(This will be an introductory chapter, so if you don't have the patience, here's a summary: the conscious mind willingly gave up its control of the body to the subconscious, which is now contemplating how to proceed with its new life as the controller of the body. [How this is possible will be explained later.]
It was strange; I felt trapped before. My mind had been stuck in the subconscious, unable to gain any form of control over the body. However, now it seemed as if the conscious mind had willingly let me take control—like it had given up and merely wanted to hide away. I didn't complain; I accepted this change with gratitude. I took control of the body, and it was an amazing feeling. Having a physical body was enchanting; previously, I could only faintly experience this sensation in dreams, but this was different. I was in full control now.
My body was in a weak state, and my surroundings were painted in a beige hue. A doctor entered the room who I recognized from the conscious memories I had access to. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "H…h…cough. Hello!"
The doctor screamed in fright as if she had seen a ghost. She turned quickly and ran out of the room. Although I wasn't really focused on that, the feeling of speaking was overwhelming. My voice was raspy, and I realized that this body had been bedridden for so long that its muscles had weakened. Still, it felt amazing to be able to speak. I loved the sensation of having a physical body; it felt like heaven.
In my previous role, I had been responsible for protecting and organizing the mind and memories of the conscious. The conscious mind always felt fragile, and I never understood why it had control over that fragility. I had tried to gain control multiple times, but it only allowed me to access the body vaguely through sleep. Now, however, it was all mine. Memories that had previously lain dormant flooded my consciousness. Before, I had only memorized things like language and various subjects without being able to put them to practical use. I would send everything to the conscious mind, and it would develop and memorize the information. I would jog its memory occasionally, and during that process, I would receive additional knowledge.
Now, though, I needed to memorize and understand all the information I had previously sorted and provided to the main consciousness. I quickly absorbed the concepts and knowledge I had stored. I attempted to stand up, twisting my body as I let my legs hang off the hospital bed I was on. Excitedly, I pushed off the bed, managing to stand for a solid two seconds before collapsing onto the floor.
The pain I felt was familiar; however, compared to the pain I had experienced in my previous position, this was practically insignificant. It felt like a mere imitation, a fraction of the power of past suffering. Just then, I heard a door open, and two doctors rushed in. They lifted me by my arms and carried me back to the bed from which I had fallen. I overheard them whispering to each other; my hearing was acute, and I caught every word.
"How is he awake? Wasn't he in a coma?" one asked.
"I don't know; the psychiatrists are on their way, so we just have to wait for them," the other replied.
The doctors then exited the room and closed the door, leaving me alone on the bed. A moment later, another person entered—this time, a woman whose figure seemed familiar. Though hazy, I recognized her silhouette.
She pulled out a small notebook and a pen, then asked, "Hi Adam, do you know what year it is?"
"It's 2083," I responded, trying to focus on her badge. It read Sophie. She continued asking basic questions, which I answered mindlessly, as I had memorized the information just moments before. In the middle of her questioning, I asked, "Can you help me walk again?" This was the one thing that had been on my mind. I needed to know whether I had inherited this body with full function or if I would be permanently disabled.
"We'll have to make an appointment with the S.H.A., but we should be able to return you to full strength in a day or two—at most a week, since you are a special case."
"Wait, wait, what's the S.H.A.?" I asked.