"What's one plus three?"
The surface under her was cold—unforgiving. Somewhere nearby, a heart monitor beeped, loud and arrhythmic, like it was having second thoughts.
A white robotic arm hovered beside her bed, sleek and sterile, holding up a tablet. On it: a single math problem.
"What's one plus three?"A soft female voice—mechanical, emotionless—repeated the question with artificial patience.
Baisha blinked.
It wasn't that she didn't know the answer. Of course she did. The problem was—what the hell was going on?
Last thing she remembered, she'd just uploaded her final draft after a caffeine-fueled all-nighter and had collapsed into bed.
She'd sunk into a warm, velvety nothingness. Peaceful. Dreamless.
Until it wasn't.
Somewhere in that dark sleep, turbulence had hit—static crackling through her spine, a deafening roll of thunder splitting her skull—
And now she was here.
The room was narrow, metallic, clinical. Her body felt... off. Smaller. Weaker. Like she'd been stuffed into the body of a six-year-old and stitched in at the seams.
Something was strapped to her chest—an EKG monitor?—and that robotic arm hadn't left her side since she opened her eyes. It offered her water, silently.
She drank.
The voice returned, soft as ever:"Vital signs stable. Voluntary fluid intake confirmed."
"Cardiac rhythm within acceptable range. Initiating cognitive evaluation."
Then came the math question again:"What's one plus three?"
Baisha exhaled. "Four. Where am I?"
"Correct. Next question: What is the square root of nine?"
Baisha: "…"
Before she could answer—or decide whether to scream or cry—the door slammed open with a metallic clang.
In strolled a tall guy in a tattered uniform, cigarette in his mouth, hair like he lost a bar fight with a wind tunnel. "Alright, alright, that's enough testing. We're not screening for the Intergalactic Math Olympiad—just checking she's not a drooling idiot."
Behind him, two boys limped into the room. One was cradling his arm; the other had blood dripping down his forehead.
"Vian! Zarek! Get your butts over here!" he barked. "Gwenyth, fix 'em up."
Baisha turned to look.
Before anyone named "Gwenyth" appeared, the robot arm pivoted away from her, tablet vanishing into its torso with a click, and turned on the man like it was preparing to tase him.
"This child has only just stabilized. She requires rest," it stated, cool but firm.
"And those two don't?" the man countered, dragging the boys forward. "Let me guess—they don't 'require rest'?"
The arm said nothing. Instead, it deployed a scanner and ran it over the boys.
"Vian: mild contusion, superficial abrasions. Kraize: minor fracture, left humerus."
"Great. You take the fracture; I'll handle the scab-factory."The man shrugged like this was all routine. And from the boys' expressions, it probably was.
The arm handed over gauze, antiseptic, a brace, even a tiny surgical kit. Then it turned back to Baisha, its voice gentle again.
"Please do not be alarmed. You are currently at the Lancelot Orphan Welfare Center, operated by Conheng Life Security Corp and the Federal Government. Your birth records were not found in the central system, but you qualify for aid and full protection under juvenile protocols."
Baisha blinked.
She was... an orphan?
She watched as the man expertly splinted the boy's arm, stitched up the other's head. Both kids took it like champs—no tears, no whining. Just grit and grimaces.
"All done," he said, taping off the bandages. "You know the rules. Keep that arm still. Don't get the stitches wet."
He paused, crouching down to eye level."But next time? Don't be stupid. Injured limbs mess with job placement. Scars on your face get you flagged as a troublemaker. Fight all you want, just don't mess up your future. Got it?"
The boys flinched and nodded fast.
Baisha: "…"
That was... refreshingly practical.
The guy waved the kids away like shooing flies, then turned back to her with a raised brow. "She hasn't said anything since the math bit. Maybe she's mute?"
Baisha glared at him.
"Ah, nope. Not mute." He smirked. "Just grumpy. We like that. Quiet kids get better placements."
Beep. Beep.Her heart monitor spiked.
And everything went black again.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she woke up.
New room this time. Less lab, more storage closet converted into a bedroom. It was maybe ten square meters, max. Ceiling fan overhead, metal frame bed, single desk, and a tiny standing wardrobe. Bare-bones.
The same man from earlier was sitting beside her, still in uniform, minus the cigarette. He looked even taller here—six-three at least. The ceiling was barely clearing his head.
"You're up?" He scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't think you'd pass out from hunger. We thought it was trauma."
Baisha stared at the ceiling, eyes blank.
Hunger. Right.
She'd fainted because her new body hadn't eaten in who knows how long. Fantastic.
Pulling the blanket over her head, she said nothing.
It was thin. A little scratchy. But clean. Someone had actually washed it.
He sighed. "Look, kid, no one dumps a six-year-old in a mining zone by accident. I found you near the old junk site. Wanna tell me how you ended up there?"
Baisha stayed silent.
She didn't choose this.
One minute she was a full-grown woman finishing up a research grant proposal. The next, she was waking up in a child's body in a world that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi sim.
Some people get to transmigrate with cheat codes. She got a bruised ego and a failing metabolism.
The man waited a few more seconds, then gave up with a shrug."Alright. Fine. At least give me your name?"
"…Baisha," she croaked. "My name is Baisha."
"Well, Baisha—this ain't paradise, but welcome to the Lancelot Orphan Welfare Center."
"I'm Homan. Security officer. Sometimes I teach. You don't like me? No problem. There's another teacher on tomorrow's rotation. She'll walk you through the basics."
He stood, boots creaking against the floorboards. Then he left.
Door closed. Silence.
Baisha sat up and stumbled over to the cracked mirror above the tiny sink in the corner.
What stared back at her was… strange.
Her old face was gone. What she saw was younger, more delicate. Still vaguely familiar. But paler. Silver-gray hair brushed her shoulders, shimmering like polished steel. Eyes a deep, unnatural blue—like someone had carved twin galaxies into them.
Not human. Not entirely.
Definitely mixed-race, but the kind you only saw in digital renders or genetic ad campaigns.
She leaned closer. No injuries. Just thin. A little hollow in the cheeks. Malnourished.
She looked… like a fallen princess. Or a lab-grown doll someone forgot to feed.
The only other kids she'd seen so far were those two boys. But she'd heard the word "orphanage," and the man's reaction made things clear.
This wasn't a cozy adoption center. It was a warehouse. And she was new inventory.
She didn't ask for any of this. Didn't remember the moment of crossing over. Didn't even know who this body used to be.
All she knew was: she had the brain of an adult and the body of a child.
That made things complicated.
Her stomach growled. Again.
She sighed.
Climbed back into bed.
Pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Alright, universe. Message received. Let's see what you've got.