I woke slowly and groggily in an unfamiliar bed.

  For a long moment I assumed the day before had been a dream.

  I needed to work from the office today- or did I already do that? I had a faint memory, fainter than the weird melee weapon travois dream I assumed I had just woken from. I thought I might remember going to work for the scheduled all nighter in the server rooms. Even tending the software update like a babysitter whose charges get along 99% of the time, but that 1%? Brutal.

  I went to work. Or I thought I had. The days all flow together. It was a Friday night, third Friday of the month, the monthly update, and…

  Hmm. Running through the servers playing paintball was not a memory, that was a reoccurring dream.

  I often have difficulty sorting reoccurring dreams from reoccurring events in real life. I once convinced myself that my mother had allowed me to go to church draped only in a bedsheet. That one had to be a dream.

  I was distracting myself.

  Paintball at work was a common dream, but usually I was holding a paintball gun and my coworkers were my opponents, not some nameless, faceless man with a slide action gun wearing all black. I frowned into the darkness.

  I didn’t usually remember pain in my dreams.

  When he shot me it hurt.

  Maybe I should explain Aphantasia. I imagine most people do not have much difficulty sorting memories from dreams.

  I don’t visualize. I don’t have any mental picture in my head. It’s part of the spectrum thing because it’s a neurological difference I was born with. Most people who have it don’t realize other people can see mental images. It’s quite common to see an adult, even a grey haired grandparent type suddenly realizing they have it.

  Sometimes poor autobiographical memory is associated with aphantasia. I have poor autobiographical memory. I just… there’s past and future, they’re both fuzzy. Then there is right now.

  Right now is all I have. It makes me more trusting, more likely to see the best in people, and very likely to try to make up other people’s story.

  I am probably very naive.

  I still didn’t feel any pain. That was unusual. I couldn’t hear anything either. No whoosh of air circulation, no clicking or humming of our modern devices.

  As I sat up the ambient light increased. The room was still silent.

  My heart pounded in my ears. I was still in the weird hallway dream with the magic.

  Oh.

  How odd.

  I grabbed the book from the bedside table.

  I could read it. You can’t read in your dreams. That part of your brain is shut off. It’s one of the lucid dreaming tricks.

  I frowned at the mess on the floor. The timer hovering over my hand said I had four hours left in the room.

  Despite that, I didn’t feel rushed. The private room had a bathroom. I’d barely managed to shower before I collapsed into bed, too relieved to be alone to do more than pass out.

  I don’t do well as the center of attention. I mean I can handle it. I don’t meltdown or anything, usually, but it takes a toll.

  I staggered back to the sink and stared at my reflection. I looked different. It was subtle, my teeth were straighter, my hair was darker and redder, my cheekbones were slightly higher and my jawline was… how do I put this? More refined?

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  All my scars were still in the same places, but recent acne bumps were gone or flat scars. Yes I still get acne in my thirties.

  So. I hadn’t been regrown or cloned. I just looked… healthier. I blinked. If some power had restored me to the peak of human health and I was still spectrum then my long held belief seemed to be true.

  Neural divergence is a feature not a bug.

  Score one for my spectrum brothers and sisters.

  I sniffed the dirty laundry I had left in a pile. The silky clothes I had arrived in smelled fresh, almost floral. The little stain where I had sliced my arm just a little was gone. The hole was repaired too. I inspected the cloth closely. The weave did not look repaired, it looked like it had never been sliced.

  Curious, I looked at my arm, which had stung during my shower. The scab looked nearly ready to peel and the color was great. I had to clasp my hands together to remind myself not to peel the scab. It would probably peel easily, but I put it out of mind by putting the shirt back on.

  That brought up a question though. I dug in the pile on the floor for several knives of varying qualities. I used them to try to slice the fabric or leather of the armor I still had.

  The lowest quality knife- one star- barely scratched the surface. The mithril of my chosen spear sliced even the hardened leather like butter.

  While I waited to see if my armor would self repair I spent over an hour organizing my gear.

  I had not traded anything I had worn or anything I had packed in the small bag- my gear chosen for my journey.

  I had accumulated enough meal pills to last a year. I had more healing, mana regeneration and rest pills than before.

  It looked like less when it was spread out on the bed.

  When I was a kid my mom dragged all three of us to different churches. Some lasted a week or two, some a few months. When I was in middle school we joined a congregation that did a yearly girls camp, including fundraising and ‘camp clinic’ meetings where we learned first aid, tent set up and more. At camp we cooked over fires, sang camp songs, went hiking and had a lot of fun. Sure there was a constant undertone of religion, but that’s not what I remember.

  My first year there I saw a lecture given by one of the older girls on how to pack for an overnight hike.

  I used that information to carefully prepare my packs.

  I dressed in my arrival clothes. I wasn’t leaving yet. I wanted to have a few long talks with Carter to pick his brain for information.

  When it was time to choose an armor set to keep long term, I quickly ruled out the archer garb. I wasn’t an archer. I didn’t even have good aim with a paintball gun. I was afraid of not having enough strength for the draw either. None of those bows I traded away had been modern pulley style bows.

  Besides the fabric ripped easiest and the Robin Hood hat wasn’t my style.

  Both the leather mountain girl outfit and the ninja pajamas were resistant to scratches. The ninja suit actually held up better against my spear.

  I read over the descriptions again. I hadn’t really needed to poke holes in the fabric. The book said they self repaired and self cleaned.

  The ninja pajamas were made of spider silk with mana thistle fluff as the padding. The fluff was fire, slash and stab resistant.

  The light leather armor was two star. The heavy had been four stars. The ninja suit was three stars. The other three were all two stars.

  That clinched the decision. I rolled up the leathers and put them at the bottom of my big pack.

  I had already figured out how I wanted to tie my packs together, but at first wearing the little one on my front would give my organs some added protection. For now I would wear the boots. Ninja shoes are weird.

  However, distributing the weight of all those daggers and throwing knives all over my body was the right call.

  Without the head wrap and shoes I didn’t even look especially ninja. I also didn’t smell like leather, which seemed like a plus.

  During the packing process I had culled my belongings again. I now had a bundle of things to give away or sell and two bags. The alchemy bag was inside the big one. Everything I wouldn’t want every day was in the big one. The little one held the minimum of what I thought I needed for about a week.

  I left my room and wandered back to the arrival area. The crowd had built back up again. I walked straight up to a woman with a large, expensive looking white and gold bow. Her clothes were newcomer plain. She did have a pack and quiver.

  “Hey, are you hoping to trade for archer armor?” I started bluntly.

  “Oh. Well… yes, I guess.”

  “What do you have to trade?” I unrolled the green and brown armor and added the jaunty hat.

  “Yeah.” She nodded and slid the pack off her back. “I was given a quiver that makes arrows and a whole woodworking kit that seems all about making arrows. Well, that and whittling little statues. It came with books and some materials.” She pulled out a kit that took up half the space in her pack.

  “I’m not a big whittler, but it’s a good trade.”

  She grinned in relief. “Great.”

  We traded and I moved to a space along the wall near the arrivals area. I set out the things I wanted to trade and sat there reading a book.

  I made the occasional trade. I didn’t really want the things that the newbies offered, but usually someone would be interested in trading the new stuff for something they had.

  I slowly whittled away at my stock of unwanted stuff. When I was done being interrupted while I was reading I left my unwanted goods on the floor. I’m sure they were picked up quickly.

  I read elsewhere.