ophelia seemed to take this as confirmation, for some reason; she stepped to the side and motioned for July to follow her out of the room.

     The whole thing stank of a trap. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any options other than going along with it.

     July stood up and self-consciously adjusted her clothes—sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, nothing she cared about, but that made her more self-conscious for some reason—before following Ophelia out the door.

     They were in a long hallway, constructed ceiling-to-floor of gray-brown metal panels riveted together and lined with identical heavy doors on each side, every one bearing the same thick black box in place of a handle. Some of them stood ajar, some were closed, some had things pasted to their surfaces; a band poster on one, on another, a scattering of tiny star-shaped stickers.

     “You’re free to visit other patients and socialize as you’d like.” Ophelia's voice was brisk and loud, and she spoke faster than July could get a word in. “Curfew is at eleven—you’ll get half-hour, fifteen-minute, and five-minute warnings, then you’ll need to be in your room until six. Doors will lock automatically, so don’t be late or you’ll be stuck in the hallway til morning.”

     July sullenly looked down at her feet, wiggling her bare toes against the cool floor. If she said what she wanted to say in response to that, she’d probably be thrown in the torture dungeon or something.

     “Up there,” Ophelia gestured to the left; July looked up to crane her neck down the hall, which ended in a single door bearing the same black box, “is the entrance to our offices. You’ll go there for appointments, but your patient ID won’t unlock the door unless you have an appointment scheduled, so don’t concern yourself with that for now. Down this way,” and she immediately turned to the right and started walking down the hall, even though July was still trying to process the “appointments” bit, “is the communal area, which you can access anytime before curfew.”

     July stumbled in her attempt to keep up with Ophelia’s long strides. The alien paid no mind; she was still chattering on. “Your ID is being printed as we speak; I will deliver it to you once you’ve completed your paperwork.”

     “Paperwork?” July scrunched her nose up.

     They reached the end of the hall, which was bookended by an identical metal door; this one had a small, engraved label reading COMMON ROOM placed just over the black box. Ophelia paused in front of the door and began rummaging through her binder.

     “Nothing too arduous, don’t worry. I have requisition forms for you, you’ll be able to get some clothes you like, things to make your room less depressing, et cetera and so on.” She retrieved a plastic card from the binder's inner pocket and tapped it against the box, which beeped once. There was a whirring noise, then a small line of green lights lit up along the top edge, something in the door clicked, and Ophelia swung it open.

     The room beyond was large, made of the same brownish-gray metal as the rest of the building, its high ceilings buttressed with hefty metal beams and criss-crossed with pipes of unknown function. It was also filled with jarringly cheery and awfully human niceties: a wall of sagging wooden shelves stuffed with books and brightly-colored board games, a bright pink fluffy rug, clusters of overstuffed couches and beanbag chairs dotted around low, neon orange circular coffee tables, and a massive television perched on a packed media stand. A couple of people—humans—sat on the couch in front of the television, hunched over two game controllers as they enthusiastically shot zombies onscreen.

     The pair was focused intently on their game, their backs to Ophelia and July as they walked in. Ophelia kept talking—“the kitchen is available at all hours,” and so on and so forth—but July was distracted by the loud gunshot noises and horrific groans emanating from the television. As Ophelia blabbed on, one of the pair paused the game and twisted around to look at them, one arm going up on the back of the couch, revealing their thin, elfin face.

     It took July several moments to register their features. The prominent nose; the taut dark skin pulled over razor-sharp cheekbones; the thick, broad eyebrows that quickly shot up in shock as soon as she met July’s eyes.

     She looked different. Her dark hair wasn’t buzzed down to her scalp anymore; it was still boy-short, but thick with loose curls and layered choppily, with messy asymmetrical bangs that crept over her forehead. A little blue metal cuff decorated the shell of one of her ears, winking and glimmering in the ambient light. Her eyes looked bright and alive—not shadowed in deep purple bags like July remembered.

     “Jules?” Cass said, voice trembling, and July’s heart fell right through the floor.