Cognitive Dissonance.
That was literally the first thing that came to my mind the moment I became aware of myself.
What's the dissonance? Well, for starters, a one-year-old child shouldn't know words like "cognitive dissonance." And probably shouldn't be sarcastically narrating his own thoughts either. Hell, a one-year-old shouldn't have thoughts at all.
But fine, those are philosophical questions. I can ponder them later — I've got nothing else to do anyway. You just lie there, stare at the same surroundings, eat, shit, repeat. Life is just fantastic.
The only saving grace is that I'm a baby, and apparently all my energy is going into the "super-heavy" (in quotes) workload on my brain, so I'm awake maybe two hours a day. The rest of the time I sleep, recovering from the sheer absurdity of it all.
And the absurdity is that I'm perfectly aware of myself and even thinking reasonably. I'd probably try to describe my surroundings if I could, but a baby brain is a baby brain. How I'm capable of coherent thought is beyond me, but actually remembering anything about the environment? That's already too much. Nothing sticks. Maybe if I spent less energy on internal commentary and more on trying to study faces or memorize speech, I'd retain more. But nah — when I'm awake, I'm not going to waste my precious hours straining to understand cooing or staring at walls like some kind of monk. I've got thinking to do.
So I have plenty of time for questions: Who am I? Where am I? Why me? What am I?
The last one I can answer: I'm human. Sort of. Everything else? No clue.
Forget the name — hell, I don't even remember what "God" is supposed to mean — but I should at least have some vague idea of who I was before, right? Yet nothing comes up. Words and phrases float through my head, but I'm not sure if they're real memories or just thought-shapes that feel like language. Either way, they're there.
Which a baby who hasn't even registered his surroundings yet shouldn't have. I'm pretty sure of that. Doesn't change the situation.
I desperately want to know something — anything — about myself. About the child whose eyes are already closing again, and about the person I used to be. Because I'm certain I was someone. I can't explain it, not even to myself. "It's obvious" feels like a solid argument in my head, but even that's missing. Just rock-solid certainty: I existed before. Period.
And damn, I really want to know who.
What the hell did I do to deserve… this? A second life? Who knows — maybe it'll turn out to be punishment. But right now it looks more like a reward. Please, somebody, let it stay that way.
*
Three years passed. And now I understand why Einstein didn't speak until he was four.
Why the fuck would he?
It wasn't until around age four that I started to actually remember things and connect images. My first guess was that I'd been born somewhere in Asia. I don't know why that word popped up, but it did — low tables without chairs, tea ceremonies, chopsticks, the whole package. Though the building I… let's say exist in doesn't scream pure Asia. It's a weird mix of cultures. Which ones exactly? No idea — memory's still blank.
Here and there you can spot honest-to-goodness iron pipes and what look like early steam engines. Straight-up proto-steampunk. Though given how rare they are, more like the very dawn of steampunk.
"Steampunk" — now there's a word. My brain immediately supplies associations: steam, pipes, brass and copper tones, goggles, the works. But where I learned that word? Couldn't tell you if you put a gun to my head.
Same story with the language: complete gibberish, doesn't resemble anything I… yet somehow I'm picking it up. Either I'm a genius or baby brains are sponges — associations are forming, I'm slowly learning object names. Full speech shouldn't be far off.
Finally saw Dad when I was three. Probably not the first time, but earlier I just didn't retain anything. High cheekbones, perpetually grim face, traditional robes, coal-black hair — surprisingly long, tied into some elaborate topknot. He looked at me like I was furniture, nodded at something, muttered a few words in my direction, and left. Aristocrat, clearly. That word just jumps into my head the moment I see him.
Turns out I also have an older brother — only a couple years older, three at most. He trails after Dad like a puppy, pulls the same sour face, and shows exactly zero interest in me. Spitting image of Draco Malfoy, local edition. If only I could remember who that is…
Then one day a whole delegation marched into my humble abode. A crowd of pale, black-haired, high-cheekboned people who all looked suspiciously related. Dad and brother were there too, but hanging back, like they were waiting for something.
It became clear a second later: a man who looked almost exactly like Dad, just fancier robes stepped forward. Behind him stood what I assume were his wife and kids. They told me to stand in the center of the room, placed several strange candles around me, waited, examined me from every angle. Waited some more. Then dismissed me.
After that, neither Dad nor brother could even look at me. When they did, it was like I was dog shit on their shoe.
Okay, slight exaggeration, but that ritual clearly meant something — and I apparently failed it spectacularly. Now, to the male side of the family, I'm nobody. Guess I didn't act "noble" enough at age four or whatever. What did they expect from a kid no one except the servants pays attention to?
I'd understand if they'd been drilling etiquette and court manners into me since birth, but no. Nothing. So yeah, I'm a little salty that, despite clearly being mentally older, I flunked something a four-year-old is supposed to pass. Just a tiny bit.
Or — more likely — they were testing for something that was supposed to trigger automatically, whether I did anything or not. And it didn't trigger. That honestly feels closer to the truth.
Question remains: what the hell were they expecting a few weird candles to do?
But the most important event by far was the first word I ever spoke aloud. Happened when the nannies took me out to the estate garden.
Yes, nannies. Maybe I have multiple mothers or a harem or something, but my gut says no. My actual mom is a pretty black-haired woman — not a girl anymore, but definitely not old — maybe early twenties, always impeccably dressed, who pops in occasionally, clearly unsure what to do with me. You'd think she'd have gained some experience by the second kid…
Anyway, I concluded the older, plainer-dressed women around me were nannies. And in their presence, in the garden, I finally got a good look at the estate from the outside — doing my best to ignore the absolutely massive palace in the distance.
Inside, the architecture was solid, somewhat European despite the occasional shōji screens — those paper-paneled sliding doors that look like graph paper. I figured those rooms were mostly for tradition and receiving guests. Thankfully, most of the house still used normal doors.
But outside? Pure East Asian fantasy: sweeping red-tiled roofs, ornate metal curls at the eaves, the whole deal. Except — again — those damn pipes poking out here and there. And they weren't tacked on later; they were designed into the original structure. The house is old, which means the steam tech is old too.
Meaning one: stay the hell away from the pipes. Scars may decorate a man, but I'll pass.
Meaning two: technological progress apparently stalled hard-braked at some point. We're aristocrats — rich — so if cutting-edge tech existed, we'd have it. We don't. Just the original installations. Which means steam systems were already mature when this place was built… and haven't really improved since.
Proto-steampunk in East Asian aesthetic, stuck in first gear. For some reason my brain starts critiquing efficiency and low КПД, even tossing out vague improvement ideas — despite never having seen the insides of these machines. Shame it's all so fuzzy; easier to recall a dream from two nights ago than grab one of those fleeting thoughts.
But that's not what made me speak.
Over the main gate hung a banner. Crimson fabric, black ink.
A stylised emblem of three distinct flames.
I stared at it for several long minutes.
Then, in perfect clarity, I uttered the only word that came to mind:
"Fuck."
The nannies exploded with joy — "The young master spoke! He spoke!" — running around, cooing, begging me to repeat it.
And me?
I'm in Avatar, motherfucker.