"Hey mate, have you heard yet?" came a familiar voice from the other side of the plant as I looked up from a gauge I was busy checking and raised an eyebrow while shaking my head.
The co-workers walked up to me and continued, "Profits are down, so no bonus this year."
I just stared at him. The right git had ruined my day; it had been a nice few days until that point. I mean, sure, my washing machine decided to deconstruct itself, and I was still recovering from my girlfriend cheating on me, but Paradox had just released the next DLC, and the new tea I had drunk this morning had been rather pleasant.
Realising the few seconds of me just staring blankly into the void that was my eyes would soon become awkward, I turned back to the clipboard I was holding as I double-checked my reading before marking it down and then said, "Well, the bastards can go screw themselves. Well, actually they don't need to; the shareholders are already doing that for them."
A chuckle from the few people in earshot felt good.
I continued on with my work. I didn't like my job; it was making fertiliser after all, but at least it had a purpose. I had become an industrial chemist because, well, it was easy.
I never knew what I wanted to do growing up, and the world always seemed a bit too chaotic for me. Chemistry was simple: do this, add this amount of this, apply that much heat under this pressure with this catalyst, and don't forget to account for the oxygen that you're breathing into the area, etc.
I was currently doing the morning checks on the pressure test of an ammonia synthesis setup that takes nitrogen and hydrogen and squishes them together until one gets ammonia and a bunch of heat.
I bent down to check a valve that was placed in the most awkward possible position and flinched as a jet of wet air nailed me right in the face.
I tried to pull away and block it with my hand as I gasped in shock; the shock turned to a subtle fear as the itching sensation that was now inside the entirety of my mouth and went as far down as my lungs let me realise that some lazy sod hadn't properly purged the system before the pressure check, and that combined with this piece of shit machine had led to me getting a face full of ammonia.
I unsteadily propped myself up. Thankfully I hadn't been an idiot, and my eyes had been protected. I noticed one of my co-workers coming over after hearing the litany of curses in several languages I was letting out under my breath as I hobbled over to the nearest emergency button and pressed it.
Breathing is getting harder now. And now I try and think about it so well, thinking. Ha, that's a funny thought. WHY AM I LAUGHING AT THAT????
The side of my face ached as I face-planted the floor. This better not be how I fucking die. Jonah, if you laugh at my funeral, I am going to haunt the shit out of you.
What the hell, my head feels like it's been used as a set of bongos. What on god's green earth did I do last night…
Oh. Hey, at least I'm not dead. No, I'm pretty sure I got enough exposure that I died before they even called an ambulance.
Okay, I'm still thinking.
OWWWWWW!!!! FUCK!!!
Okay, don't try to move. Even my toes are sore. Okay, my eyes are open, but I'm still not seeing anything. Not good.
Okay, let's think about this. This isn't heaven; I mean, what is this smell? It's like a mix of every bad thing ever. What have we got? Chlorine, chloroform, human excrement, sulphur, iodine, carbolic acid, and… Oh god, that's horrible! Who's demented enough to use castor oil?
Is this hell? Am I eternally damned to be unable to move and be faced with this storm of repulsion in my nose for all eternity? I mean, what did I ever do? Is that it? Did my 12,000 hours on Steam now mean I'm forced to sit through this torment?
Nah, this can't be hell; it lacks the smell of burning flesh. I stayed motionless for what felt like hours. Faintly I could hear voices, though I couldn't quite make them out. Eventually, two got close enough I could at least hear them.
It took me only a few seconds to realise they were speaking French. It was a man and a woman exchanging conversation with me only understanding every twentieth word and the occasional Latin medical term. I should have paid more attention in French class.
Fuck, I see no logical way I'd be in a French hospital, so this must be hell.
I was on the verge of falling asleep when I felt warm metal touch my lips; a moment later, a liquid entered my mouth, and after a few seconds, I realised it was some kind of broth. It was bland as anything, but I wasn't going to deny food. Every swallow was painful, but I powered through.
"Merci beaucoup," I said, though it came out as barely a whisper.
A few seconds later, a lighter, more feminine voice than before said, "De rien, je suis contente que vous soyez arrivée."
I have no idea what the fuck that meant, something about 'your welcome'? Ah, French is always such a beautiful language; I really should put the effort towards learning it. I mean, it can't be that hard after German, can it?
I blacked out for long periods of time; at one point, the smells changed, and the now only occasional voice was English. I could now smell the sea. Occasionally, someone would change what I assumed were bandages covering my eyes.
"Where am I? What happened?" I asked, which caused the hands checking my gauze to stop and reply, "Well, Henry, you're in Royal Victoria Hospital in Bournemouth. I don't know what happened to you, but you came here a few weeks after Loos, and from your injuries, you got hit by a shell and have been exposed to mild gas burns."
I was barely conscious at that point, but all I could think of was that name, Henry...
It felt like it rearranged something deep within me even if that wasn't my name, A flicker of recognition passed, but it was intangible, like trying to seize something that had become mist.
I remember running, playing, and hours spent that were not mine but were, at the same time, countless hours spent in a dark room.
The moment I came to again, the combination of the light finally reaching my eyes and the realisation that left an ache as raw as the pain from my final moments, "That's me…"
My quiet mutterings were heard by no one as, with a deep intake of breath, I sat up. I looked around and saw several men, all in various states of health, lying quietly on beds lined up uniformly in a ward.
What the hell? The realisation, along with the faint memories I knew were not mine, made me have a sudden sense of dread as I realised what had happened. I've been isekai'd or some shit.
It's kind of unnerving to realise you're in a different body; you're not really 'you' anymore, are you? Just as I was beginning to wrap my head around the concept that this had actually happened to a dunce like me. I mean, it had to be me. Life couldn't give up on its punching bag, could it? A doctor came along.
"Good morning, Private Jameson." He said in a calm voice. I tried my best to ignore the feeling of multiple sledgehammers that was new memories of signing up, basic training, and spending a few months in the trenches before being blown up in a suicide charge.
Failing miserably, I only managed to squeeze out a "Morning."
He told me I had been burnt by phosgene gas and several pieces of shrapnel had perforated me, and though I would most likely heal, they had been unable to save my leg due to sepsis.
Those words made me freeze as I lifted the blanket covering me to see my left leg was gone just above the knee. FUCK! FU-HA-HA-UCK!!! I said internally as I began to try my best not to laugh out loud.
The next few months were weird. Every little thing I did made scores of new memories wedge themselves into place in between my own, and after the pain subsided, I found it nearly impossible to tell which was which.
Each day I underwent rehabilitation and physical therapy, I got more confused about who I was. The lines between Private Henry Jameson, born 12th January 1894 in Gloucester, and Michael Keyton, born 23rd of November 1991 in Dorking, were becoming more faint by the day.
I mean, I pondered on it a lot; after all, there wasn't much else to do, and in all honesty, I didn't care. I wasn't really either of them, was I? I don't know how, but I'm here, and I might as well make the most of it.
I bit my tongue as the prosthetic leg I had been wearing slipped as I hobbled along the hospital corridor.
I entered the office before standing as straight as I could and saluting before saying, "Private Jameson reporting, sir."
He was silent for a few moments while reading a file before saluting back and saying, "At ease. It says here your father was a photographic technician and that you were working at his shop before signing up; is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." I replied, feeling proud that I didn't wince as those hundreds of hours in dark rooms made sense and almost every memory of anything to do with film development popped into my mind.
He looked at my straight face for a few seconds before saying, "Due to your… injury, I clearly have to find you unfit for any frontline role. Now usually I would either discharge you or send you to a desk job, but we are in desperate need of people with your kind of experience. Frankly, I don't see why you were assigned as a rifleman, but we are at war, and these things happen."
He stood up and grabbed a letter off his desk before saying, "You are hereby promoted to lance corporal. These are your new deployment orders; you ship out in two days."