No one yet – you wake up in a hospital

BEEP... BEEP...

Your head is throbbing. And it's not the fun kind of throbbing head.

You slowly come to your senses and realize that you're in some kind of hospital room. A rather swanky hospital room – you're the sole occupant, with a great view of an unfamiliar cityscape outside a balcony window. You shift your head around, feeling bandages mostly wrapped around your neck and the back of your skull. Did you suffer some kind of head injury? Were you in some kind of accident? Were you attacked?

You manage to look around, not without a little pain. To your surprise, there is a tall pile of 'Get Well Soon' cards on a nearby table. Which is weird, because you don't remember EVER being popular enough to earn a literal pile of physical well-wishes.

All you remember is going to sleep in your normal bed as usual. And something about a dream. Something about a world...

You try to get up, and falter. Not only does your neck protest being lifted from its delicate angle on the pillow, your legs feel sore too. And now that you're more aware, you notice an IV drip embedded into your arm. It'd be a bad idea to try and get out of bed unassisted, and you don't have any pressing issues other than figuring out why you're here.

Instead, you search for some kind of call button. You find a remote-control-like object next to your pillow and press the 'Nurse Call' button, then wait.

Once again to your surprise, a minute or two later there is a veritable rushing and stomping outside your door, and it is suddenly flung open. And then 'surprise' fails to express your feelings.

Standing in the doorway is a tan-skinned woman lifted almost straight from your most juvenile fantasies. Easily seven feet tall, with an enormous bosom that defies any garments' attempts to cover up her wide, bubbly shelf of cleavage. Somewhere past the lower swells of the tent of her white doctor's coat, a single solitary button is holding the coat together, preventing it from simply falling off and away from her breasts. You're not sure whether to salute that button or wish it a quick and painless demise. And that's to say nothing of her face, vaguely Asian in appearance, dusky and smoky and altogether magazine-cover worthy, with a head of silky bright pink(?) hair tied back in some attempt at a serious bun.

The doctor strides over to you, clacking her high heels across the tile, holding some kind of tablet computer in the crook of her elbow. Behind her, hanging on by the door, are no less than four nurses – two more that look just as mindblowingly sexy as the doctor, one rather plain-looking woman by comparison, and a man who just looked happy to be near the first two. They all look rather keen on finding out your status, though.

The incredibly beautiful doctor kneels by your bed (otherwise you'd have a hard time making eye contact) and smiles warmly at you. "Hello, Mr. Doe," she says, her voice adding another layer to her stunning charms. "I am Dr. Asbury."

"H-Hi," you say back. Your voice raspy and nearly unrecognizable to you. It vaguely occurs to you that it's a little weird that five medical professionals came running when you pressed the Nurse Call button...

"Let's just see how you're doing..." She runs a battery of quick tests on you, mainly to make sure that your sight, hearing, and basic reflexes work just fine. When she's done, her pouty lips turn downwards in a frown. "Mr. Doe, you were in a terrible vehicle accident. An unsecured object in the middle seat, likely a heavy briefcase, was propelled into the side of your head. Stitches were required. You've been **** for two days since. At this stage, I don't mean to alarm you, but our main concern is the possibility of traumatic brain injury."

You find the strength within yourself not to panic. "Sounds reasonable," you manage to say nonchalantly. The issue of the doctor's supernatural beauty fades temporarily into the back of your mind. "What do you need me to do?"

"Answer a few basic questions," she says, and taps away on her tablet for a moment. "What is your first name?"

"John." That one was easy. No trauma in that part of the brain.

"What is your mother's name?"

"Erin."

"Your siblings?"

"Caitlin, the older sister, and Dana, the younger one."

"Occupation?"

That one gives you a little pause. "Um, unemployed." You are currently between jobs, something you're not exactly proud of.

The steady rhythm of the interrogation comes to a silent yet near-deafening halt. A couple of the nurses in the hallway audibly gasp.

"Mr. Doe," Dr. Asbury says carefully. "What year is it?"

You could cut the implication with a knife. Your eyes widen. "Fffffuck me," you involuntarily mutter.

"Maybe later," the tall, gorgeous doctor says, smiling only briefly before returning to dead seriousness. "What year do you think it is?"

Defeatedly, you mumble, "20...17."

Dr. Asbury swallows hard, looks down (nearly dipping her chin into her cleavage for a split second), then raises her head. "I'm afraid the current year is 2023."

"S– Six years?!" you splutter. You laugh. For whatever reason, you start laughing. "I've lost six years?! Please tell me this is a prank...!"

"I sincerely wish you'd tell me the same thing," the doctor says quietly. "Do you truly remember nothing? Creating the Enhancement? The breakthrough of the century? The company you founded to deliver it to the entire world? All the women you've helped and inspired...?"

You're almost speechless. "Enhancement...?"

For a second, the doctor looks so distraught that she looks like she might start crying, as though what's happening was too sad for words. But the next moment she pulls herself together sternly. "We will get you through this," she states, seemingly mostly to herself. "I will talk to your people and let them know the situation. In the meantime..." She taps away on her tablet, then hands it to you, a web browser already opened. "...use this to catch up on some history. It's connected to the building's fiber. If you need anything..."

You almost missed it, but Dr. Asbury definitely just licked her lips.

"...anything, there will be someone willing to help you. Just shout or press the Call button." She then hurries out of the room, shooing away the growing crowd of nurses.

The room is empty and silent once again. You're alone with your thoughts.

Is this really happening? In the last six years, did you become some kind of super-scientist and help a portion of women become sex goddesses? Has a tragic accident conveniently erased those years from your mind, rendering you a stranger (albeit a very famous stranger) in the very world you created?

There's still the matter of that dream you can't remember. It feels important. Is this actually some kind of Twilight Zone situation where you have simply jumped into a parallel dimension where you are said super-scientist, at a time when amnesia would be a convenient excuse?

Which scenario was more likely?

...

And would it really matter, in the end?