1 Chapter 1: Westeros
He packed a few clothes, two manuscripts, and a pen into a light gray canvas backpack, deciding to leave everything else behind. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he took one last glance at the small room, feeling no attachment to it.
After all, this was a mental hospital.
The head nurse at the door looked at the handsome young man in front of her, who was slightly dazed. She felt a mix of regret and happiness as she softly said, "Simon, do you want to say goodbye to everyone?"
He was now Simon, Simon Westeros.
The first name stayed the same.
The surname, however, had been changed a month ago.
He didn't quite like the surname of this body originally and was looking forward to a fresh start.
Before his rebirth, he had been watching "Game of Thrones," and the tumultuous events on the continent of Westeros had captivated him. Given his own fantastical experiences now, he impulsively chose 'Westeros' as his new surname.
By current calculations, the "Game of Thrones" novel wouldn't be released until 1996, ten years later. As for what George Martin might name his new continent in the future, that was no longer his concern.
Hearing the nurse's words, Simon snapped back to reality and shook his head, "No need."
They left the ward and went to Dr. Henry Chapman's office. Dr. Chapman was Simon's psychiatrist, a decent middle-aged man. In the office was also a middle-aged white man wearing glasses, introducing himself as John from Stanford University, here to assist Simon with his discharge procedures.
Simon had been admitted to this mental hospital nine months ago.
The incident had caused a bit of a stir at the time.
A motivational story of a young man, who grew up in a children's home and got into Stanford University with a full scholarship at just seventeen. Then, less than two months into his studies, he suddenly went mad.
Severe violent schizophrenia.
That was the diagnosis Dr. Chapman wrote in Simon's medical record.
The truth was, suddenly having twelve souls in a young body, how could he not go mad?
The shattered memories showed a young man, under the conflict of consciousness, furiously wrecking an entire reading room in the Stanford University library, injuring several people before being tied up and sent to this mental hospital in the southern suburbs of San Francisco.
Rewinding further.
He was actually a director from across the ocean, having just completed his first movie, which was fairly successful at the box office. His company planned to negotiate a deal with Universal Studios, one of the big six Hollywood studios, and included him in the team traveling to Los Angeles for the talks, essentially a business trip.
The booming movie market on the mainland had all of Hollywood eager for business, and the negotiations were naturally successful.
After sealing the deal, executives from Universal Studios invited the company team to a media industry gathering in Sun Valley, Idaho. Along with many other Hollywood filmmakers, more than twenty people boarded a Boeing 737 flying out of Los Angeles.
However, less than half an hour after takeoff, the 737's engine failed, and it crashed while attempting an emergency landing at San Francisco Airport.
Regaining consciousness, although still within San Francisco County, he found himself back in 1985, and it seemed that many consciousnesses were bound within a young body, followed by nine long months in the mental hospital.
He didn't know how he managed to gain control over this body.
Or perhaps because he was the only 'foreigner' among those consciousnesses. Before the crash, he had just left the luxurious front cabin where the Universal executives and company team were, to discuss film production issues in the rear cabin with Hollywood colleagues.
Or perhaps, because of his unwillingness to give up. During those long nine months, he could feel the original young man's strong unwillingness to accept his fate; so hard to grow up and just as life was starting to take off, it was about to crash. He felt the same, having worked so hard for so many years, just to see everything turn to ashes in an instant.
Regardless, he eventually became the master of this body, with the other dozen consciousnesses sinking into deep silence.
However, the memories of those people remained, although fragmented, they were a vast treasure to him.
At the time, everyone in the plane's rear cabin were elites from the Hollywood movie industry, top screenwriters, cinematographers, editors, composers, etc., who were actually crew members of a blockbuster under Universal Studios. The director and lead actor were also on the plane, invited to the front cabin, and it was unknown who survived.
After completing the discharge procedures, Simon bid farewell to Dr. Chapman and the others, then boarded John's car with his simple luggage.
It was evident that John was not fond of today's task, as he dropped Simon off at the nearby Watsonville bus station, fulfilling the last duty owed by Stanford University before
hurriedly driving away.
During the month leading up to his discharge, Dr. Chapman had many discussions with Simon about his future plans.
Returning to Stanford was an option, as Simon's major in computer science was still Stanford's hottest field, and coming from thirty years in the future, he knew well the immense wealth created by Stanford computer science students in the upcoming internet boom.
However, Simon didn't hesitate much before deciding to drop out.
He was already a director, and with the memories of over a dozen Hollywood elites in his mind, he was essentially a top-tier movie crew by himself. With such resources, there was no reason not to make a name for himself in Hollywood.
As for the future internet wave, watching opportunities slip by was not Simon's style. If he could make it big, he would naturally be able to participate in the wealth feast brought by the technological revolution as an investor.
Standing at the Watsonville bus station near California Highway 1, Simon understood he had a long road ahead.
He was now just a penniless young man, somewhat grateful that his personal situation qualified him for free federal health insurance. Otherwise, after nine months of treatment, Simon would undoubtedly be burdened with a medical bill hefty enough to make him question life itself.
In the USA, for ordinary people without insurance, seeking medical care was an absolute disaster.
Purchasing a bus ticket to Los Angeles, Simon checked his wallet during the wait for the bus; he had $198 left, earned from a summer job before starting school the previous year.
The name change process had also cost over $200, mainly for a name change announcement in a local newspaper in Watsonville, a necessary procedure in the USA, followed by the reapplication for a driver's license. American driver's licenses, which are relatively easy and cheap to obtain, serve almost as an identity card. Thus, although he couldn't afford a car, Simon had obtained his license at sixteen.
According to the price information in his mind, the money he had could sustain his basic living needs for about a week.
That was enough.
Finding a job in Los Angeles that could cover his living expenses in a week was an easy task. The original owner of this body had been self-reliant since the age of thirteen, with a full set of skills for various odd jobs.
Thinking about this, Simon even felt a slight sadness. Although the memories were incomplete, he could empathize with the awe-inspiring resilience of the original child. The memories of 'Simon' included being sent to a children's home in San Jose at the age of six, a stubborn little creature who fiercely refused many adoption offers from foster families, starting to fend for himself at thirteen.
With these thoughts, Simon couldn't help but attempt to trace back memories from before the age of six, but found only more fragmented images that he couldn't piece together.
Then.
Snapping out of his scattered thoughts.
Simon was surprised to find tears sliding down his cheeks.
Nearby, a mother and son waiting for the bus eyed him strangely, the young mother pulling her four or five-year-old son a bit further away.
Wiping the tears from his face awkwardly, Simon realized that some beleaguered soul, even though it had completely lost control over this body, still stubbornly refused to recall certain experiences, so stubborn that even though it had lost consciousness, it firmly closed its heart to strangers.
Let it be, then.
And now, having obtained this body, he would definitely live this life more brilliantly than anyone else, he silently promised to some soul.
Perhaps that consciousness heard his promise, as Simon felt his emotions gradually stabilize.
After about half an hour of waiting at the simple platform, a bus finally stopped by the roadside; it was a through bus from downtown San Francisco.
Simon stepped aside to let the mother and son board first, then followed.
The bus was nearly full. Simon walked down the aisle to the back, eventually finding a spot in the second to last row. A woman wearing a plaid shirt, with long brown hair covering most of her face, was seated on the inner side, looking down at a thick stack of A4 paper bound together, holding a pen.
Stowing his backpack on the luggage rack, Simon sat down in the aisle seat.
Feeling the movement beside her, the woman looked up, nodded politely at Simon, then returned her gaze to her manuscript.
Simon also nodded in response, his expression slightly surprised—he recognized her.
To be precise, Simon knew the woman sitting beside him, but she clearly couldn't recognize him.
Katherine Bigelow.
The first female director in Hollywood history to win an Academy Award for Best Director. This achievement alone was enough to make her a figure in film history.
