Just like that, he feels his awareness snap back into place, leaving 
him with a terrible headache. It must be the alcohol. Why are they 
drinking, again? Or maybe something really is wrong. It hurts to 
think about. "Well, buddy," he answers with an inebriated smirk in 
his best news anchor impersonation, trying to force his pounding 
head into a state of calm with humor and distractions, "I'm going to 
go into my bedroom there and fuck my beautiful wife. What about 
you, Andrew?" 


That moment, when the men start laughing and Gale and Kinsey roll 
their eyes, is when he notices the smell. It's the popcorn on the 
table, by the beers. It smells like meat. It reeks of meat. Andrew 
asks him something, but he's preoccupied with the unmistakable 
stench filling his nostrils as he leans closer and closer to the bowl. 


"You don't have a wife. You're married to the Foundation," Andrew 
says, chuckling. 


Fuck, does he not have a wife? He casts his eyes downward and 
tries not to think about it. 


"What are you doing?" Gale asks, a glare shooting out from under 
her messy bangs. Her bangs aren't usually this messy. Her skin isn't 
usually this pale. 


"This popcorn. Was it expired?" 


Kinsey freezes for a few seconds before smacking her gum and 
responding. "No." 


"Then why does it smell like- you know what, I'm gonna be sick." 
Brent stands, wobbling, and runs into the bathroom. The mirror is 
foggy. There are clothes on the floor. A white shirt with red-brown 
bloodstains, plastered to the cream-colored tile floor with water and 
fluorescent green fluid. Mouthwash? His eyes move upward. The 


fluid is dripping down the cabinet door. His headache worsens until 
it's a searing pain, driving away at the inside of his skull. Keep 
looking, keep looking, keep looking. Blood in the sink. Skin in the 
sink. Pink flesh, pink and green. Green fluid leaking all over pink 
flesh. 


"Stay focused, D-2094." 


His head snaps upright, and his eyes are closed. "I can't do it," he 
says aloud in a trembling voice. "This is as far as | can get." He 
swallows, trying to keep bile from rising up out of his throat. 
Everything stinks of meat. "Something isn't right, | can tell | said 
something wrong and got everything off-track. This doesn't feel right, 
it's like- | can tell that I'm not him, and I'm scared the other people 
can tell too-" 


"Acknowledged. Assume a sitting position and hold your breath for 
thirty seconds while we cancel it." 


He sinks against the wall, his head in his hands. 


Research Lab D43 
Department of Internal Security and Media Investigations 
Site-92, Los Angeles, CA 
3:12 PM, July 1st, 2032 


"Alright. Alright. Just breathe." 


"| can't get further than that. | swear to God." D-2094 sits upright on 
the table, vision spinning. "Did you take that thing out of my head?" 
he pants. 


"Yes, it's out." Dr. Ruby Licata gestures to the assistant carrying 
Brent Sanderson's Personnel Identification Implant over to the 
counter, held aloft in tweezers. "You don't have to do it twice, don't 
worry.” 


"Just get me out of here," D-2094 mutters, cupping his hands over 
his ears with jittering fingers. 


"Take him down to Medical," Licata tells the assistant. She nods and 
starts helping him off the table. Licata takes her clipboard and laptop 


back into her office, closing the door behind her. She sits down and 
looks through the checklist. Out of four subjects and ten total 
attempts, that one key element is starting to look genuinely 
unrecoverable. And the Media Relations Director and Site Director 
alike are not going to be happy about that. 


A ringing sounds behind her eardrum, quietly. She presses a finger 
to her temple. "If you're calling about the results, I've got nothing but 
more of the same." 


"Oh? Well, that's not good at all. What exactly is so hard to crack 
about this chip, huh? Ours seem to be working fine." 


"The problem isn't the chips, Director. It's Sanderson." 
"What about Sanderson?" 


"It's him- well, it's his chip specifically, rather. It's really starting to 
look like someone messed around with the files, which | know is 
unlikely given his clean record and good behavior, but | don't think 
we should rule anything out. Obviously we're now at the point of 
trying Initiative A's procedure, but it's looking the same as with the 
other subjects." 


"Well, if inserting it into chip readers on the computer and physically 
transplanting it into a post-amnesticization brain won't yield results, 
then what do you think will?" 


She almost sighs, but remembers that the Director will hear it. "I'm 
trying to tell you that | think the data on that chip is genuinely 
unrecoverable, sir. | think he erased the entire memory, at least from 
the implant." 


"You can't amnesticize your PIl, Licata. Only your actual brain. You 
and | both know that." 


"Yes, but if somehow one were able to wipe a section of the chip 
after the memory in question, the brain would be unaware. You 
remember those developments from last year that the O5 Council 
sent out for everyone to read." 


"Okay, well what do we tell the media, hmm? That it's inconclusive? 


The Foundation is trying to make the Pils look trustworthy, Doctor, 
not easily corrupted and uncontrollable. We have the most 
advanced system of employee monitoring in the world, and yet we're 
unable to prove to the media that one of our employees wasn't a 
criminal even when we stuck a little computer in his skull that 
records everything he does while on the clock. Do you have any 
idea what would happen to the PII chip's funding if we find out 
Sanderson's chip failed to uncover criminal evidence? Oh, and not 
to mention how under-fire the R&D branch's stocks are-" 


"Sir, |-" 


"That chip is this organization's last shot at good publicity. If you get 
this evidence, we'll be down two employees and up immeasurable 
profits in tech sales. That's a trade worth the trouble. In this 
economic and political climate, it's time for the Foundation to have 
money on its mind, Licata. You know it and | know it." 


"| agree, sir." 


"You have 24 more hours. That is all the press coverage we can 
handle up here. Get something out of that chip, if it takes one try or 
a hundred. Understood?" 


She gulps. "Understood." 
"Great." 


A beep sounds and she relaxes her muscles. With a sigh, she looks 
back down at the desk, hoping that the newspaper clipping she's 
had sitting there for two days might have something new to offer her. 


Licata sighs and puts the paper back down. She calls out her 
assistant's name. When she comes to the door, Licata puts her 
head in her hands. "Is that D-class still around?" 


149 Scranton Lane 
Unincorporated Site-92, Los Angeles, CA 
8:42 PM, June 24th, 2032 


"Stay on-topic. Ask them about the anomaly. Don't stray off in the 
bathroom again. And again, remember not to look in the mirror." 


"You okay, Brent?" 


D-2094 raises the memory of Brent's eyes up to meet Andrew's. 
"Fuck. Yeah, yeah. What were you saying?" 


"So, are you gonna tell us?" 
"Tell you what?" 
"About the mission. What really went on?" 


"Everything the report said went on. We lost the anomaly, we lost 
the-" 


"Yeah but like- did it talk? This was a humanoid, right?" 


"Pfft. A human, yes. And a famous one at that. She's one of the 
most prominent anti-Foundation public figures out there. You've 
probably seen their advertisements in the paper." 


"Oh, the law firm. Leeward and Warner Legal Solutions, right? And 
the skip is Warner?" 


"Yep. We've been trying to recontain her for years, but she keeps 
finding the legal loopholes to avoid it." 


"Shit, yeah." 


Andrew freezes, his hand gripping the condensation-coated glass of 
beer in his hand. "Wait, this is safe to talk about, right?" he says, 
voice hushed. 


"Y-yeah," D-2094 sputters out. "Yeah, of course. It's... all pretty 
recent, after all." He cringes as he takes a shot in the dark, but after 
a few seconds of silence, he can tell he led the flow of events in the 
right direction. 


"You're right," Andrew says. As he stands, the other three people 
fade into the fabric of the sofa. D-2094 tries not to let his eyes focus 
on it. 


"About what?" 


Andrew stands fully and the space near the sofa stretches and 
buzzes and snaps back into place. 


"Can you still read us? That was it. Stay with this." 


D-2094 feels a twinge in the back of his skull. Like a feather is 
tickling his brain matter, right down there on the cerebellum. 
"Alright," he whispers. 


“Alright what?" Andrew says. 


"Uh, alright, as in, let's continue. The conversation." He laughs dryly. 
He's still not sure how he'll ever react normally to the ambient voice 
of the researcher echoing in his skull with no logical source, and he 
hopes the saved memories of Brent's coworkers don't notice him 
acting oddly. 


"Oh, right. Right." He freezes, unblinking. 


D-2094's right ear whines and screeches before the warped 
imitation of a voice comes back into his head. "That's not quite it. 
Change the topic. Talk about fighting, talk about combat, or 
anomalies, anything to trigger the memory connection." 


He nods involuntarily. "Andrew. Did you go to training last week? 
When they brought out the punching bags?" 


The room flashes warmer tones in the lighting for a split second 
before resettling with Andrew grimacing. "Yeah. Did you?" 


"Yep. Felt like | could take on the lizard head-on, you know what | 
mean?" 


"Yeah, and speaking of catching skips-" 


The couch they're sitting on convulses like a living creature 
underneath them, throwing D-2094 into the air for a split second. 
When he lands, he's face-down in dust and ceiling debris. 


"Sanderson! Get up!" 


He turns over. The lights are off. A flashlight is in his face. "What?" 


attendees were killed, and another seven (7) injured or maimed. A 
complete list of casualties is included in Supplement 823-01-14, 
"Civilian Deaths Resulting from Event 823-99-Euclid,” but include: 


Two (2) individuals, male and female, fused together at 
multiple points after emerging from the "Tunnel of Love" dark 
ride. (dead) 


One (1) individual wearing a "Happy Hippo" mascot uniform, 
found dead of suffocation. Mouth, trachea, and lungs were 
discovered to be filled with a fibrous substance later 
determined to be identical to the stuffing in said mascot 
uniform. (dead) 


Fifteen (15) individuals recovered from the "Thriller Chiller" 
roller coaster, all decapitated by blunt force. Witnesses 
reported that the deaths did not occur simultaneously, but in 
groups of two, starting with the front row of seats and ending 
with the back. Forensic analysis indicates that each set of 
deaths corresponded to a loop or turn in the roller coaster's 
tracks. (dead) 


One (1) individual recovered from under the "Thriller Chiller" 
roller coaster, dead of broken neck and massive cranial 
trauma caused by a fifty-foot fall from an inverted position. 
Individual was seated at the back of said roller coaster, and 
somehow managed to extricate self from the ride's safety 
harness halfway through the ride. (dead) 


One (1) individual found dismembered inside the "House of 
Mirrors" attraction. Left arm was found sixteen feet to the 
north from the torso. Left leg was found inverted and attached 
to the ceiling by sinews. Right leg was found in the possession 
of Subject 79, partially consumed (forensic analysis indicates 
that teeth marks found on flesh and bone of said leg are 
human in origin). To date, no trace of right arm has been 
found. (alive) 


<FOR COMPLETE RECORD OF CASUALTIES, PLEASE 
SEE SUPPLEMENT 823-01-14, "Civilian Deaths Resulting 
from Event 823-99-Euclid."> 


"Get up, she's getting away!" 


Licata's distorted voice whispers in his head, crackling. "Go! Go! 
That's it! Get up!" 


He bolts upright. His polo shirt and beer-stained khaki shorts have 
been replaced with black pants and a utility belt. A blue-glowing 
device is attached to a cord around his right hand. He picks it up and 
clambers to his feet. 


"On your six!" Andrew calls out. 


He ducks as a blast of air and red light slams him into the ground 
again. He looks over his shoulder to see a figure darting past the 
porch doors and over the railing. "Over here," he yells, reaching for 
the slider switch on the device without second thought. He pushes it 
all the way forward, cringing at the inexplicable recoil against his 
palm that shoots an ache up his forearm and into his chest. 


"Turn that thing the fuck up and get out there before she gets away!" 


He nods, scrambling back onto his feet. He darts for the door, yanks 
it to the side, and hurtles himself over the porch railing. He lands on 
someone and rolls over, twisting his ankle. He feels himself lose 
focus through the pain, and for a split second, the dark, damp 
backyard flashes to a sunny day and then to a shot of Brent's 
coworkers sitting on the couch. D-2094 shakes his head and stands 
back up, mindlessly aiming the device in his hand at the woman in 
front of him. 


"You'd better put that fucker down," she spits, arms wrapped 
protectively around herself. "I'm serious. Don't you know LA laws?" 


Licata's voice screeches in the back of his ear canal. "This is it. 
Don't lose this feed." 


Andrew comes running down the stairs, rifle in hand. "Aww, | love it 
when they fight back," he says with a sneer. He aims the rifle toward 
her. "Get on the ground." 


"The police will be here any minute." 


Andrew cackles. "The police. Right. Good luck with that, skip." 


She glowers and drops to her knees, hands behind her head. "Any 
minute." 


"Precious. Brent, knock her the fuck out." 


D-2094 freezes, praying that Licata will tell him what he's supposed 
to do. Would Brent have done it? He doesn't even know who Brent 
is, or what type of person he was. All he has is a computer chip full 
of corrupted workplace memories, free of ethics and morals and 
feelings tied to the person that once possessed it. 


Andrew's face is frozen, and little pieces of it are blurring and 
shaking in midair as D-2094 realizes he picked the wrong option by 
hesitating. With his face contorted in discomfort, he starts walking 
toward the woman kneeling in front of him and raises the unknown 
but familiar device up to her eye level. She doesn't blink. A siren 
wails outside the fence, catching him off-guard and sending him 
spinning around before he can strike her. 


"There! There! Okay, look around, look up, look down, look in 
bushes, look anywhere you can for any sort of camera or 
microphone or-" 


"Got it, got it," he says aloud, dropping the device to the ground. The 
woman doesn't react, because Brent didn't have a memory of her 
reacting; D-2094 runs frantically around the yard and patio as the 
police rush over to the woman and Andrew, their boots blending into 
the dark grass in little pixelated smears. D-2094 looks up as the 
bricks of the house melt in steaming drips and fade into themselves. 
In his peripheral vision, occupying one last spot of comprehensible 
space, he spots a gleaming lens. And a small black device. A 
camera and a microphone. 


"There! There! Freeze that frame, do not fucking blink, do not- okay, 
okay, we got it! We got it! You're good!" 


"Wh- how do | get out, get me out!" he yells over inexplicable wailing 
and electronic buzzing as the world disintegrates around him. His 
pleading mixes in with the noise as his vision swirls together and 


fades. 


Research Lab D43 
Department of Internal Security and Media Investigations 
Site-92, Los Angeles, CA 
3:38 PM, July 1st, 2032 


D-2094 opens his eyes slowly this time, as if doubting that he has 
eyes to open. He looks over at Licata. "You got it that time, right?" 
he groans.