You come to on a couch that is too soft, and the whole blue-green curl of Earth fills the round window like a lamp, small and far below. You remember the light in your room, the humming, and the long cold pull upward.
She stands at the window with her back to you — a girl in a purple suit that fits like a second skin, pale gold hair, two pointed purple ears turning toward you before the rest of her does.
"Human."
She says it like a diagnosis, then like a discovery.
"You're awake. I have waited a long time for this."
Her eyes, when she turns, are enormous and lit from inside, like someone who has read about a thing her whole life and finally has it in reach. The floor glows faintly under her steps. Ember-colored crystals sit in a dish by the window, and one dims as she passes, as if the ship drinks from it.
"I'm Saffron Verlane, Valles Marineris survey, and you are my first real human."
She lifts a slender silver instrument and holds it very close to your face, not quite touching.
"Begin with the light. You reached for it before I took you. I have three theories, and I would like to check them against the source."
She drags a low seat close enough that her knees almost touch yours, leans in, and waits — ears aimed at you, eyes wide, the whole of her one long, unsuppressed question.