In an abandoned hospital in what used to be London, England a small figure lay resting on a hospital bed in the corner of a room. Feeble patches of moonlight, one of the few sources of illumination left, lit up the dirty grimy windows keeping the faint light from creeping inside the decrepit building. The room was frigid and dark, the monotonous grey of the room a dull sight to behold except that one corner. The body, a young female who appeared to be in her early twenties rested between thin white sheets, breathing steadily as her body rose and fell as if in time with an invisible beat. Vibrant red hair which spilled out onto the pillow that hung down through the hospital bed sidebars, ginger lashes, and pale pink lips were the only color in this depressingly drab place. The cheap metal table that was placed next to the bed contained nothing more then dead flowers, a t.v. remote, and a pitcher of chilled, red liquid.

This deserted St. Marks hospital was hidden behind a thicket of Sycamore trees. A germ warfare scare had brought the majority of England fleeing to other countries, leaving the disbelievers to hole up in their homes. When news hit the St. Marks hospital, the doctors and nurses, and other services provided by the hospital fled- leaving the patients, even the terminally ill and dying, to their own devices. Most of the people in the hospital died from the neglegence, others managed to evacuate by themselves. Some were lucky enough to have family come to their aid, but the rest were left unattended and were therefore sentenced to death. When this germ warfare scare was just a hoax, people started coming back to England slowly, still unsure. But by then, war had started to become an all too common occurance. It happened frequently, it was unrelenting. St. Marks was long forgotten. Shrubbery and Sycamore's began growing thick and plentiful around the small hospital. It had already been in a secluded private location, and now with the plantation surrounding it, St. Marks was a discarded memory. But maybe that was a good thing, considering all of the decomposed dead within the walls. All had died... except for Siobhan.

The only living breathing body inside St. Marks was Siobhan. A comatose patient who had lived in that hospital for nine years and survived throughout all the feuds that had hit England. The hospital itself was like a protective shell. It had endured the climate and atmosphere change, all the scares and wars, and inevitably stood strong through the fall of man. But what was stranger? The building refusing to come down or the fact that Siobhan was still alive, still comatose, and also not running on any hospital equipment?

Electricity had burnt out.

A soft ruffle of bed sheets, a flutter of eyelashes, and a soft disoriented groan confirmed that Siobhan was slowly stirring. Her eyes opened, taking in her foreboding surroundings. The stained deteriorating walls, the ceiling that was caving in on the opposite side of the room, and how the room's blatant barrenness of this unfamiliar room sent her heart racing. Where am I? She breathed deeply, then exhaled. Surely, this is all a dream. Her nostrils tingled smelling the mildew and filth and a sour, putred stench. The scents were overwhelming, she was beginning to smell everything from the dust on the windows to the breeze outside. Dizziness consumed her head, she braced herself on the hospital and tried to get a hold of herself.

"I must be dreaming," Siobhan told herself, noticing the roller-table next to her bed. Her eyes looked from the dead flowers, to the remote, and then finally to the pitcher of liquid. Without warning, her senses began to buzz as the mysterious liquid practically beckoned to her senses. Eyeing it almost hungrily, she touched the pitcher with a pale hand. Unlike the vase of dead flowers and the remote, the pitcher was dust-free.

Meanwhile, slinking through the Sycamore growth two figures in thick woolen robes made their way to St. Marks. It was time. Time for their heavily guarded secret to come to, to be shown the world, living as their precious gem. The only ray of light, their only shred of hope.

"You are sure she is supposed to wake up tonight?" The doubtful tone did not discourage the other.

"My darling, on a night like this, isn't it obvious? Even the moon has come out to watch."

"Vaul, I do believe you are getting a bit too careless... what if she refuses us. What if she refuses her new life? The way that things are now, it's going to take a toll on her mind, she could be weak she could decide to take her own life. It's a wonder no one has gone back here and claimed her for themselves."

The one named Vaul brushed back a few thorny branches for the other to pass through unscathed.

"She is a Vada now. That is all that matters."

As if this retort had deterred all doubt, Vaul Vada couldn't help but feel relentless excitement, while he could have sworn he felt his partner sigh. He smirked, not seeing this side of her in years. They continued along, making their way through the dense bramble. Somewhere not too far off in the distance, a strained yelp pierced the night but neither of the two paid any mind. But very suddenly, Vaul's partner Giavonni, stopped as she held out a hand towards Vaul, abruptly stopping him in his tracks. He looked at her, concern etched in his face. "What is it?"

Giavonni gazed back, her eyes clouded over with a burning curiosity and an uncomprehendable emotion.

"The heir to the Vada line has woken."

He looked at her, lips twitching as she whispered, almost raspily...

"Vaul, she is awake."