The first thing I noticed was the new saggy skin I wore, and the lingering pain in my left foot. I look down to notice is mangled, contorted and bruised. But the pain is smothered in something that dims its impact.

I look upwards, towards the celing. It's a dull metallic silver, but the odd thing is that is moving. Up and down, up and down...like it's breathing. It's only then I notice my own breathing, heavy and haggard. This prompts me to now look around, this time more astutely. There's a white chair, against a white wall--which is also moving. A clock, stuck at two, slowly lapping with the rhythm. And then there's this barely furnished bed--grey sheets, grey pillow, grey everything.

I try to get up, but my hands crumble under my own weight. I'm sitting there, almost helpless until I hear the clacking of heels, quickly in my direction. I try to lift my neck, and now I see her. She's a red headed woman with cold blue eyes, wearing a black uniform. I move my mouth to speak.

"Muuhahah," I mutter. What the hell?

"Don't worry Mr. Carson, your daughter will be with you shortly," She said in a low alto. Daughter? What daughter?

"But first Mr. Carson, can you confirm your date of birth? I know this is bizzare, but new protocol demands we do it."

I provide her with a random date? Hopefully, "Mr. Carson" is born on April 26th. Surprisingly, she nods her head in agreement.

"Good. Now we're ready." The redhead produces a long needle, and injects it into my arm. Suddenly, my motor skills are back, and my pain sharpens. "I'm sorry if it's so sudden, but we need you back in action sir."

Sir?

"We're experiencing multiple people waking up without any idea of who they are, or what they're supposed to do. All most a 100,000 people-- a cities worth this time!"

"And what am I supposed to do about that?"

"Edit the memories, give them a new home here. I know this time the experiment went a bit outside of the boundaries--you yourself were almost caught up amongst those who were replaced."

"Oh. Oh no."

Memories that aren't mine start flowing back into my head--memories of being a clinical psychologist in Canada are now replaced with pursuing Cybertechnical Engineering in college. Memories of my wife are abandoned, completely removed and instead replaced with hookups, one too many with the red head here--who is now carressing my face. My eyes are wide, and then, without me knowing it, I'm saying the following:

"Track down each report, and place it in the register Daisy, and I'll get to it. I have to rest. Do not rush." It's almost authoritarian, the voice of someone who commands a room. Deep, low, primal and slow.

"Daryl said now--"

"Daisy." I sit up now. Her mouth is closed shut and the color has drained from her face. "Did you not hear me?"

"I-I heard correctly."

"Do I need to remind you who is in charge of the whole Psycho-Analytics division?"

"No." She shakes her head and then looks down, stunned into silence.

"Good. Tell good Daryl I'll call him when I need to."

Her confident gait and steps are replaced now with a failed attempt at that same confidence in leaving the room. There's silence. The walls are still pulsing. The clock, still stuck at two. My hand moves into my lap. My head stares at it, until my lips move saying:

"You're lucky you have me. You don't try anything, and this will work just fine. Just fine. Fine. Isn't that right Mr. Robertson?" Now sitting up, I can see the mirror, and I see Mr. Carson staring straight into his own eyes, searching for me. "We're going to solve this little incident, without incident."

​

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