Chương 1: Waking Up

I awoke to soft persistent beeping. Bright lights. I tried to swallow and move, but my body barely responded. As awareness returned, I recognized that this wasn't my room—it was a hospital. I was in a hospital. Panic quickly set in as I tried to get a glimpse of what happened to me—why I couldn't move. I felt so weak. There was a blanket on me. Tucked into the bed and I couldn't lift it. I could barely tilt my neck to see it. Something seemed off about the room as well.

I couldn't quite identify the issue, though everything did look more vibrant, clearer. I realized I wasn't wearing my glasses but could still see, and better than ever. Thankfully, I wasn't alone for long. The beeping, I suspected, attracted a nurse. She was young enough to pass as a teenager, but moved with confidence. She silenced the alarm, then reached out to gently pat my head. I flinched at the unexpected contact and the mildly condescending tone inherent to such an action.

"It's okay honey, you're safe, you're safe," she cooed. Soft brown eyes met mine with a warm smile. Her words, or maybe just the simple fact someone else was there, did manage to calm me enough to identify the issue with the room. Everything was too big, including the nurse. Her hand engulfed most of my head, but everything else was built to her scale. Also, all the hospital equipment looked old. Not 'falling apart' old, just not modern.

"Wha–" I tried to say, but my voice came out so weak I couldn't recognize it. I started to cough. A weak noise, feeble enough it disturbed me more than the hospital room itself.

"It's okay," she repeated, "I'm here, Honey. You're alright. Just waking up after sleeping for a long time." There was something in the way she said it that almost sounded patronizing. Still, I was calming down. Whatever happened that put me here was over. The past was the past. I needed to understand my current situation and move forward. Despite my situation, I wasn't in pain. On the contrary, I felt pretty good overall, just tired and weak. My suddenly improved vision was nice too. … I was probably on drugs.

It fit with the hospital setting, but I felt oddly alert and aware for being numbed. I decided I wouldn't try to speak again for now. Even my throat was tired. Doctors don't diagnose themselves. I reminded myself. Not that I was a doctor—I was in school for a business degree—but if I was on mind-altering substances I would have a hard time accurately understanding my situation. Another, much older, woman with greying hair entered the room. She was wheeling in a cart of equipment.

The first nurse moved aside to check a clipboard.

"Wow, she actually woke up," the new nurse said after meeting my eyes. Then she let out a chuckle, "And her guardians were talking about pulling the plug."

"Chloe! She's right here, you can't say that!"

"Oh calm down girl, no one is ever cognizant this early after waking from a coma." COMA? Also, Pulling the Plug!? My mother was going to just let me die? Sure we didn't even like each other, but that… wait had they been referring to me as a girl? Maybe I was more out of it than I thought.

"You'll learn," the new woman was saying.

"It takes the brain a while to fully reconnect after something like this. Expect amnesia and a lot of confusion if they lease us for the follow up work." She let out a tired sigh.

"At least she's young, much better chance at full recovery." The panic was starting to come back. This wasn't good. Definitely something wrong. A lot of somethings. Another soft alarm started going off, not at all like the stressful ones on medical shows.

"Hmm, I'm seeing tachycardia, administering 2mg of lorazepam." For the first time, I noticed an IV drip attached to my arm. Chloe, the second nurse—or maybe she was a doctor—injected something into the inlet with practiced movements. I redoubled my efforts to move—to sit up and see what happened to my body. The first nurse returned to my side; reaching out to either soothe me or restrain my movements. I managed to get a glimpse of the general shape of my body under the blanket. The women weren't big— I was small.

Disturbingly small. If those bumps in the sheet were my feet I could pass for a child. A young child. What the hell was going on?

"Actually, this might be a good opportunity for you. Want to run primary on her therapy?" I moved the hand without the drip and checked between my legs. There was nothing there besides clothing and a tube taped to my inner thigh. The edges of the room began to blur. I felt dizzy, the numbers on the heart monitor were going down. The first nurse said something. She smiled. I realized I never learned her name, her nametag was folded over. Something else was said. Was there another person here? Probably not important.

I tried to count them, but they kept splitting, becoming more, then reforming. The walls were turning pink. The nametag. I realized if I could read it, everything would make sense. My hands were trapped under the blanket. But I needed it. Needed it more than… hands needed… shoes? I tried anyway. I reached out without my hands. Then tried harder when nothing happened. The clip snapped and the tag fell right in front of me, face up. Delighted, I looked it over. Her name was incomprehensible squiggles.

I tried to hold back my laughter, but someone else was giggling with the high pitch of a prepubescent girl. More words. More sounds. More colors. Something was wrong, but it couldn't be that bad? I was alive… I felt good… I was tired. I closed my eyes. v^v^V^v^v I stared into the mirror. I had straight raven-black hair extending a little past my shoulders, framing a pale girlish face. My eyes were dark brown. My features could even be called cute.

One of the first things I went through after waking up the second time was a checkup. The doctors said I was within the fifth percentile for height, making me smaller than almost any other 10 year old in England. I was right on the edge of being tested for dwarfism. Definitely different from the six-foot (183cm), 24 year old, lanky, brown-haired American that I was just a week ago. The weirdest part was how natural, how right, this body felt. No unexplained discomfort, no issues with proprioception, no dysmorphia.

This felt more like my body than my original ever did, which was scary by itself. It was like thorns I didn't know about were removed from all over my body. I was comfortable in a way I just wasn't before. A lot of that was simply an increase in sensitivity. Younger body meant newer, less worn senses. I could smell more. Hear clearer. Touch and feel things with amazing precision. Taste nuances in food I had forgotten; shame it was only hospital food I got to experience that with so far.

I also didn't need glasses anymore. The amount of detail I could see was amazing. Glasses didn't fix the inability to see those minute differences in colors I could now experience. Such a small thing in comparison to my body as a whole, but it was impossible to ignore. This change at least, was an undeniable positive—and I loved it. My hand kept drifting toward my face, wanting to adjust something that wasn't there anymore. At the same time, it was almost as disconcerting as looking down at 'my' new body.

Not just in the lack of male genitalia, but in the disturbing, emaciated torso and legs of a child Then there were the big questions. Did I kill the original owner of the body when I somehow took it over? Did my body die somehow? How did this happen in the first place? My confusion and worry wasn't helped by the fact that the date was currently early summer of 1992. I hadn't just imagined things here looking like older models; I had somehow time-traveled back to before I was even born. It was too much.

I made a few faces in the mirror. It was a workout prescribed by the doctors. Being in a coma for more than a year had atrophied all the girl's muscles. It was also helping mentally to get used to the new sensations, the new face. None of this made any sense. I spent literal days while stuck here, trying to think of other explanations. But nothing fit. I was too aware for it to be drugs, hallucinations, or a coma.

If something was going wrong inside my head things shouldn't be consistent and detailed for days on end. Neither was I one for believing in grand conspiracies. The more moving parts something had, the greater the chance of something 'leaking' or outright breaking. I wasn't important enough to warrant the resources that would've been needed to pull something like 'time travel' and 'body transfer' off, or even trick a human brain into believing it was happening.

On the other end of the spectrum, if someone wanted human test subjects, it was no doubt easier to target a hermit—or someone homeless—instead of a well documented international student with a whole lot of legal papers in their name. Eventually—without any answers, or even any real leads to investigate—I was forced to accept my situation as reality and move on. For now, I would live the life of a ten year old girl and stay quiet about my memories of the future.

I didn't exactly have the greatest pride or attachment to my previous life. I wasn't close with anyone. I wasn't deathly ill—or at least I hadn't thought I was—but I also wasn't the healthiest. All I was really leaving behind was academic achievements and a mountain of student debt. An objective view of that life was a bit sad. If this was reality, then I probably had died somehow. No one would miss me all that much. My mother might pretend to cry at my funeral, but would anyone care within ten years?

If I was going to live this life, I wanted more. Perhaps it was too soon to be thinking about this, but near death experiences and major life restructuring probably forced the issue for most people. Suddenly becoming a girl was a bit weird, but gender was the least of my concerns at the moment. I could live with the change, not that I had much choice. Hormone therapy was expensive and it didn't seem like I had much external support or funding. Maybe—if I was experiencing dysmorphia or something—I'd be more upset.

As it was, it just wasn't a priority next to everything else. There was bound to be headaches involved with my new sex, but there were bound to be benefits too. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. I met the girl's eyes in the mirror, my eyes, and tried out a joyous smile. It was still a little off. Not quite what I was looking to convey. I'd need to get more practice. The first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself.

I wouldn't have chosen this, but I would accept it. I'd make the most of it. I'd become better than I ever was before. At the very least, time travel to the early days of the internet allowed for a lot of easy opportunities to get absurdly wealthy. Especially for someone who 'recently graduated' with a business degree. This was my life now. I was a girl. I was Lyra. A new life. A new person. I was no longer… him. Knocking on the wall just outside the bathroom broke me out of my contemplation.

The bathroom here wasn't actually walled off, it was just a sectioned off part of the room with a wide opening covered by a curtain. Also, the staff here was referring to it as a loo. I was as well, but internally I was auto-translating to Americanisms.

"Lyra, you're taking a while. Need any help?"

"I'm fine!" I responded quickly. Trying—and failing—to hold back a blush at being caught staring into a mirror for so long. The first few days after waking up had been some of the most embarrassing and harrowing I'd ever experienced. I was fairly sure that Charlotte—the nurse from when I first woke up—had been taking some very non-professional enjoyment in teasing me over that discomfort. Not that I could exactly hold it against her.

Despite the teasing, she hadn't complained once as it became apparent I was entirely reliant on others for everything. Being an invalid sucked. I braced myself with both arms and shakily rose, stumbling my way about three feet to the side, then collapsed exhausted into my wheelchair. One meter. I chided myself. No more measuring in imperial. Need to get used to the British-isms. I was meeting my guardian today. If they noticed anything off about 'Lyra', it was bound to be my accent and word choices.

I needed to be careful. I was told this first month would be the worst. As I got strength back in my limbs I would be able to move more and recover quicker, but until then, short bursts of activity were all I could manage. I wasn't positive, but the amount of atrophy I was dealing with seemed excessive. There had to have been methods for a 'long-term care facility' like this to prevent some of it (this place apparently wasn't a full hospital, just a facility for—as the name suggested—long-term medical care).

I had a feeling that Lyra's– my guardian's plan to pull the plug might've led to some costs being cut before the papers were signed and sealed. I'd have looked up the information about coma care online, but personal computers were rare in 1992 and search engines hadn't even been invented yet. At least I shouldn't feel too bad over 'taking the body' if the girl was about to die regardless. Charlotte strode inside, smiling widely. Notably, without waiting for me to confirm I was decent.

All but confirming she was watching through the gap between the wall and curtain. She knelt down by my side.

"Aren't you excited! Your family is here, signing in right now. You get to go home! Your own bed!" I looked away, feigning petulance.

"They're not my family."

"Aww Lyra, don't say that."

"It's true though, and they haven't even visited since I woke up." It really was true they weren't my parents—not just for myself, but for 'Lyra' too. I only learned it yesterday, but she was raised in a 'children's home', which was basically an orphanage. Her guardians– my guardians functioned as live-in staff and basic educators for kids under the age of adulthood that couldn't be fit into foster care for whatever reason.

"They're here now! I'm sure they came as soon as they could. Adults have a lot of responsibilities, you know." I put on my best pout.

"Couldn't I just stay with you, Miss Charlotte?" Her smile grew a little more genuine, clearly pleased, but she still responded in the negative.

"No, Lyra. I'm a bit too young to be a mother, and I wouldn't be able to give you the life you deserve. You'll find a proper family out there." She leaned in and gave me a hug, I managed to hold back from writhing in disgust. She was a little too fond of touching for my preferences.

"A family that will love you for who you are, and give you everything you need." I returned the hug, for the act, but rolled my eyes where she couldn't see. Her sappiness was fine—she was talking to a 'worried child' after all—but even a normal ten year old would hear the nonsense in those assertions.

"If I can't stay with you, can you tell me more about the orphanage or who came to pick me up? I still can't remember them, do you think they'll be mad at me?"

"No one could be mad at such a well behaved princess." gee… thanks. She pulled back from the hug, grabbed a brush, and began tidying my hair.

"I don't know much about Strawberry House—it's a little far from here—but I hear it's in a very nice area.

"As for who is picking you up, it's Madam Parish; your primary guardian. She arrived about an hour ago and has been working on some paperwork. She seems a little strict but I'm sure she cares deeply for you." She finished with my hair, grabbed the handles of my chair, and wheeled me out of the little room I'd mostly been trapped in for the last week. Even if it was a simple interaction—and the information I got was lacking—I was pleased with the results.

The conversation had gone just as I directed it, Charlotte responding exactly as I predicted she would. It was manipulation on my part. I fully understood that and didn't care. Controlling social situations wasn't evil. It was a skill, and like any skill, it didn't need to be used for 'dark deeds'. A person's motivation, what they achieved with their actions, and the collateral caused, are what really matter in regards to ethics.

Being cognizant about everyone's goals in a discussion and intelligently guiding things to an optimal outcome for those participants was something that should be praised in my books. We boarded an elevator and waited in silence as the lift descended. In this case, it had become apparent to me early on that Charlotte didn't like the idea of adopting, and wasn't yet prepared for the associated costs and responsibilities that would come with motherhood.

However, she did enjoy acting as one in short bursts; in a situation like this where she could control her level of involvement. Giving her opportunities to act on those urges—and dropping a few small comments about how she might excel as a mother—gave her no end of enjoyment. On my end, while I wasn't as concerned as I pretended, all of the—admittedly little—information I'd heard about the children's home had been fairly negative. Either they were poor, corrupt, or didn't put forth much effort for their charges.

Probably all three. I was anticipating a terrible experience. Getting some tidbits of information on them—and getting practice with my primary method of interacting with others in a new body—was bound to come in handy. Interacting with people was simply the most vital skill someone could have. Humanity's success was due, in large part, to society. No matter how skilled or knowledgeable an individual became, a team of people would achieve more. Also…

Maybe that was somewhere I could improve my quality of life this time around? I never had any close friends before. Never needed them. Solitude was just more enjoyable most of the time. Maybe I should make more of an effort this time? I always did envy those effortless friendships. Manipulation might be a terrible way to go about getting them, but so long as I wasn't trying to harm others, I should be able to find someone who'd benefit from my way of doing things.

I'd impose myself on that person and become their friend. Even more than the raw knowledge of a slightly more advanced version of Earth and more years of education, a better understanding of myself and others—at an earlier apparent age—was probably the biggest gain from whatever had been done to me. The next question would be how much a different body and circumstances affected what I understood about my psyche. My musings were cut short as we arrived at the checkout.

The room was empty save for the clerk at the desk and a middle-aged woman in an old-fashioned—or modern? —dress and dark brown hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her severe-looking features weren't softened by a clearly irritated expression and tense body language. The woman, who had to be Madam Parish, turned as we approached. Her face went blank as she met my eyes. Body language effectively closing down, giving me nothing more to read.

At least she didn't scowl at me or something, but hiding reactions when meeting a child they provided for wasn't exactly promising. Maybe I could apply for a boarding school? I was ten right now and in England. If Harry Potter was to be believed, kids in England could start attending one at eleven. It'd give me an escape if my fears proved accurate. More than a decade of school to look forward to. I realized with horror. Maybe I could skip grades. Madam Parish, or maybe Ms?

We didn't use 'Madam' in the US and I wasn't sure about the difference, but I thought Madam translated to something like 'respected elder' where Ms implied someone younger but still respected and unmarried? Anyway, I decided to refer to her as a Ms in my head. It sounded better, she was only in her mid 30s at most, and she wasn't wearing a ring. Ms Parish strode over to us, gave me a short visual examination, then addressed Charlotte.

"Nurse Campbell? The doctor says she has amnesia?"

"Yes Ma'am, retrograde. Her technical knowledge seems essentially intact, but places, people, and events give her problems." Ms Parish gave me a quick, suspicious glance.

"She hasn't been causing… issues for you, has she?"

"Oh no," Charlotte said with a giggle, "it's been nothing like that, she's a perfect little angel. Though I think you should know, amnesia like this can be permanent."

"Of course," she replied tersely, without the slightest change in expression, "Is she ready to leave?"

"Yep! You were informed of her mobility issues and suggested therapy?"

"I was. We own a chair already; it's in the van."

"Then I think we're set. If you want to bring your car around, I'll say goodbye." Ms Parish nodded to Charlotte, and gave me one last suspicious, almost weary, glance. Then turned and left out the main sliding-glass doors. Charlotte crouched down at my side. A wide happy smile splitting her face.

"See? Nothing to be worried about, Ms Parish cares deeply for you." I stared at her. Was she talking to the same person I was observing? Was she that much worse at understanding social cues than I was? Ms Parish didn't even address me, let alone show affection. Not exactly a comforting reunion. Whatever. I already knew things were going to be 'less than ideal' where I was going, and I also knew I wasn't going to get any help here. No need to sour the goodbyes.

Instead, I used the smile I had been practicing earlier.

"Yeah, I guess I was getting worried over nothing. Thanks for everything."

"I'll miss you Lyra. You're a smart girl. Go on and do great things." She reached out and started petting the top of my head, like a dog. Also messing up the hair she had just combed. At least I wouldn't have to deal with her touchy-feely shows of affection where I was going. Something told me hugs would be in short supply. She rolled me through the automatic doors and waited with me quietly while Ms Parish brought around a worn and rusted white Ford Transit.

It was almost disappointing that it didn't have 'Free Candy' written on the side. Charlotte helped one last time as I transferred seats into the van, gave a little wave, and left me with Ms Parish. Not even bothering to look back. I couldn't help but feel a bit down. The first person I met in this new life, and I was probably never going to see her again. I was going to miss her naive optimism. Ms Parish paused to look back at Charlotte.

The automatic doors—which were working fine a moment ago—were malfunctioning now, and the nurse was struggling to get them open. Ms Parish swallowed, visibly braced herself, and drove the van out of the parking lot. What a weird reaction. She didn't speak at all for at least thirty minutes as we navigated through a city I didn't recognize. The city transitioned to countryside, again without comment. Eventually, I decided to be the one to break the silence.

"So… I don't suppose you're just pretending to be from the orphanage, and are actually a kidnapper?" She didn't answer. Her body tensed a bit, but her eyes stayed glued to the road.

"If you are, you should probably choose better targets– I'm both sickly and handicapped; you're gonna need to put in a ton of effort into my recovery to make a profit selling me as a slave or harvesting my organs."

"Lyra. If you cause problems in the car, you can walk the rest of the way back." Silence descended once more. As much as I wanted to poke at her, distracting an angry driver I knew so little about, especially after being warned, was pushing it. At least she wasn't yelling or hitting me over a bit of sass, so I probably wasn't being delivered to a worst-case scenario. Honestly, I was getting a small sense of nostalgia. She reminded me a bit of my past-life's mother with her distant, business-first demeanor.

Not that dear old mom would ever willingly work with children. Still, I wasn't a fan of adults in general. Too many unknowns in an entire life lived, if that made any sense. I may have been 24 in my past life, but I had never really felt grown. Maybe she's just a really nervous driver… Unless– What if she's related to whatever caused me to wake up in this body? She's just the pickup for the faceless government agency– or the aliens!

The thought caught my attention and I got lost considering the, admittedly unlikely, possibilities until we slowed at a red light. A cosplayer wearing a robe caught my attention. He was off in a distant field and yelling at a tree. I smirked a bit at the unusual sight; he was too far away to hear anything, but the wind was making the tree look like it was shying away from the wannabe wizard's rant.

We eventually pulled off the road and drove up to an old, three-storey brick building with a more modern, fenced-in, play area attached. Etched into the stone over the entrance were the words "Strawberry House."

"We're here," Ms Parish said.

"You've been given a temporary room on the ground floor, next to the front office. I'll be in charge of your physical therapy and assistance until you can move about on your own."

"Sounds wonderful," I said flatly. Ms Parish's only reaction to that was another weary glance.

"Father John will be in charge of your remedial lessons."

"Will I need to access the upper floors? What's up there?" She paused. I could almost see the churning of her thoughts as she considered the full implications of my 'amnesia' for the first time. It was one thing to be told someone you know lost memories, and another to be confronted by that person not recognizing where they presumably lived all their life.

It was a pretty convenient circumstance, and I would be making full use of it in the coming weeks to help dismiss inconsistencies between myself and whoever Lyra used to be.

"The usual living quarters are on the top floor. The first floor contains general classrooms, along with the staff offices. The ground level is primarily community spaces, and your temporary quarters are an unused room inside the old front office. There's a private staff lavatory in there, as well as a meeting room where you'll be given lessons and physical therapy." She exited the vehicle and began setting up a battered and rusted wheelchair.

"Classrooms? It's a school?" I asked once she opened my door.

"It used to be, and lessons are still taught here, but less formally than those at an institution. You'll be expected to apply for, and attend, a proper secondary school. Being a year behind will cause you difficulties, so I expect you to take your studies seriously."

"I was thinking about that earlier. Do you think it would be advantageous to lean into my medical issues for a scholarship?" How open are you to the idea of necessary manipulation?

"I would need to look into it, but don't rely on tricks for your future. A success story will always be preferred to one of straight charity." A more thoughtful response than I'd expected after the silent drive. People were rarely simple, even if the mind liked to stereotype. She helped me out of the van and settled me in the chair. We rolled up a newly installed plywood ramp to the main doors of the building. There was an average-looking, middle-aged man installing a railing to the construct.

He smiled and nodded as we rolled past. This was it. Until the start of the next school year I would be living here. I'd need to be on the top of my game just to blend in. She paused at the top. After a few seconds without movement, I asked if something was wrong.

"Why are you putting on an American accent?" she asked suspiciously. … Oh… Crap.