Mine looked sharper. More complex. Components the medical devices didn’t have.
She kept searching. Military applications. Experimental procedures. Classified research with redacted sections. Nothing. Pages and pages of nothing that explained me.
“I don’t understand.” She rubbed her eyes, movements clumsy with fatigue. “There’s no documented link between spinal implants and amnesia. Brain chips, maybe. Deep brain stimulation in specific regions. But C7?” She tapped the X-ray. “That’s your lower cervical spine. Motor control. Autonomic functions. Not memory.”
She slumped, exhaustion winning. “I can’t find anything that explains what they did to you.”
Wrote: Maybe that’s the point. If it’s documented, it’s traceable.
She stared at what I’d written. Then back at the screen.
“Custom built,” she said slowly. Horrified. “They built something that doesn’t exist in any medical literature. Just for you?”
Wrote: Maybe. Or maybe for many more like me.
The thought made her go still. “Others. Jesus. How many people are out there with these things in their spines?”
Shrugged. Didn’t know. Couldn’t know.
She turned back to the laptop.
“And your memories...” Her words died. Shook her head. “I don’t know if your amnesia is due to how I found you, your trauma. Or if the chip caused it, is a side effect or if they did something else. Something I can’t see on an X-ray. But the more I look at it, the less it makes sense.”
Another car horn outside. Closer this time. I glanced at the window automatically, dormer showing dark rooftops, the basilica lit in the distance. No movement. No threats visible. But they were out there. Searching.
The laptop screen reflected in her sight. Blue light making her look even more worn down. She blinked slowly, like her eyelids were weighted.
She’d been running on adrenaline and caffeine for days. Finally stopped, her body was shutting down.
“Trying to find removal procedures,” she said through a yawn. “See if it’s possible to take out without... without...”
Her words faded. Head dipped forward, then jerked back up.
She typed another word. Stopped mid-letter. Finger hovering over the key.
The finger didn’t move. Just stayed there, suspended.
Three days of taking care of me. Barely sleeping. Barely eating. Committing felonies. Watching me kill. Running.
And destroying herself trying to fix what they’d done to me.
I reached over. Closed the laptop gently.
“We need answers.” Weak protest. Didn’t open it again though. Didn’t even reach for it.
Wrote: You need rest.
“I’m fine.”
I stared at her. Long enough that she looked away.
Wrote: No. You’re not.
She stared at the words but her strength was cracking. The sarcasm and competence and stubborn determination finally hitting the wall of human limits.
“I can’t stop.” Barely above a whisper. “If I stop looking. If I rest. Something might happen. Someone might find us. You might get worse. I can’t...”
Spiraling. About failing. About losing.
