I’m not sure about digging deeper, but do it anyway. “Why do you think that is?”
Claire stares wide-eyed (even more than normal) and refuses to blink. She takes a deep breath and swallows before saying anything. “Okay, psychotherapist Abby, I’ll answer your questions. I feel like I’m living two lives. The person I show most people isn’t who I really am. That causes people to perceive me as cold and distant.” Claire somehow bottles up her emotions with some charade of psychotherapist and analysand.
I look intently at her searching for any sign that she wants me to just shut up. “Is it the same with everyone?”
“No. It varies a lot.” She beseeches me with her eyes. “With you it was just a few weeks. Gary is a good example. It took me 2 years to feel comfortable around him.”
Her oddities of personality intrigue me almost completely. “What about a person makes you comfortable with them?”
“That’s hard to explain. I need to feel a metaphysical connection with someone to be comfortable.”
Probably looking for a personality trait from outward behavior or some generally unnoticed cues. That’s my tech’s interpretation.
“This is… there right away… sometimes. With others, it takes a long time to develop.”
I hold back my skepticism that usually just blurts out. “Have you tried anything to help you with this?”
She shoves her hands into pants pockets. “No, I don’t think this is a big issue for anyone involved.”
“Are you sure about that?”
She adamantly glares back. “No one is hurt by this.”
“Doesn’t it hurt you?” I cringe at my daring, even audacity.
“Let me think about that for a second.”
Sometime during out talk, we stop walking right outside the elevators. A good time to get to our floor. Claire floats around, busy thinking. We wait for our ride, get in, and start going up.
“I guess it does hurt me in some way. I end up distancing myself from others, in most cases. People also think I’m uncaring. That is distant from the truth.” She nears tears, yet again.
Feeling bad my question caused everything to rerun. I distance myself from her by maybe a foot, as if she transformed into a brittle ice sculpture ready to break at any moment. “What can you do to change this opinion?”
Claire inches closer. “I don’t see a reason to change.”
I lean against the corner rails, hiding from her. “Have you had any issues you want to talk about?”
“Everything was okay until yesterday. Zhou wanted me to be more open with him. I just couldn’t do it.”
I clear my head of thoughts that run free and guilt ridden. I should have done something then or now, but what? “Is that enough reason alone to change?”
“I’d rather it ended now than later. What’s the point of going after a possibility, if you have a sure thing instead? Doing the safe thing is better for everyone.” She looks me over like a predator eyeing prey.
The elevator opens letting us out. “Is living a sheltered life, actually living any life at all?”
“Every life is equally good. Personal choices don’t make one life any worse than any other.” We hug the wall.
“You can think more about what we have talked about, Ms. Genovese.”
Claire pauses to distance us. “I’ll see you at our next session, Dr. Abby.”
I touch her arm and we both stop. “Are you sure you’re okay, Claire?”
“Let's just say this is a rough point.” She smiles weakly.
“If you need anything, give me a call.”
“You bet.”
I head into my apartment. I’m happy she figured out it couldn’t work between them, soon. I just wanted it to happen a different way. Claire obviously thinks she caused it. That isn’t true. Zhou just isn’t patient enough with her, definitely the right thing to breakup. I have a small lingering thought, something I can’t shake out or away. Given the required time, Claire will open up. Is thinking about it helping in any way (we all know why it happened). Claire seems almost okay with it, but appearances deceive with her.
I decide to relax on the couch and finish reading the study, put my feet up and find the study. Where did I leave off?
(—)
Cumulative Method… Recover Lost Memories… Traumatic Brain Injury
Dr… Mekova… Dr. Ikeyama Kimura… Dr. Lukas Monrovia
Abstract
Despite advances… traumatic brain injury (TBI)… serious problem. TBI accounts… 50%… brain related medical issues… loss… leads… complication attributed… TBI… Up until… point… only therapies originate… industries… entertainment, law enforcement… news publishing… success… therapies varies case to case… methodology… comprehensive… treat… memory lose issues… explored… cross-over study.
Methodology… new stuff…
The first step develops an accurate sim of the subject's current memory baseline. Sims aggregate an estimation of the missing memory fragments in chronological order. A model of the genetically accurate neural-anatomy exposed to the complete experience history of the subject identifies the best possible neural pathway layout. Tech imprints the modeled neural map onto the subject.
The memory baseline starts with exposing the subject to the reference image directory. Each image shows from 2 to 5 secs, depending on their level of recognition. During this time, active scanning by a neural pathway analyzer objectively determines the importance and relative time of occurrence. The subject then describes anything associated with the image they recognize. Just mapping neural pathways provides insufficient data for a memory baseline [1].
Lost memories derived from public data contribute an exceptional log of daily activities. In the world we live in today, the average person lives on cam 12.5 hours a day [2]. The tech builds in additional details such as backgrounds, additional persons, and info less important than the core memory. The neural model interacts with this experience history. Anyone missing seamlessly fills in by the universal human behavior model. This sim runs for a period similar to the subject's life, through compression. At the completion of the sim, the model represents a neural pathway layout excluding the TBI.
Tech inserted into the neural envelope of the subject gradually uploads this new layout. The tech affects protein expression and provides electrical stimulation to reshape the neural pathways [3]. The implantation under neural sedation renders the subject unaware of the process.
Results
Throughout the process, constant support helps. Out of the reference image directory, the number of mages recognized varies (see Table 1). Eventually, the patchwork of sims created from the recognized images combines with reconstituted missing memories. The final layout imprints the subjects mind with a 95-99% match to the memory models (table 2).
Conclusion
This approach is quite effective…
(—)
I yawn, needing to stop soon. Good, almost done…
(—)
This approach is quite effective in creating the best possible approximation of the missing memories. This process needs more research before instituted into general use. Knowing everything about a person's life defies even the current level of tech. The percentage of replicated pathways remains inconsistent across various subjects. The long-term effects need further study. This approach shows great promise that can develop further.
(—)
Something about it feels too familiar. I just struggle placing where. It debuted during my hospital stay and received no more changes. What is it? I recovered from memory loss, and I just made something out of nothing. In my search for a study, I read something close to this. That must be it.
I put down the pad. What to eat today? A glass of warm milk sounds good. What with it? Mac and cheese could work. Macaroni with Alfredo sauce. I think that works with milk, so I try it from the nourisher. It comes out in secs.
The combination tastes good. I eat some of the pasta, okay by
itself. Swallow then take some milk. The slight sweetness of the milk overtakes the slightly savory taste of the pasta. The next bite of pasta gets a more intense flavor. The milk and Alfredo sauce go great together. The sauce incorporates just heated milk, roux, seasonings, and cheese. The milk enhances and contrasts the tastes in the sauce. The juxtaposition between the warmth and cold is just insane. The milk clears my mouth between each bite. Each spoonful tastes just like the first.
I hear a voice in my head, the Agent talking. The other communiqués, until now were all one-sided. The two-way channel should work on this first try.
Dr. Abby, I heard of the success today. We wait, eager to see what you got on that little adventure. Please open your pad to the study. We can take it from there.
“Here you go. Did you hear me?” I do what they say, also keep my personal tech open to it. Are they going to take this copy, too?
Yes.
I keep eating, check my tech, and learn they took it. Did the backup work? Dr. Abby, we are happy with your results. We can get you in for some additional training.
My subliminal feelings express themselves. “Let me stop you right there. I want to stop working with you.” Everything just gets me deeper in. They have the trespass and now data theft.
You aren’t happy with our arrangement?
“Yes.” My heart wasn’t in it from the beginning, but the same threatening routine scared no more.
That isn’t in your best interests. You are well aware of the consequences. It would be unfortunate if any of your friends were to become involved. Right now, this arrangement is just between the two of us. I think we would both like to keep it that way. Does this change your answer?
“I’m good with continuing, for now.” The excitement of doing something wrong, even new returns. It rests in the back of my mind hidden, and the possibility of loss reawakened it or some other secret need.
I’m happy to hear that. Someone will meet you this Saturday. Please be at the coffee place, downstairs. Sit under a tree, facing the Institute. We’ll see you when you get here.
“Okay.” I clench my jaw briefly at the weakness of that defiance. It bugs me that someone has this power over me.
I check my backup. A student received a copy of the study. It should keep there (hidden of course) for easy access. Get pad, go to the class location on their tech, transfer the study back, and check it. Everything’s there, good.
(—)
I swiftly move around my floor of the Stephens Institute, using the ability to see through the darkness all around. Cam footage verifies my comprehension of the situation, just a black cloudy streak indicating my presence through space. After roaming without a set goal, I dart towards the heart of the building and the way down or up. The door opens as if in anticipation of my entrance, responding to my thoughts if anything. B3 awaits, my destination on this little undercover jaunt.
I wait complacently for my arrival within this cloak of darkness, enshrouding the entire space housed within this vertically moving room. Once there, I duck into the nearby room to complete the mission. My black suit bristling with explosives prepped for commencing the destruction I initiated by my very acts. Unloading my arsenal upon the walls of this hollow predicates a hasty retreat to the research department — pursuant of escape unscathed and suspicion free.
The elevator meets my needs as before, facilitating an unremarkable trip to the sixth floor. Moving with purpose through the hallways, the central space of the research division, delivers the induction lab, my final refuge prior to retreat with flames. I run into the open doorway, jump into a roll, and land comfortably in the patient’s empty bed. The room (indoctrinated by shadow cloak) is the place I wait, twiddling my thumbs to pass the seconds/minutes.
A white tendril of light enters the sanctity of my lair harboring a sleeve-collared hand inside the ever-expanding white light cloud. I grab it with satisfaction and relief as we take off running to the escape route, our ally, soon to be betrayed. The moving room fills with a mixture of white and black form our respective dust suits celebrating the final, end all trip for this building. I look at her, and she looks back with trigger in hand ready for this. We nod together, signaling accomplishment of parts in a two-pronged attack scheme, albeit far from clandestine. The carefree, jubilant race through the lobby ends haltingly at the getaway. The go-seat begins to prepare just now, checking its systems, loading the destination, and moving into position. The pounding arteries, epinephrine filled, arc with electricity through reluctant parting hands as no other recourse presents itself to board the go-seat.
The agreement to trigger our preparations unleashes a brilliant fireball eruption from the lobby and roof. The fiery plumes stark in the diminishing light of late evening, punctuate our time together at the Stephens Institute.
The two of us move out of the city to the northern mountainous region, the furrowed terrain surpassed with no hesitation. We near the end of our journey, the upper outcrop of canyon overlooking a lake at sunset. We are jubilant with our victory and ourselves, planning our next move, the future, and all that. The dust suits presenting a plague in these conditions, necessitates removal of our masks. It is me and Irena, in her black, asymmetric hairstyle, the last guardians of data within the Stephens Institute. We embrace each other in warm affection, our dust clouds swirling together. A sharp pain at the back of my neck draws me away from this world as I awake in bed.
(—)
The pain continues from something logged there, my pad. I take it out, massage my neck and realize my throat dry and sore. Moving out of the light created by the skylight, I get a cup of water to drink. Sleepily return to bed, and blink myself back to sleep.
Mental log of Agent 7429
Tues 7/11/17 11:02 p.m.
A:
Begin briefing 4, mission 62.
R:
Anything to report?
A:
My fellow Agent 2645 reports having to use additional pressure on Dr. Abby.
R:
Does this match our profile of him?
A:
Yes. His Sci. profile suggests seeking new experiences in life. This supports his willingness to work with us despite a weak motivator. He also craves change after stability, ultimately agreeing to do more advanced training, a different type of mission. He doesn’t worry about himself as much as others. The personal motivator no longer has effect. A relationship based motivator provides enough incentive. He fits the profile on record for him.
R:
Are you getting closer to Dr. Abby?
A:
If anything, we drift further apart. We haven’t said more than two words to each other after the last debrief.
R:
Try to improve the situation.
A:
I’m on it.
R:
Good luck Agent.
A:
Thanks.
A:
What did they expect? Of course a personal motivator didn't work for long. He isn't a narcissist, but why the whole leverage protocol and a weak one at that. At some point, an operative gets the required knowledge and means to just run away, disappear from sight. The really complex, long-term cover jobs they send so many of us on just require it.
The lie has me thinking. These mental logs just deliver what we plan to say, truth or lies. A Report isn't in the room with all their interrogation tools. The job of Report, the one job that needs too much surgical implantation, neural tweaks, around the clock information overload, and just plain priority changes. Any place other than their special station with extreme biosensory data requires the use of paper clothes for their ability to decipher truth and fiction. They are incapable of lying as the rumor goes, so they use their skin as a sensory matrix, watch closely, and distract with near sexual intent. I just wanted time to decide on my next move.
If the skin and bones Conor passes the training, we meet in person with me as Agent from the Division. I can't go in my own skin. He would recog
nize me in a sec. I'm thinking blonde, dark brown eyes, and epicanthic fold. The perfect non-disguise disguise, almost everyone should notice the rarity of seeing a blonde walking around. No one would think that wasn't my face. The look has me stuck on three options. The desperate to please employee, tote bag, high-waist skirt, make-upped, and long hair. The demure socialite with a classic black work dress, up-pinned hair, and a long coat. Or the fun boss in ripped jeans, baggy shirt off one shoulder, and black or red bra strap sticking out. I'm still not sure why I lied.
Questions
Physical Rigor
Sun 8/13/17 9:37 a.m.
I sit on a bench outside a private training room waiting for my final test. The test last week went bad. I couldn’t do everything. Other people wait with me for a trainer, to anyone else. The training center lives in a gym across from the Institute.
This time I have to pass.
“Abby.” A stout, muscular, wrinkled, balding, grey-haired man waits in the doorway.
“Right here,” I say before following him inside.
“Let’s see if you can pass this time. Here’s your tracker. We can’t have you collapsing on mission.”
“Thanks, chief,” I hold out my arm.
He roughly puts a crystalline disc on my wrist. “Get up there.”
I go to the bar floating near the wall. It moves to the perfect height, and I grab it with my outstretched arms. Pulling myself up feels easier than last week. The exercises he suggested worked. I pull my head above the bar, lower myself to the ground, and take a short rest, which helps a lot. Pulling myself up the second time replaces the ease with a mental struggle of I know I can do it again, but what about the doubt — resting enough or it’s too soon. It doesn’t matter so just try my best, make it to the top, and lower down.
Remember Page 20