A Question: Rewriting Constant 2, Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Several years ago--during the decade-long interregnum between chapters 3 and 4 of Constant--I started rewriting some of the older chapters.  I wanted to tighten up a few bits, correct some inconsistencies and otherwise tweak a few things.  This is an ongoing process - I can see now that once I've hit the penultimate chapter of the story, I'll have to go back and revise the whole thing to finish it properly.  I think.

In any case, I never really felt satisfied with the first chapter of the second season.  To recap: David wakes up, and K is there to explain what happened to him whilst he's still too drugged to move.  There's a flashback to his first encounter with a trans person, then he freaks out when he realises what's been done to him. He drinks himself into a stupor and vows revenge.  Later, in the second chapter, he's delivered a video message by Scooter, the doctor, explaining what's been done to him.  

So, I'd like to ask peoples' opinion on something.

One thing I'd considered changing was those initial moments or days as Cindy.  Currently, he begins his new life with a nice little bit of exposition from Katherine, followed by a bit more from Scooter.

Instead, I'd considered just dropping him into his new life without any help, any explanation.  He wakes up, discovers his new body--begins to remember what happened at the end of the first season--and is left to his own devices to figure out what the hell is going on.  

I figured it'd trim back the exposition, give more value to the 'interlude' chapters (where we see the narrative from a different point of view), and possibly ramp up the dramatic tension a bit.  Also it would situate the reader with David a bit more, putting us in a position of also wondering how he ended up in this situation.

So, what do you think: keep it as it was; or make it so David (and the reader) are equally in the dark as to how and why he's woken up in a feminised body in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city?

In regards to the second, here's a sample of the rewritten opening to chapter one, which I must've written about... oh, I dunno, maybe six years ago?  Pre-Covid, in any case.  Don't know if I'll keep it, but I suppose it's an insight into what I was considering six or so years ago....

***

I awoke gasping for air, clawing, struggling upwards towards a surface that couldn’t be seen, like a man drowning and lost at sea.

Somewhere nearby, the sound of a door, shutting.

Stucco whorls and dappled spray of light: details of an unfamiliar ceiling. A lamp with a pink lampshade. The mattress beneath me was too soft. Sheets, smooth and cool. There were muffled voices, at first weak and indistinct, briefly raised in argument and then abruptly gone. Bright sun slanted through a window accompanied by a gentle breeze. A hint of fresh paint smell, but also a harsher taste of pollution on the wind, petrol fumes and dirt; a distant rumble of traffic. Over it all a floral scent. And finally a metallic aftertaste at the back of my throat; licking my lips, I found something sticky and sweet there.

Where the fuck was I?

Turning brought a painful tug at my scalp. Hair, pinned beneath me. I had long hair. Reaching for it, the sight of my hand: shaped fingernails, smooth and glossy crescents peeking past the tip and painted a pearlescent pink, highlighted fingers that seemed long and slender. I wiggled them bemusedly. Their movement was mesmerising. The hand beneath was slim and well-formed, pale. They were very cute hands.

Sharp pain lanced my temple and I winced. This . . . wasn’t right. My hands, they were . . . strong? Calloused. Bloodied. They were violent hands: an image of them curled around a slender throat, a beautiful throat, rose within me. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath. Pain receded; I opened my eyes. Those unfamiliar hands led to a dainty wrist, up a lithe arm to a well-shaped shoulder. A delicate pink strap made a pretty contrast against golden skin, leading down to a billowing babydoll that draped off of well-proportioned, rounded tits.

I thrashed and freed my legs from the bed sheets and struggled into a sitting position so quickly that I felt dizzy and saw stars. Blood roared in my ears before I calmed enough for the vertigo to recede. Reaching under the sheer fabric, and after a brief hesitation, I cupped the soft flesh that swelled my chest. Breasts. Soft and supple, topped by large nipples over dimpled and dark areola. I squeezed and felt their warmth beneath my palm. I felt the grip on my chest. I stared dumbly at the mounds beneath my hands. One nipple poked rudely between my fingers. Slender fingers. Pink shaped nails. Breasts.

Huh.

I had tits.

The pain in my temple throbbed, ebbed. None of this seemed right. But why not?  Why had I reacted so strongly a moment ago? Thoughts formed and dispersed like clouds flitting across a blue sky on a windy day. One arm fell limply at my side as I stared blankly across the room. The other kept its uncertain grip on the mound that thrust perplexingly from my chest.

One hand began to drift almost unconsciously down across a taut stomach. The skin beneath my touch was soft, smooth. Fingers crawled tentatively over flared hips and slipped beneath the wispy hem of what I wore. They found a pair of flimsy, lacy panties and beneath—well, I’m not sure whether what I found there surprised me or not.

With one hand cupping my tit and the other my cock, I felt a moment of profound confusion.

Think! I grappled for a name—for my own, which suddenly escaped me. The first that came to mind was Cindy—a girl’s name. The name brought a flicker of pleasure and familiarity—a fleeting smile to my lips—but somehow it didn’t feel right. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I winced with the effort of thinking through the dullness that darkened the horizons of my mind. Sleep threatened. It would be so easy to lie back down and worry about this later. . . .

David.

Yes! But no. No—for a moment, the name felt as wrong as Cindy’s did—almost more so at first—and I was about to throw it aside in favour of something further back; but as I rolled it around the tongue—as I compared it against Cindy—it became comfortable and I decided the name would do. David.

A man’s name and, looking past those fleshy weights on my chest, a man’s part; I was definitely a guy. So how the hell did I end up sitting here in this girl’s room with a girl’s curves, displayed in gauzy scraps of girl’s clothing?

Pain: my hand gripped my thigh. Nails dug into a slender but fleshy thigh.  Detachedly, I noticed that my breathing was accelerated--almost hyperventilating—but why? Somewhere in the back of my mind a muted voice howled in rage and betrayal, and fear; and faded and slipped beneath an inexorable wave of apathy. The drugged haze—what else could this foggy detachment be?—kept the strongest emotions at bay. My fist unclenched. The angry welts left behind would fade. The skin seemed very smooth and soft and sensitive and pale.

Gathering strength, I stood—wavered slightly—found my footing and stepped away from the bed. Those tits—my breasts—settled into gravity’s embrace even as the babydoll clung to me like a dream, whispered around my thigh and ass like the breath of a lover. Long hair tickled my neck and tumbled down the small of my back. My gaze drifted around the room with only the faintest curiosity: from rumpled bed to cluttered bedstand; a rickety wicker bookshelf creaking beneath spine-cracked romance and suspense novels, a scratched and bestickered table, half-melted scented candles and jewellery boxes erupting strings of cheap plastic treasures. A closed closet door decorated with a ripped and mended poster duplicate of water lilies; a battered wooden dresser, some drawers half open, erupting a rainbow of underwear and hosiery, the surface lost beneath more half-melted candles, makeup jars and pots and vials and pencils and tools; and in the corner, half-hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt draped over its edge, a full body-length mirror.

The sweater joined the rest of the jumble across the floor and I took a good long look at myself.