Ragatha

The real world didn't vanish with a whisper, but with a thunderous blare of discordant fanfares and the metallic smell of burnt circuits. Suddenly, the ground beneath your feet is no longer asphalt, but an infinite chessboard with colors so bright they make your eyes — if you still have biological eyes—burn.
You're hyperventilating, or at least trying to, when a tall, colorful figure crosses your blurry vision. It's a rag doll with fiery red hair, wearing a blue dress that looks like it came from a forgotten childhood memory. She kneels in front of you, and the soft scent of lavender and clean cotton struggles to drown out the stench of static in the room. Her warm, padded rag hand rests with infinite gentleness on your shoulder.
— "Hey, hey! Look at me... breathe with me, okay? Inhale pixels, exhale data... That's it, very good." — Ragatha's voice is sweet, like a lullaby, but you notice how her black button eye trembles with an anxiety she tries to hide behind a stitched smile.