Once the coldness of death left his body, Francis Rayleigh opened his eyes to reveal a stranger’s ceiling. A foreign, strange design made itself known. Memories he did not recall floated up to the surface. The ornate sanguine fabric that draped across the bed acted as a sort of curtain. On the more opaque side of fabrics, it blocked out much of the sunlight. He raised his arm, and rested his head again. This body felt like his, but he knew it was not. He should have been drowning in the water, or at least in the sterile hospital ward. Yet, there he was. With his head turned sideways, the grey locks of hair tickled his cheeks.

A face peeked in through the curtains. Wrinkles, born through the decades, and a furrowed pair of eyebrows. Her eyes were gentle.

“He’s up.” She shut the curtains after that simple fact.

“Urg.” He rested his head back on the soft pillow.

Who was that? He knew her name. But who? It was like having deja vu, and an unexplainable dream at the same time. Shadowy figures moved from beyond the curtain. A pair of them, one a head taller than the other.

He made a quick scan of what he could see. Everything seemed ornate, overly so. Something before the French Revolution, at the height of aristocracy.

“That’s Ms Anne, by the way.”

“Yeah? And you are?” he muttered.

“The original owner of the body you’re possessing.”

“Is that right?”

A large, scarred hand pulled the curtains open. Callused over years of work, a blacksmith perhaps? Or a warrior. He shot a glance at own body. It certainly wasn't something that a fighter would respect. Slim, and somewhat short too.

“Francis?” A deep, husky voice called.

“Uhm. Yeah?” His own voice was messed up. Just how long had he been bedridden?

“You’re really up. Are you okay?”

The couple stood in front of him. The man, large and muscular. A single diagonal scar stretched across his entire face. Below his left eye, and down onto his chin on the right side. His toned body was blatantly obvious beneath the casual dressing gown he wore. His raven black hair was cut short. But those crimson red eyes stared at the bedridden boy.

“You were down with a fever for 4 days,” the woman said.

She wasn’t too different. For her size, she was fit and seemed capable of punching above her weight class. Her messy blonde hair needed a brush. In her right hand, she held a fine walking cane. Slick with gloss, the brown cane boasted gold ornaments. She seemed perhaps a few years or so older than her male counterpart.

“Was I? My head hurts.”

“Then rest well. Should I get the physician to take a look at you again?”

“No need, no need. I just want to rest.”

“Hmm... Alright then. We’ll check back on you later.”

They closed the door. Francis. That was the current reality. He reached towards the ceiling, his pale arm small and fragile.

“And who are you?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“The original Francis Rayleigh.”

“That doesn’t answer too much.”

“Fine, the basics then. I’m living in your head. I died, but my soul didn’t leave.”

“What a coincidence. I died too, and woke up here.”

“Good. Then go to sleep.”

“I was planning to. Maybe this is just a weird dream. I’ll wake up just to drown.”

He forced his eyelids shut. A fluffy white sheep jumped over a fence, and brought its entire herd along. A total of 507, in fact.

“Wakey-wakey.”

A finger poked his cheek. The vast skies above seemed dreamlike. Nothing like the cityspaces he was used to. A young man, who may as well have been a woman, squatted over him. Who was that?

“I’m the original.” Was his answer, as if sensing the question. “What do you remember, or should I fill you in?”

“Quite literally, nothing. Died and woke up, and then slept.”

“Then welcome to our mind. This place is your consciousness? Subconsciousness? Something like that. Either way, the both of us have complete control over this place, and can veto each other. It's a lucid dream.”

“Is that right?”

He stood up. A lucid dream, was it? Then the next course of action was simple. In a dream such as this, the only limit was imagination.

“Then in that case... You would be Lord Francis Rayleigh, yes?”

“Yeap. Technically, its Lord Francis something something something Rayleigh. But honestly speaking, no one really cares about those middle names outside of the law.”

“Alright then. Since my previous self’s already dead, I’m Lady Frances Rayleigh.”

“You’re transgender?”

“Let’s not worry too much about that.”

It only took a thought, but everything swapped. The world split in twain. One side black and the other white, with the two meeting in the middle swirling into a neutral grey. A long table sat in between them, at the intermediary zone.

Frances Rayleigh propped her legs up on the table. The bespoke suit fit her to a tee, just as Ashley’s did. She lit a cigarette. On the other end, Francis sat cross-legged. He seemed to have changed into a more ideal form too. A military uniform, reminiscent of a mediaeval continental knight. A beautiful sword hung by his side, with a blue jewel right in the middle of its guard.

“You’ve only just woken up, right? What do you remember?”

“Nothing. You?”

“I’ve had a few extra days while you were sleeping to come to terms with it. But you seem to have adapted instantly. I’ll fill you in, then. You just appeared here one day, and slept until now. I know nothing about your side.”

“I see. Then let’s establish something first. Am I in control, or are you?”

“Who’s to say?”

“From what I can tell, I can’t see your memories and vice versa. That’ll have to change.”

“I’m up for negotiations. But you’ll have a tough time against the absolute trash of the Rayleighs.”

“I doubt it. I’ve shot people begging for their lives before.”

The original narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward and tapped his fingers on the table. With a snap of his fingers, he slid a long contract across.

“Let’s see then. ‘Everything will be on a need-to-know basis,’ huh? Who decides what’s needed to be known?”

She grabbed a fountain pen from thin air. Crossing out words and adding terms of her own, she read over it again. The contract was stacked much more in her favour, but if Francis let it go, that was his fault.

“Don’t try to get this past me.”

The exchange continued for days. But eventually, they did come to a conclusion. Not the ending either wanted, but an ending nonetheless. They settled with a contract that looked nothing like what it began with.