Camilla opened her eyes, gasping, taking her first breath in a thousand years. Light flooded into Camilla's eyes, but it didn't affect her. Camilla's eyes flashed a bright blue for a second, before returning to their usual grey. In her mind, only a few hours had passed from since she fell asleep in St Fiona's Hospital, when Dr Emily Williams had spoken to her. But something was different. Everything was different. Green roots and fluffy moss covered where the once perfect white tiles stood quietly. All the medical equipment was gone, all that remained was Camilla in her bed. A window allowed rays of shattered light to reach into the room, illuminating Camilla. She realised she was holding the crowbar. It was cold and unforgiving on her skin. She dropped it, letting it fall to the ground, falling almost silently, with a light 'thud' on the roots. A thick brown substance melted into the roots. Camilla shoved a root off her legs, feeling the disgusting wet thing crawl off her like a snake. As she sat up the brown moved, and Camilla, thoroughly confused, looked behind her. Her eyes widened in surprise as she realised...it was her hair! How had it grown so long? And what happened to the hospital? Camilla rolled off the bed, feeling energised after a sleep, and looked under the bed for a scalpel or something sharp to fit her hair with. The floor was soft, dark as night filled with green, but softer than a cat's fur. A terrible smell hit Camilla's nose, rotten eggs and outdated milk. Perhaps from the fridge? Camilla cringed, starting to breathe out of her mouth to block out the smell. She gagged on the stench as it flowed into her system, then released itself. Her gloved hand reached under the metal frame. Machinery lay in her way everywhere, black pipes and gears, lifting the top half of the bed up, which gave Camilla a headrest for the past one thousand years. Camilla swept her other hand over the moss, in both curiosity and wonder. It was like nothing Camilla had felt in living memory, growing in up a city full of litter of towers that scarred the sky, it was strange, different. Camilla loved the way it felt, for all her disconcert and bewilderment. Her hand searched around trough the black, finally closing around something. It was lifeless, stone-cold, but Camilla pulled it out anyway. It was quite small, thin and flat, almost as if was drawn on a piece of paper. Nevertheless, she retreated her hand, clutching the cold steel tightly. Her eyes danced around the scalpel, gently surveying the instrument carefully, picking out its faults and its flaws. Camilla shrugged and raised a hand to her hair, grasping the smooth strands with an icepick grip, she cut her hair roughly around the beginning of her neck, not caring how it would look. It took a few tries, but finally, Camilla managed to slip out the majority of her hair back into a comfortable length. She picked out the crowbar, dry as a day in the Sahara, and stood up. She scrambled amongst the roots to look out the window. The city was a ruin. Crumbling pieces of this and that, and the only was the climb the towers were small handholds every metre or so. Camilla's mouth dropped open. This is her home. This was her home. And she didn't know what it was now.