Chapter 1, Part 2
Synthetic Dreams
The first thing I notice is the absence of pain.
Not the gentle fade of morphine or the numbness of shock.
This is different.
A mathematical zero where sensation should exist.
My last memory burns clear.
Twisted metal. The taste of copper.
Emergency drones descending like chrome angels.
Now I’m here, wherever here is.
Light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows. Warm. Natural.
My fingers test the sheets. Egyptian cotton, high thread count. The kind of detail that surfaces from somewhere deep, automatic. Marketing meetings about luxury medical facilities. Papel’s newest venture. I’m in one of their facilities. I know this because I worked for them.
I catalog the room in fragments. Orchids on the bedside table, immaculate petals. A water pitcher sweating condensation in precise droplets by the bedside table. The ceiling curves seamlessly into walls. No corners for shadows to gather. Wooden stripes on the walls, mixed in with textured white wallpaper. The ambient lighting like a posh hotel. Nothing out of order. Everything designed to whisper you’re safe..
A woman materializes like a glitch in my periphery: designer charcoal suit, clean lines, oriental flair, neck length jet black hair, eyes sharp as knives. Older than she looks: Akari Matsumoto, Director of Neuro-Integration at Papel. Elusive and powerful.
And here.
“Ms. Marik? How are you feeling?”
Cut the crap, you’re selling something.
I test my voice, clear as crystal, no rasp. “Like I died and woke up in a brochure.”
Looking around dramatically, “Where am I?”
I know where I am.
“Recovery suite. Executive tier.” Her eyes lock on mine for a moment, then goes back to her tablet, flicking over readouts. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
No shit. I sat up, fluid as oil. No ache, no pull. Arms unmarked, scar from that childhood wipeout erased. “The accident. How long?”
“Six days.” She pulls a chair closer, breaking protocol. Her perfume hits me: jasmine, engineered calm. “Dr. Akari Matsumoto. Overseeing your recovery.”
“We know each other.”
She smiles, not with her eyes.
I flex fingers that move too perfectly. “Show me the readouts.”
Approval flashes, quick as a glitch. “Aware already. Ninety-seven percent integration.” Numbers bloom: vitals optimal, substrate stable. Too perfect. “Seems I’ll skip a few steps.” She quips.
“Integration.” I echo, tasting the word like copper. “My protocols were theoretical.”
“You succeeded.” She gestured at me, like exhibit A. “Proof.”
Bullshit. We failed every trial. “How? Synths can’t dream. Neural patterns too clean. No human noise.”
She nods, almost proud. “Precisely. Yours retains the chaos. Pineal intact.”
Had to be.
I pour water, hand steady. No thirst, just habit. Sip registers: cold data. “The accident. Give me details.”
“A moment.” Taps something on her tablet, turns it to me.
Footage plays: My car veering, barrier crunch at 118.4 kph. Drones swarming pre-impact. “Anomaly inside your vehicle. Broke pattern.”
“You don’t buy malfunction.”
“No.” Her inhale is measured. “Papel’s assisting authorities. A setback. We wanted you back, just not like this.”
Wanted? Like a recalled product. “Drones launched before the crash. How?”
“Puzzle piece.” She evades, smoothing her skirt. “Neural activity persisted. You clung on.”
I cut in: “Whose protocol? Whose whispers did I hear in my head: ‘viable for preservation’?”
She freezes, tablet almost slipping from her hands. Composes herself. “Rest now. You’re being monitored, always.” Rising, but her eyes linger. Pity? “Welcome back Ms. Marik. Papel’s... invested.”
“No shit.” Invested in what? My corpse?
She arcs her head to a bow and leaves, heels on wood echoing. Door seals with a hiss. Alone, I touch my chest: rhythm, mechanical. Room’s soundproof but I can hear the outside noises when I focus. Enhanced.
Whisper in my head: Viable.
How did they crack this? How am I conscious?
Am I conscious?
The fuck. Need to know more. But as I probe my neural locks, a shadow lags on the wall; it’s not mine.