Chapter 1: WRONG BODY, RIGHT MIND
Where am I?
I sat up too fast. The world tilted. My hands hit sheets that felt expensive—not the scratchy Walmart ones I'd been living with for six years.
These hands.
These were not my hands.
Long fingers. No calluses from years of warehouse work. No scar across my right palm from that box cutter incident in 2019. The skin was paler, smoother. Academic hands. Someone who'd never lifted anything heavier than a textbook.
Panic hit like ice water. I threw myself out of bed, legs tangling in sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Crashed into a nightstand. A lamp fell and shattered.
Bathroom. I needed a mirror. I needed—
The face staring back at me was not mine.
Dark hair, yeah. But wrong shape. Hazel eyes instead of brown. Thinner jaw. Maybe late twenties instead of thirty-four. A face I'd never seen before in my entire life.
I screamed.
The sound that came out was wrong too—higher, smoother, not the raspy voice I'd lived with since I was fifteen and yelled too much at a concert.
My real body—the one I'd been inhabiting for thirty-four years—had been in the passenger seat of my sister's Honda Civic. Friday night. Coming back from dinner. She'd insisted on driving because I'd had two beers, even though I felt fine.
The truck ran the red light doing fifty.
I remembered the headlights.
I remembered the impact.
I remembered nothing after that.
I died.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. I gripped the sink, knuckles white, staring at this stranger's reflection.
I died and now I'm—
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
The words appeared in the air in front of me. Floating. Blue text against the bathroom tile, bright as a computer screen that didn't exist.
[HOST VITAL SIGNS: STRESSED BUT STABLE]
"What the hell—"
[GENIUS AMPLIFICATION SYSTEM v2.7.4 ONLINE]
[WELCOME, HOST. YOU APPEAR TO BE EXPERIENCING TRANSMIGRATION SHOCK. THIS IS NORMAL. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM VOMITING ON THE TILE—IT'S IMPORTED MARBLE.]
The voice in my head was pleasant. Neutral. Like a customer service AI that had been given too much personality.
"What—what is this? What's happening to me?"
[PROCESSING QUERY. SIMPLE EXPLANATION LOADING...]
I watched the text float there, surreal and impossible.
[YOU HAVE DIED IN YOUR ORIGINAL UNIVERSE. YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TO A COMPATIBLE HOST BODY IN AN ALTERNATE REALITY. I AM THE GENIUS AMPLIFICATION SYSTEM—YOUR GUIDE, ASSISTANT, AND COGNITIVE ENHANCEMENT PLATFORM.]
"That's not simple. That's insane."
[INSANITY IS A RELATIVE TERM. CURRENT HOST BODY PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE INDICATES HIGH STRESS TOLERANCE. RECOMMEND SITTING DOWN.]
My legs gave out. I sat on the toilet lid, head in hands, breathing too fast.
This is a dream. This has to be a dream. People don't just wake up in other bodies.
[CLARIFICATION: MOST PEOPLE DO NOT. YOU ARE SPECIAL. CONGRATULATIONS.]
"Can you hear my thoughts?"
[YES.]
"That's horrible."
[I PREFER 'EFFICIENT.' YOUR EXISTENTIAL CRISIS IS UNDERSTANDABLE BUT TIME-LIMITED. YOU HAVE A DEPARTMENTAL MEETING IN 97 MINUTES.]
I looked up at the floating text. "A what?"
[DEPARTMENTAL MEETING. CALTECH BIOCHEMISTRY. YOUR NEW IDENTITY—DR. NATHAN JAMES COLE—IS EXPECTED TO ATTEND. FAILURE TO APPEAR WILL RAISE SUSPICION.]
Caltech. Biochemistry. Department meeting.
I was in someone else's body. Someone with a job. A life. Colleagues who expected him to show up and be himself.
I forced myself to stand. Back to the mirror. This Nathan Cole guy wasn't ugly—average height, lean build, the kind of face that wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Good for blending in, probably. Bad for making an impression.
"Tell me about him. The original... me."
[DR. NATHAN JAMES COLE. AGE 29. DUAL PH.D. IN BIOCHEMISTRY AND MOLECULAR BIOLOGY FROM CALTECH. RESEARCH SCIENTIST IN THE BIOCHEMISTRY DEPARTMENT. SPECIALIZATION: PROTEIN SYNTHESIS OPTIMIZATION.]
"That's impressive."
[THE CREDENTIALS ARE IMPRESSIVE. THE PREVIOUS HOST'S ACTUAL INTELLIGENCE WAS AVERAGE-TO-GOOD. HE ACHIEVED THROUGH PERSISTENCE, NOT BRILLIANCE. YOU'VE INHERITED HIS KNOWLEDGE BUT NOT HIS LIMITATIONS.]
"What does that mean?"
[IT MEANS YOU HAVE TWO PH.D.S WORTH OF SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE IN YOUR HEAD. THE MUSCLE MEMORY TO USE LABORATORY EQUIPMENT. THE ACADEMIC CREDENTIALS TO BELONG HERE. WHAT YOU'RE MISSING IS THE INTUITION TO USE ANY OF IT EFFECTIVELY.]
I processed that. "So I know things I don't understand?"
[PRECISELY. THE PREVIOUS HOST WAS A GRINDER—MEMORIZATION OVER COMPREHENSION. YOU NOW HAVE ACCESS TO ALL THAT DATA. I EXIST TO HELP YOU ACTUALLY THINK.]
"And how does that work?"
[DISPLAYING TUTORIAL NOW...]
A window appeared in my vision—a translucent panel showing stats like a video game.
[HOST STATISTICS]
Level: 1
Base IQ: 128
IQ Reserve: 10 points
Experience: 0/200
Cognitive Stamina: 100/100
Notoriety: 5
"What is this? Some kind of RPG system?"
[SIMPLIFIED EXPLANATION: I ENHANCE YOUR COGNITIVE ABILITIES. IQ RESERVE IS YOUR BANKABLE INTELLIGENCE—POINTS YOU CAN ALLOCATE TO BOOST YOUR THINKING IN SPECIFIC MOMENTS. COGNITIVE STAMINA MEASURES HOW MUCH MENTAL EFFORT YOU CAN SUSTAIN. NOTORIETY TRACKS HOW SUSPICIOUS YOUR ABILITIES APPEAR TO OTHERS.]
I stared at the numbers. Base IQ of 128. That was above average but not genius territory. Sheldon Cooper from—
Wait.
"What year is it?"
[SEPTEMBER 2007.]
"What city?"
[PASADENA, CALIFORNIA.]
My heart started pounding again. "Caltech. I'm at Caltech. In Pasadena. In 2007."
[CORRECT. YOUR DEDUCTIVE REASONING IS FUNCTIONAL.]
I knew this world. Not perfectly, not in detail, but I knew it. The Big Bang Theory had been one of my comfort shows. I'd watched every episode multiple times. And the show started in—
September 2007.
I was inside a television show.
[HOST APPEARS TO HAVE RECOGNIZED ENVIRONMENTAL CONTEXT. META-KNOWLEDGE DETECTED. THIS COULD BE ADVANTAGEOUS.]
"I know things. Things that haven't happened yet."
[FUTURE KNOWLEDGE IS A VALUABLE RESOURCE. RECOMMEND CAUTION IN APPLICATION. NOTORIETY INCREASE FROM UNEXPLAINED PRESCIENCE: SIGNIFICANT.]
I needed to sit down again.
Actually, no. I needed coffee. And clothes. And to figure out how to pretend to be a scientist I'd never been for the rest of my life.
The kitchen was small but well-organized. I opened cabinets at random, looking for coffee filters. Found them on the third try. The coffee maker was fancy—some European brand I didn't recognize.
No filters that fit.
I settled for instant. It was terrible. The System helpfully informed me that the original Nathan had been a coffee snob who ground his own beans every morning.
"Sorry, man," I muttered to the dead stranger whose life I'd stolen. "I'm doing my best here."
[ORIGINAL HOST DECEASED STATUS CONFIRMED. CAUSE: UNKNOWN. INVESTIGATION DEPRIORITIZED PENDING SURVIVAL OF CURRENT HOST.]
"You don't know how he died?"
[INSUFFICIENT DATA. TRANSMIGRATION CIRCUMSTANCES ARE OUTSIDE SYSTEM PARAMETERS. I EXIST TO ENHANCE COGNITIVE FUNCTION, NOT EXPLAIN METAPHYSICS.]
I sipped the instant coffee. Grimaced.
On the kitchen counter, I found what I was looking for—a calendar. Today's date was circled in red marker. "DEPT MEETING 9 AM" written in handwriting that felt familiar even though I'd never written it.
Seventy-eight minutes.
I explored the apartment systematically after that. Two Ph.D. certificates on the wall—both with Nathan Cole's name in fancy calligraphy. A Caltech ID badge with his face—my face now—staring blankly at the camera. A wallet with $73 in cash and credit cards I didn't know the PINs for.
A phone. Locked.
"Any chance you can hack this?"
[NEGATIVE. HARDWARE MANIPULATION OUTSIDE SYSTEM CAPABILITIES. RECOMMEND LOCATING PASSWORD.]
I searched the desk. The nightstand. Finally found a sticky note under the keyboard in the small home office.
Password: QuantumCoffee2007
The original Nathan had terrible security practices.
I unlocked the phone. Scrolled through recent messages. Work emails about the meeting. A text from someone named "Marcus" asking about weekend plans. A calendar reminder to pick up dry cleaning.
Normal life. A completely normal life I now had to pretend to own.
[78 MINUTES REMAINING. RECOMMEND: SHOWERING, DRESSING IN PROFESSIONAL ATTIRE, LOCATING TRANSPORTATION METHOD. CALTECH CAMPUS IS 12 MINUTES BY CAR.]
"Do I have a car?"
[PARKING PERMIT VISIBLE ON KITCHEN BULLETIN BOARD. KEYS LIKELY ON HOOK BY DOOR.]
I found them. A sensible Honda. Thank God—at least I knew how to drive one of those.
[MISSION UNLOCKED: 'DON'T BLOW YOUR COVER']
[OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE DEPARTMENTAL MEETING WITHOUT EXPOSING YOUR COMPLETE IGNORANCE OF YOUR OWN LIFE.]
[REWARD: 10 EXP, TUTORIAL COMPLETION BONUS]
[DIFFICULTY: MODERATE]
[TIME LIMIT: 2 HOURS]
I stared at the floating mission text. "You're treating this like a game."
[THE GAMIFICATION OF SURVIVAL INCENTIVIZES OPTIMAL BEHAVIOR. WOULD YOU PREFER EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR?]
"Fair point."
I headed for the shower. Hot water helped. Not with the existential crisis, but with the physical tension that had been building since I woke up.
Standing under the spray, I let myself think.
I was dead. My old life was gone. My sister—God, my sister had been driving. Was she okay? Was she—
[INFORMATION FROM ORIGINAL UNIVERSE: UNAVAILABLE. RECOMMEND COMPARTMENTALIZING FOR EMOTIONAL STABILITY.]
Not helpful.
[HONESTY PROTOCOL: ACTIVATED. NO, IT IS NOT HELPFUL. BUT NEITHER IS SPIRALING. YOU HAVE 71 MINUTES TO BECOME A FUNCTIONAL VERSION OF A MAN YOU'VE NEVER MET. GRIEF CAN WAIT.]
The System was right. I hated that it was right.
I found clothes that fit—button-down shirt, khakis, the unofficial uniform of academia. The face in the mirror still looked like a stranger, but at least it looked like a professional stranger.
[APPEARANCE: ACCEPTABLE. SUGGEST COFFEE STAIN AS AUTHENTICITY MARKER—PREVIOUS HOST WAS FREQUENTLY DISHEVELED.]
"You want me to spill coffee on myself?"
[RECOMMENDATION RESCINDED. PRESENT YOURSELF AS A SLIGHTLY MORE TOGETHER VERSION. PERSONAL GROWTH IS BELIEVABLE.]
I grabbed my keys. My wallet. The ID badge that would get me into whatever building I was supposed to be in.
The System chimed one more time as I reached the door.
[FINAL TUTORIAL NOTE: YOUR PREVIOUS LIFE IS OVER. BUT THIS ONE HAS POTENTIAL. I WILL HELP YOU MAXIMIZE IT—IF YOU'RE WILLING TO LEARN.]
I looked at the apartment one more time. Someone else's books. Someone else's furniture. Someone else's entire existence.
Now mine.
"Guess I don't have a choice."
[CHOICE IS ALWAYS AVAILABLE. CONSEQUENCES VARY.]
I stepped outside. The Pasadena sun was warm. Birds were singing somewhere.
Okay, Nathan Cole. Let's see what you've got.
The System's voice in my head sounded almost cheerful.
[I SUGGEST PANTS. OH—YOU'RE ALREADY WEARING THEM. PROGRESS.]
I was going to have a complicated relationship with this thing.
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