The glass hemmed her in at all sides, the world beyond smeared in science, liquid-blurred into obscurity.
No sound but a machinery whir whickering around her, caressing her with promise and power and sick-slick writhing of limbs.
She incubated, foetus-like and floating, knowing nothing but the steady ebb and flow and ebb-and-flow and ebbandflow until she knew nothing of even herself any more. Just the bitter alien tang of virus erasing and rebuilding until she thought she would die but never did, never can, not any more, not behind the glass pinned like a butterfly; a cocooned specimen awaiting sunlight.