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“Huh. And who is this ‘Clooney’?”
“Only one of the most famous actors in the world,” I said.
“Does it make you feel uncomfortable for me to have this appearance?”
“No, not uncomfortable. After all, he is hot. It’s just… a little unsettling.”
He nodded.
“I understand,” he said.
He looked away and then turned back to me.
My jaw dropped.
His face had changed, morphed into a man I’d never seen before. He was much older, with thinning hair.
But the smile was the same. Only now it looked strange and sinister.
Like a magic trick by a psychopath.
Suddenly, my sense of panic was rising in my chest again. I staggered into a trolley on wheels.
“Careful,” Not George Clooney said. “We wouldn’t want you to get damaged, would we?”
Damaged.
Not injured or hurt.
Damaged.
What did that even mean?
I surveyed my immediate surroundings. It was a small room, dark, and without windows. Cold and sterile. If this was a hospital, they must have shoved me in the basement.
With the metal tools on the tabletops, it looked more like a dungeon.
That’s when I noticed the pod bedside me.
Pod.
It sounded like a strange word—it was a strange word—but it described the object perfectly. It was an oblong box with a glowing white lid.
It was where I’d been sleeping before I woke up.
I felt sick.
My eyes went to the doorway and I moved for it.
Not George Clooney moved with me, waving his arms to either side to block me.
I squealed and backed away. I was dressed in a paper gown which hospital patients always wore. I suddenly felt very exposed.
“Take it easy now,” Not George Clooney said, reaching inside his pocket.
Whatever he was grasping, I was pretty sure I wanted to see it.
My hands darted to the trolley beside me, to a bunch of tools I had barely even noticed were there. My hands seized the first thing they came to.
