The first indication that something was fundamentally wrong wasn't the stabbing physical pain, nor the absolute darkness one might expect in a bad dream.
It was the smell.
A chemical assault, sticky and dense, that not only lodged itself in his nostrils but burned the back of his throat with the persistence of an acid. It was a mixture of rotten fruit and rancid meat, mingled with the metallic acridness of rust and leachate, and a faint, yet unmistakable, trace of something medicinal and rancid, like alcohol and dried bodily fluids.
When the desperate instinct to breathe clean air became unbearable, he tried to sit up only to receive a sharp, almost electric, jolt that shot through what was now his back, reminding him of the fragility and mistreatment of his new vessel. He felt like an empty shell smashed against a brick wall.
"What the hell…?" The voice that emerged was a weak, high-pitched croak, a vocal cord that resonated with the timbre of adolescence, one he didn't recognize at all. It was a strange, frightened, and distinctly feminine voice.
He opened his eyes. The darkness wasn't total; small beams of sickly, grayish light filtered through the cracks of what appeared to be a metal or heavy plastic lid. He was trapped in an absurdly small space.
The ceiling painfully scraped his nose and forehead every time he tried to move his head. Claustrophobia, a sensation he had never experienced in his previous life, hit him with the force of a punch.
He tried to move his arm to feel his surroundings and find a way out, and that's when he felt the texture beneath his hand. It wasn't cement or wood, the clean, solid feel he would have expected. It was a mixture of crumpled plastic, the jagged edge of a dented can, the greasy feel of food wrapper, and something soft and viscous that stuck to his fingers, sending a shiver of repulsion down his new, thin, and fragile back.
He forced himself to ignore the rising nausea and the growing despair. The scientific knowledge of his life, the need to catalog and analyze, prevailed over the panic. The space was a cubic receptacle, an industrial dump, a waste container. And he/she... was completely submerged, buried up to his/her waist in its disgusting, putrid contents.
The inventory of his/her new "bed" was appalling and confirmed the worst aspects of his/her location.
Used hypodermic needles, carelessly discarded, some with crystallized traces of dried blood.
Bottle caps stained with cheap glue.
Old, yellowed bandages, teeming with forgotten infections, a disgusting reminder of other people's wounds.
And an underlying layer of organic remains in an advanced state of decomposition, best left unidentified.
The horror of the location paled in comparison to the horror of the identity. He brought both trembling hands to his face in the gloom. His fingertips were thin, almost skeletal, the skin pale, translucent. His long, dark, tangled hair fell over his shoulder and chest, covering something he had never possessed.
There was no trace of the robust musculature of his thirties that he remembered. No stubble, no rough texture of masculine skin to which he was accustomed. Instead, there was delicate skin, with superficial bruises.
He lowered his gaze, straining his eyes. The breasts, small and almost nonexistent, were unmistakable. He had transmigrated. Worse still: she had transmigrated into a female body, and, judging by her slight weight and cadaverous build—that of a malnourished teenager—combined with her current location… she transmigrated into Taylor Hebert. The name echoed in her new mind with cold certainty.
"(That… damn survey was real)" she thought, trembling with realization. The consciousness of her past self struggled to emerge, but was stifled by the panic of this new body.
And then, the memory, the last moment in her true body, projected itself into her mind like a beacon of lucidity in the darkness.
.
.
.
Remember to go to sleep and have a restful night's sleep so you can wake up early the next morning and continue with your daily routine at university.
But as you were making sure your phone alarm was set, a strangely specific Worm survey popped up. What do you decide to do? Wait until you get sleepy.
In the survey, you decided to improvise and try new things instead of playing it safe, seeking fun by choosing more original options from your point of view.
Directed Transition: The user can choose to transmigrate at any time without any negative effects on their consciousness, soul, or essence.
Sealed Mental Vault (M-02): The ability to create and maintain a Blank Space in one's own mind that functions as a second one. This compartment is absolutely undetectable and inaccessible to any Fragment of the Queen Administrator or external entities. It is the seat of the transmigrated person's true consciousness.
Thought Delegation: You can actively delegate thoughts, memories, plans, and emotions to a secondary mind. This ensures complete cognitive privacy and prevents the Fragment (and any other) from detecting sensitive information, such as the protagonist's original identity or plans.
Hook Point (P-02): By having a secondary mind that functions as an aggregated and secure connection for Fragments, if a second Fragment attempts to connect to the host, it can do so without conflicting with the first. This connection is one-way in that even if the Fragment connects to the protected mind, it still cannot access the thoughts or memories.
Dual Mind Regulation (T-Band): The ability to consciously operate and manage two streams of thought simultaneously, allowing you to implement, augment, or execute thoughts, commands, or emotions in a directed manner within the consciousness connected to the Fragment.
.
.
.
The memory dissipated, leaving the transmigrated once again in the acrid stench and physical discomfort.
He should have thought things through more carefully, right?
A dry, hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he choked it back. He never thought it was real. He never thought something he did out of boredom would leave him trapped in someone else's misery, and worse, the misery of a fictional character in a messed-up world that was now his reality.
In that instant of panic and revulsion, he felt a small assault; a sudden, cold stab, not in his body, but right behind his eyes, in the very marrow of his being.
Knowledge, knowledge of how to use what he had asked for in the first place, and with it, the memory of why he wanted it.
Delegating half of the panic, fear, and shock he felt to his second mind, he also began to store the most alarming memories of the original story, along with all his plans and ideas about what he would do once he completed his original plan, as well as the knowledge of the true nature of the Administrator Queen.
After seconds that felt like minutes because of where he was, he felt a sudden connection.
Stars, two massive beings flying between them, beyond anything else, revolving around a minuscule blue speck, smaller than even a single one of the countless scales that made up the beasts.
[Connection]
[Surprise…]
[Curiosity]
[Analysis]
[Experimentation]
[Emotion]
[Data!]
[Data]
[Symbiosis]