He quickly packed up, stuffing a few clothes, two manuscripts, and a pen into his light gray canvas backpack. He wasn't planning to take anything else. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he gave the small room one last glance, feeling no attachment whatsoever.
After all, this was a mental hospital.
The head nurse at the door watched the handsome young man standing there in a slight daze, feeling a mix of regret and relief. She said softly, "Simon, want to say goodbye to everyone?"
His name was Simon now—Simon Westeros.
The first name hadn't changed.
But the last name had been updated a month ago.
He hadn't liked the body's original surname, and he was hoping for a fresh start.
Right before his rebirth, he'd been watching Game of Thrones, captivated by the stormy intrigue of Westeros. With his own fantastical experience, he'd impulsively chosen "Westeros" as his new surname.
From now on, the Game of Thrones novels wouldn't come out until 1996, a decade away. As for what old Martin would name his continent then, that wasn't his concern.
Hearing the head nurse, Simon snapped back to reality and shook his head. "No need."
The two left the ward and headed to Dr. Henry Chapman's office. Dr. Chapman was Simon's attending physician, a decent middle-aged man. In the office was another white man in glasses, also middle-aged, who introduced himself as John from Stanford University. He was there to help with Simon's discharge.
Simon had been admitted to this mental hospital nine months ago.
It had caused a minor stir at the time.
An inspirational kid from a children's welfare home, admitted to Stanford at seventeen with a full scholarship. Then, less than two months into school, he suddenly went mad.
Severe violent schizophrenia.
That was the diagnosis Dr. Chapman had written in Simon's file.
The truth was, twelve souls had suddenly crammed into this young body—how could he not go insane?
In fragmented memories, the young man, amid clashing consciousnesses, had wrecked an entire reading room in the Stanford library, injuring a few people, before being restrained and sent to this mental hospital in the southern suburbs of San Francisco.
Tracing back further.
He was actually a director from across the ocean, who'd just finished his first film—a box office success. The company was negotiating a deal with Universal Pictures, one of Hollywood's Big Six, and to win him over, the boss included him in the team flying to Los Angeles. It was basically a free trip.
The booming mainland film market had Hollywood salivating, so the deal went smoothly.
After sealing the partnership, Universal's execs invited the team to a media industry gathering in Sun Valley, Idaho. Other Hollywood film folks were joining too—over twenty people on a Boeing 737 departing from L.A.
But less than half an hour after takeoff, the 737's engine failed. During the emergency diversion to San Francisco, it crashed.
When consciousness returned, he was still in the San Francisco area, but back in 1985—and seemingly bound with a bunch of other consciousnesses in some young body. What followed was nine long months in the mental hospital.
He didn't know how he'd gained control of the body.
Maybe because he was the only "foreigner" among those consciousnesses. Before the crash, he'd left the luxurious front cabin with Universal's execs and his company's team to chat about filmmaking with Hollywood colleagues in the rear.
Or perhaps it was unwillingness. Over those nine months, he could sense the original boy's intense reluctance—so hard to grow up, only for life to crash just as it was taking off. He felt the same; after years of struggle, finally making it big, only for everything to vanish in an instant.
Whatever the reason, he ended up as the body's master, the other dozen-plus consciousnesses falling into deep silence.
Though their consciousnesses faded, fragments of their memories remained.
Scattered and incomplete as they were, he realized these remnants were an enormous treasure for him.
After all, everyone in the plane's rear cabin had been Hollywood film elites—top screenwriters, cinematographers, editors, composers, and more. They were the crew for a Universal blockbuster. The director and leads were on board too, but invited to the front cabin. He wondered if they'd survived.
After completing discharge paperwork, Simon said goodbye to Dr. Chapman and the others, then got into John's car with his simple luggage.
John clearly wasn't thrilled about the errand. He dropped Simon off outside the bus station in nearby Watsonville, fulfilling Stanford's last obligation, and sped away.
In the month leading up to discharge, Dr. Chapman had talked with Simon many times about his future plans.
Returning to Stanford was an option—his major was the hot computer science program. From thirty-plus years in the future, he knew how many wealth miracles Stanford CS grads would create in the coming internet boom.
But Simon chose to drop out without much hesitation.
He was a director at heart, and now he had the memories of over a dozen Hollywood elites crammed in his head. He was basically a one-man top-tier film crew. With all that, there was no reason not to head to Hollywood and make his mark.
As for the internet wave, letting opportunities slip by wasn't his style. If he made it big, he could always join the tech revolution as an investor.
Of course, standing outside the Watsonville bus station near California Highway 1, Simon knew he had a long road ahead.
He was just a penniless kid now, grateful his situation qualified for federal free healthcare. Otherwise, nine months of treatment would have left him with a staggering medical bill that could break anyone.
In America, getting sick without insurance was a total disaster for regular folks.
He bought a long-distance bus ticket to Los Angeles. While waiting, he checked his wallet: $198 left, earned from last summer's jobs before starting school.
Changing his name recently had cost over two hundred bucks, mostly for a name-change announcement in a small Watsonville paper—a required step in the U.S. Then there were fees for a new driver's license. In America, a license was like an ID, and cheap to get—just a few dozen dollars. So even without a car, he'd gotten his at sixteen.
Based on price memories, this cash could cover basics for about a week.
That was plenty.
Finding a job to get by in L.A. within a week would be easy. The body's original owner had done all sorts of odd jobs since thirteen—skills maxed out.
Thinking about it brought a faint pang of sorrow. The memories weren't complete, but he could feel the original kid's awe-inspiring resilience. In the memories, "Simon" was sent to a San Jose children's home at six, yet the stubborn little guy rejected foster family offers, fending for himself from thirteen on.
Pondering this, he tried tracing memories before six, but they were even more fragmented, impossible to piece together.
Then.
Snapping out of his scattered thoughts.
Simon realized tears had silently slipped down his face.
Nearby, a mother-son pair waiting for the bus eyed him oddly, the young mom pulling her four- or five-year-old a bit farther away.
Embarrassed, he wiped the tears, realizing that even though the ill-fated soul had lost all control of the body, it still stubbornly avoided certain memories—stubborn enough that, even unconscious, it kept its heart locked against intruders.
Fine, he wouldn't pry.
And since he'd taken this body, he'd live this life brighter than anyone else's—guaranteed.
Simon silently promised that soul in his heart.
As if sensing it, his mood gradually calmed.
After about half an hour at the rundown platform, a bus finally pulled up by the road—a through bus from downtown San Francisco.
Simon stepped aside for the mother and son to board first, then followed.
The bus was nearly full. He walked down the aisle and found a spot in the second-to-last row—a two-seater with a woman in plaid shirt already inside, her long brown hair hiding most of her face. She was poring over a thick A4-bound manuscript, pen in hand.
He stowed his backpack on the overhead rack and sat by the aisle.
Sensing movement, the woman glanced up, nodded politely at Simon, then looked back down.
Simon nodded back, but his expression showed surprise—he recognized her.
More precisely, Simon knew who this woman was, though she couldn't possibly know him.
Kathryn Bigelow.
The first female director in Hollywood history to win an Oscar for Best Director. That achievement alone cemented her in film history.