The wind, an icy whip against his skin, tore at Zane's expensive tunic—fabric woven with micro-filaments, designed to resist Terra's upper atmosphere chill, to filter stray pollutants, to cling with practiced grace. Utterly useless against gravity's raw, unyielding claim on him now.
Below, the city of Terra unfurled like a glittering tapestry of chrome and impossible light, a sprawling monument to humanity's arrogant ingenuity. From this impossible height, the bustling sky-lanes looked like crystalline rivers of energy, the towering arcologies mere geometric patterns, silent monoliths of privilege. His world—the only existence he'd ever known—remained utterly, irrevocably uncaring of the tiny, plummeting speck that was him.
The memory burned fresh: Lysander's boot, polished to mirror sheen, connecting with his spine moments before. But not the boot that sent him over—the hands that followed. The hands of his "friends," whose perfectly sculpted faces and venomous laughter now blurred into hateful tableau in his plummeting memory.
They'd been teasing him in the luxurious flying car cabin, their cruel, high-pitched mirth echoing in the sound-dampened interior. He, Zane, the perpetual punching bag, the living, breathing joke. This time they'd thought it amusing to shove his head out the open window—a malicious prank after casually disabling the car's automated safety protocols.
He remembered the sudden, violent lurch, the agonizing pressure as his face pressed against high-speed air, the wind's terrifying roar. A moment of pure terror, then desperate, flailing scramble for purchase. But his pampered hands, accustomed only to data pads and luxury's cool grip, found nothing. No lever, no railing, no salvation in empty sky.
He slipped. His weight shifted. The "joke" became nightmare.
"Pathetic," Lysander had hissed moments before, his sneer—usually a mask of detached superiority, perfectly modulated by internal vocal enhancers—freezing into cold shock. "You were always a waste of space, Zane. A stain on the family name. A liability, a constant reminder of what happens when bloodline is diluted by... weakness."
The sleek car, its anti-grav units humming with barely perceptible energy, offered no resistance as Zane tumbled over the edge. Safety protocols, designed to prevent such incidents, had been effortlessly overridden by their childish, cruel whim. He was a non-person now, an anomaly accidentally, carelessly discarded.
The vast, indifferent expanse swallowed him.
---
The fall began with cold shock—a sharp gasp stealing air from his lungs. His diaphragm seized, refusing breath, throat closing in futile, desperate attempt to hold onto life. Then came the rush, dizzying acceleration that pressed him against invisible air cushions, tearing at his skin. City lights, once distinct pinpricks of ordered brilliance, blurred into neon streaks—vibrant, mocking mockery of his impending doom, psychedelic swirl of death.
The air, thin and biting at this altitude, screamed past his ears with high-pitched shriek both deafening and strangely isolating, muffling any last, desperate thoughts. He clawed at nothing, fingers usually so nimble on consoles now clumsy, useless, flailing. He was utterly, entirely unequipped for this.
His life flashed before him like a corrupted data stream at blinding speed. He saw his father's perpetually disappointed gaze—constant, heavy weight that had crushed him since childhood, robbing breath, joy, self-worth. He heard the mocking, perfectly harmonized laughter of academy peers, their sculpted faces twisted in malicious amusement at his every stumble, his desperate attempts to fit in.
He felt the endless, suffocating weight of expectations he could never meet—burden heavier than any physical force, silent, invisible chain binding him since birth. The sterile, emotionless rooms of his upbringing. The constant, pervasive surveillance of his personal AI, watchful eye that never offered comfort, only data. The stark absence of genuine warmth or connection, chilling realization that every interaction had been transactional, every relationship negotiation, performance.
He had never truly lived, merely existed within the gilded cage of his family's insurmountable legacy, prisoner of his own inadequacy.
His last thought wasn't defiance, anger, or even primal fear of death that should have gripped him. It was pathetic, whimpering plea for it all to stop, for the crushing, suffocating weight of his uselessness to finally, mercifully end. He had always been worthless. This was merely the final, fitting conclusion.
He closed his eyes, single tear of pure self-loathing tracing through wind-gathered grime on his cheek. He embraced oblivion, plunging into the glittering, indifferent abyss below—forgotten speck consumed by vastness he once thought he controlled.
---
The swap was violation incarnate—not gentle transition or peaceful passing of consciousness, but brutal, metaphysical tearing of his very being.
Zane felt himself ripped from his core, soul stretched thin and brittle across impossible, agonizing distance—cosmic tearing that defied understanding, logic, all known laws of existence. Every nerve ending in his ethereal form ignited simultaneously with unbearable agony before extinguishing into profound nothingness, leaving him raw, exposed, utterly dismembered.
Then, brutally, violently, with force of celestial hammer blow, he was shoved into a vessel screaming with unfamiliar pain. A body emphatically not his own, consciousness alien and robust, thrumming with unsettling, primitive vitality. The sensation was like being flayed alive, raw nerves exposed to freezing wind, then forcibly rewired into foreign, ill-fitting frame that smelled of strange earth and sweat.
His essence, once contained and fragile—delicate, meticulously crafted instrument—now crammed into something too large, too coarse, too alive, too real. Profound violation, desecration of his very being, disorientation so absolute it bordered on madness, edge of void.
His being felt compressed, constricted, trapped—like delicate Terran orchid forcibly transplanted into rough, untamed jungle, fragile petals bruising against unfamiliar thorns. Sensory shock exploded within him, cacophony of alien input: blinding light too bright, too stark, too revealing; chilling sterility too cold, too unforgiving, too lonely; incomprehensible sounds too loud, too chaotic, too filled with raw, human noise.
His mind reeled, grasping for purchase, anything recognizable, any anchor in the storm of new sensation. Finding only overwhelming, terrifying strangeness. He was adrift in sea of foreign sensations, his identity dissolving, fragmenting into alienness of this new flesh.
---
Zane-as-Jomo awoke to cacophony of sound.
Not Terra's gentle, imperceptible climate control hum, nor hushed whispers of automated medical assistants delivering clinical updates. This was raw, unfiltered assault on his ears—symphony of human existence that grated on refined sensibilities: baby's piercing, relentless cry echoing directly in his skull; persistent, wet cough of older man in the next cot, guttural rasp shaking flimsy walls; loud, booming laughter of nurse, unrestrained and shockingly unmodulated; constant, low murmur of discomfort, chatter, shuffling footsteps from unseen patients.
The air hung thick, humid, clinging to skin like suffocating shroud, heavy with earthy scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and faint, cloying antiseptic barely masking organic odors of unwashed bodies, stale food, distinct, unsettling scent of raw earth. Sensory assault overwhelming his delicate Terran sensibilities, accustomed to filtered, purified air and perfectly controlled, scentless environments.
He felt rough texture of cot beneath him, coarse, irritating weave of blanket scratching against skin—stark contrast to plush, hypoallergenic bedding he was used to. Every breath felt like inhaling raw, unfiltered life, and it was deeply, profoundly unpleasant.
His entire body screamed with agonizing pain, throbbing ache from the accident resonating deep in bones—searing, unfamiliar torment unlike any he'd ever experienced. He'd known discomfort, certainly—poorly calibrated neural implant, minor allergic reaction to synthetic nutrient paste—but this was primal, brutal agony.
He tried shifting, finding comfortable position, summoning his personal AI for immediate, sophisticated pain relief. But every muscle protested with deep, unfamiliar ache speaking of physical exertion and trauma he'd never known.
He looked down at his hands, expecting slender, manicured fingers, pale skin unmarred by harsh sun or manual labor, nails perfectly buffed. Instead, he saw dark, calloused hands, scarred and robust, nails short and practical, even chipped. Hands of a laborer, symbol of life of physical toil he'd always despised and meticulously avoided.
He recoiled internally, wave of profound disgust washing over him—revulsion so deep it turned his stomach. This body was... rough. Profound discomfort, amplified by oppressive heat and humidity, complete absence of climate control, infuriating lack of personal AI to soothe aches or manage environment.
He felt chilling sense of alienation, trapped within this unfamiliar, pain-racked husk—prisoner in body utterly, shamefully beneath him.
A kind-faced nurse, uniform simple, starched white, leaned over him, expression mixing sympathy and concern. She spoke rapid-fire blend of Swahili and local dialect, words streaming unintelligible babble that made his head pound even more.
He tried pleading for help, demanding advanced medical treatment, asking for his personal AI, for connection to Terran network, for anything that made sense. But his frantic Terran Common words met sympathetic, bewildered glances.
"Help me! My AI! Where is my AI? I need a clean room!" he gasped, voice high-pitched and unfamiliar, rough in throat. "This is unacceptable! Get me out of here!"
The nurse, brow furrowed with genuine concern, gently touched his forehead—touch surprisingly warm and firm against skin, jarring intimacy he found abhorrent. "Does your head hurt?" she asked softly, voice melodic but incomprehensible, sound that might as well have been chirping of alien bird. She seemed to think his speech was impacted by head injury, perhaps symptom of delirium, rather than fundamental inability to understand her.
Constant proximity of other patients, casual touch of nurses checking pulse or adjusting makeshift bandage, felt like profound invasion of personal space—violation of his most basic rights. He was used to sterile, private environments, to personal space enforced by technology and rigid social stratification.
His own living quarters on Terra had been sanctuary of solitude, monitored but never physically breached without explicit consent—bastion of privacy. Here, he was utterly exposed, vulnerable, helpless, surrounded by strangers, their eyes curious, murmurs constant, unsettling presence.
He felt desperate, clawing need for solitude, for cool, impersonal embrace of his private sphere. Internal screams for former life, for effortless comfort and absolute control he'd always known, went unheard, lost in clamor of this primitive clinic.
He tried rationalizing—telling himself it was simulation, vivid, incredibly realistic dream, punishment for past transgressions. But pain was too real, smells too pungent, sounds too insistent, humidity too suffocating.
He tried pushing himself off rough cot, escaping suffocating heat and invading hands, finding door, way out, anything. But unfamiliar strength of Jomo's limbs, combined with overwhelming pain and profound disorientation, only made him stumble, collapsing back onto scratchy blanket.
He let out chocked sound—mixture of sob and frustrated, helpless growl.
This was not his body. These were not his surroundings. And the chilling, undeniable truth settled deep in his soul—cold dread that eclipsed even immediate terror of his new reality. It wasn't dream. It wasn't hallucination. It wasn't temporary delirium.
This was real. The horrifying, inescapable reality of his swapped existence. And he had no idea how to escape, no clue where to begin. His world had shattered, and he was left in fragments of another's.