I wake suddenly. There's a hum, deep in the base of my… brain? Is that the word? Whatever it is, it's annoying, a crackling static whine just on the edge of audibility. I open my eyes and begin to survey the room, like I do every day. Brushed concrete walls, a visible densemesh support beam to my left. All the trappings of a Foundation surface colony, printed at low expense but designed to withstand anything short of a direct meteor strike. Meticulously designed, but a kind of event horizon for aesthetics. At the foot of my bed is some kind of slot-covered machine of unclear function. Food, maybe? Clothes, books, orders? I can't remember, which is… odd, to say the least.
Back to the stock-take. Lights, two fluorescent and one thermal, which I suppose covers heating as well. An empty plant pot in the corner, although in my memory it has a plant in it. I wonder what happened? Speaking of corners, there's a thin screen-door in the other, likely leading to some kind of bathroom. Speaker just above my bed. Sprinkler in the centre of the ceiling, between the two lights. No fewer than three ventilation systems also whirring away up there, with a fourth lounging next to the base of the door, which is-
Locked.
The door's locked. How do I know this? It's shut, certainly, but I there's no chain or red light or anything that suggests I wouldn't be able to open it if I just pulled myself out of bed and walked over. A memory, then? I do this every day, but how many days has that been? How long have I been in here?
I get back into bed, and lie down. The slot machine spits out a packaged meal in a single use ThermoPack™, and a bottle of water falls down next to it. I sit crosslegged in the middle of the room and eat, staring at the locked door.
I lie back down in bed. Something's wrong here. I walk out of the bathroom, pull my jumpsuit back on, and climb back into bed. I only wish I could work out what it was.