The Price of a Memory | Chapter 1
A Dystopian Thriller
Welcome, Void Demons.
Most of you haven’t read anything quite like this from me before. This beast of a WIP clocks in at nearly 120k words—and the series is still growing. I actually shared the intro and prologue way back in February. Crickets.
So I pivoted. Shared other stories. Built the Void from the ground up.
Well—we’re back, baby.
Unlike most of my work, which lives and breathes in first person, this one swings hard in a different direction—multiple POVs, layered timelines, and a story that stretches across thousands of years. If Warhammer 40K had a fever dream after watching Black Mirror, this would be it.
The first book is already finished—I have not published any of it, anywhere else (Okay—maybe I posted it on a blog with no followers, ONCE. Sue me.) (Don’t really, I’m poor).
Congrats on being one of the lucky few.
Enjoy.
Chapter 1 — Is Everything Alright With Elena?
[INITIALIZING MEMORY STREAM]
[ACCESSING FILE]
[DRAKE_E_2045_04_17]
[SECURITY CLEARANCE: ULTRA-VIOLET]
[PATHWAY RECONSTRUCTION: ACTIVE]
Blood in the sand. The shooting pain of shrapnel lodged in her leg. The memory slammed into Elena with such force that she stumbled against NeuroCore's gleaming entrance, copper flooding her mouth as phantom pain shot through her body. Her reflection fractured across the tinted glass—a dozen versions of herself, each one a stranger.
[UNAUTHORIZED MEMORY INTEGRATION]
[PROCESSING ERROR: UNDEFINED VARIABLE]
[R-E-C-A-L-I-B-R-A-T-I-N-G...]
[ERROR PERSISTS]
Through the lobby's glass walls, she watched the morning crowd surge past—a sea of business suits and smart casual, each person bearing the telltale shimmer of dampener implants at the base of their skulls. Implants were mandatory for all NeuroCore researchers working with SOMNUS, but they had become standard issue after the Memory Riots of '38. For safety, of course.
What Project SOMNUS was meant to save, NeuroCore had begun ruining completely.
A sleek autonomous car purred to a stop outside, depositing Catherine Walsh, banking heiress, who'd recently "acquired" a lifetime of concert piano expertise for her daughter—extracted from a Juilliard professor who needed money for medical bills.
The woman's fingers tapped an invisible symphony against her thigh, muscle memory she'd never earned ghosting through her nervous system. Elena wondered if she even realized she was doing it.
The going rate for premium artistic memories had tripled, while combat experience from veterans like E.K.847 sold at a discount—supply and demand making a marketplace of human experience.
[TIMESTAMP: 07:47 AM]
[EMOTIONAL BASELINE: FLUCTUATION DETECTED]
[DATA INTEGRITY: 98.7%]
[SEQUENCE STATUS: COMMENCEMENT CONFIRMED]
"Remember me..." E.K.847's last plea echoed as pain lanced through her skull, fracturing the vision.
Her reflection stared back from the building's mirrored surface: bloodshot eyes rimmed with purple shadows, skin waxy under fluorescent lights. The dampener implant at the base of her skull pulsed faintly—a reminder of the technology she'd helped perfect when Project SOMNUS was still about preservation rather than profit.
[NEURAL PATTERN ANALYSIS: Memory Intrusion Detected]
[Origin: UNKNOWN]
[Containment Status: FAILING - Project MNEMOSYNE Reference Detected]
[Warning: Security Protocol Breach]
The dreams had grown worse, even with her dampener at maximum strength. Combat training she'd never received. Losing squadmates she'd never met. Each morning brought fresh erosion, fragments of purchased memories settling into the cracks of her consciousness like sand in an hourglass.
The scientist in her wanted to analyze this phenomenon, to understand how memories could breach even third-generation dampeners. But the human in her was terrified of what that meant.
She thought back to 2025, when it had all started—she, James, and Lucas bent over neural mapping data in their MIT lab, dreaming of helping Alzheimer's patients preserve their memories.
[MEMORY ARCHITECTURE SCAN]
[Timeline Reference: MIT Research Phase (2025-2027) - Project SOMNUS Evolution Track]
Even a decade ago, she believed in NeuroCore's mission. Memory preservation had seemed noble—a gift to grieving families, a way to pass down legacy. Now, for the right price, anyone could buy someone else's expertise, talents, or experiences.
The wealthy traded memories like stocks, building portfolios of skills and knowledge without earning them. And the dampeners, originally designed to prevent memory overflow, had become just another tool for control.
Elena approached the security checkpoint, her hand hovering over the scanner. From nearby workstations, technicians' voices drifted over—casual, callous, discussing memories like commodities to be traded.
"Did you see the new military package?" one laughed. "Seven figures minimum. Some CEO wants his kid to have Special Forces training without the inconvenience of actual service. Another E.K. series extraction."
"Better than Subject 12-29C," another replied. "Still processing that grief package from the dead sibling. Premium stuff, but the extraction takes forever. Had to splice the hippocampus pretty good. Just like those refugee camp extractions back in '35. It’s even messier in person."
Elena's fingers tightened on her tablet. E.K.847's personnel file was still open, next-of-kin information highlighted. A sister in PR. Elena closed the file before she could read more—she had enough on her plate at the moment.
[Neural Response Detected: Empathy Surge - Ignored]
[Ethical Conflict: NOTED]
"Welcome, Dr. Drake. Your dampener efficiency has dropped 12% since yesterday. Would you like to schedule a mandatory wellness consultation?"
The security AI's voice jarred her back to the present. Elena met its unblinking gaze, wondering if its empathy algorithms could detect guilt as easily as stress.
"I'm fine."
The lab's fluorescent lights flickered as Elena swiped into her workstation, the air heavy with ozone and the copper-penny taste. Each morning ritual felt more both monotonous and foreign: the weight of her lab coat, the soft whir of machinery, the distant hum of servers.
Through the observation window, she watched technicians prep their first "donor" of the day—a former Olympic gymnast selling her muscle memory to pay for her mother's cancer treatments. The going rate for Olympic-grade skills had dropped again; too many athletes were selling their glory days to stay afloat.
"Running diagnostics already?"
Lucas appeared, his wrinkled lab coat carrying that hint of vanilla and toffee that was his signature. His sleeve rode up as he reached past her to tap the monitor, revealing those geometric burn scars from their first failed memory transfer experiment back at MIT.
His fingers lingered a fraction too long near hers—a gesture so subtle the cameras would miss it. But Elena's eyes were drawn to the faint marks on his neck that his collar didn’t quite hide, making her flush.
She jerked her hand away, catching James watching them from across the lab. Her fiancé's eyes held that same distant look they'd had since the refugee camp data started coming in. The weight of her engagement ring felt like lead. Elena blinked and suddenly her was there, subtly stepping between her and Lucas.
The smell of coffee and cinnamon followed him everywhere.
"Brought you a maple scone," he murmured, producing a paper bag with a soft smile. "You missed dinner again last night. Have to make sure you're taking care of yourself." James placed the bag down and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.
Elena leaned into his touch despite herself, craving any anchor to her own reality. Her finger found her engagement ring—a nervous habit since he’d proposed. The metal felt cold, foreign, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Or like she didn’t belong in this one.
"You feeling okay? You seem tired." His free hand smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture achingly tender. "I know I haven’t been around much lately. Maybe we could do dinner tonight? That little Italian place you love?"
"I can’t tonight," Elena said, the lie bitter on her tongue. "The E.K. protocols—"
"Tomorrow then," James smiled, already pulling out his phone. "I’ll make reservations. That corner table you love, the one with the vintage Chianti you discovered on our third date." He pressed a quick kiss to her temple, lingering for a moment.
"Try not to work too late tonight, okay?"
His hand brushed her lower back—a gesture that once brought comfort, now felt like shackles. She remembered his proposal six months ago, how certain everything had seemed then. Before all the secrets started piling up like bodies in a war she’d never fought but could somehow remember.
The lights flickered again, triggering another memory. This one hers, three months ago, when everything changed. Before it all went to he—
[ACCESSING RESTRICTED MEMORY BLOCK]
[SECURITY CLEARANCE: ULTRA-VIOLET]
[TIMESTAMP: 01.17.2045 23:17:44]
"You're still here?" Lucas’s voice had made her jump. He stood in the doorway, lab coat discarded, sleeve pushed up to reveal those geometric scars she’d always wondered about.
"Let me guess—the E.K. series anomaly?"
She nodded, not even turning her attention away from the screen.
"The containment protocols keep failing.”
Lucas crossed to her workstation, rolling a chair close. Too close.
"Show me?" His shoulder pressed against hers as they hovered over the keyboard.
She could smell that hint of vanilla and toffee, feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The code blurred before her tired eyes.
"There." Lucas pointed to a line in her algorithm. "Containment protocols aren’t failing. They're being manually pulled." His finger traced the pattern. "Only admin has that level of permission, I mean."
Elena turned to argue—Hayes was many things, but he wouldn't deliberately corrupt the system he'd spent ten years building into the world's most profitable memory marketplace. The words died in her throat when her eyes locked with Lucas's.
"Elena..." His voice was rough but soft. "We shouldn’t."
"I know,” She whispered. “We should stop," But she didn’t pull away when his hand cupped her face, didn’t try to brush him off when his thumb began tracing her lower lip.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost hesitant. Then something broke loose—months of keeping little secrets, of lingering looks and carefully maintained distance dissolving in an instant.
But an alarm shattered the moment between them—the closest the universe could get to a warning without slapping her across the face with a bucket of red flags.
"Security breach in sector seven," the AI announced. "All personnel return to stations. This is not a drill."
They broke apart, breathing hard. Elena’s hands shook as she re-buttoned her blouse, shame flooding in to replace the heat. Lucas was already pulling up security feeds on the nearest monitor.
Elena smoothed her hair, trying to rebuild her professional facade. "Hayes will expect us at our stations."
"Elena." Lucas caught her arm as she reached for her lab coat. "We should finish this discussion. Tonight?"
Should have said no. Should have ended it before it could destroy everything.
"My place," she heard herself say instead. "James works late again."
The smile Lucas gave her was almost predatory. She wondered, not for the first time, how much of his interest was genuine and how much was calculation.
Blinking away the memory, she caught Lucas watching her again, head tilted, that boyish smile on his lips.
"What?" she asked, half-laughing despite herself, playing her own part in this elaborate dance of deception.
"You do this little thing with your lip when you’re thinking," he mumbled. "It’s... I don’t know. Cute, I guess."
The observation was precise, personal—designed to make her feel seen while simultaneously reminding her she was being watched… at least that’s what she would notice if she were paying attention.
Before she could respond, Hayes’s reflection appeared in the darkened monitor, his hawkish eyes fixed on the two of them. The weight of constant surveillance was suddenly suffocating—Hayes watching Lucas, Lucas watching her, the AI systems watching everyone.
Layers of surveillance and counter-surveillance, wheels within wheels, waiting for her to—[ACCESSING PATTERN DISCREPANCIES]
The first slip happened at her desk. Elena found herself humming a lullaby in Arabic—the same one from Thompson’s memories of [REDACTED]. Her fingers stopped typing midline.
The second came an hour later. She reached for her coffee, and her hand moved wrong, following the muscle memory of someone trained to check for poison. Williams, her mind supplied, though she’d never accessed his file.
The third hit during lunch. She caught herself scanning the cafeteria exits, calculating angles of fire, mapping escape routes with military precision. Not her training. Not her paranoia. But the adrenaline spike was real enough.
When Hayes’s voice came from behind her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Interesting reading material, Dr. Drake."
Elena glanced down. She’d pulled up Williams’s case file without realizing it. On her screen, his last status report blinked: WARNING: Protocol breach detected in neural architecture. Pattern suggests intentional—[REDACTED]
"Dr. Drake." Hayes’s voice carried that familiar blend of authority and paternal disappointment. "A word about your latest NIS evaluation?"
She followed him into the corridor, past rows of preservation servers humming with artificial life.
"Fascinating things, memories. They shape us, define us... break us." Hayes smiled sadly. "You’re losing faith in our vision. Forgetting what we started this for. The greater good requires sacrifice, Elena." He gestured to the protesters outside. "We can ensure stability. Progress. The American dream."
"By stealing people’s memories for a profit?"
"By creating better ones." Hayes reached for her dampener. "I’m sure you understand that just because something is profitable doesn’t make it inherently negative for the buyer. It’s all about give and take."
Her fingers found her ring, but this time they were seeking a different kind of comfort, the kind Williams had taught her through the neural haze.
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"It would be a shame if James had to watch." The double entendre was not lost on her. "I mean your spiral, of course. Seeing someone you love lose themselves bit by bit... it breaks something in a person. Just ask Thompson’s wife. She would have never survived if we hadn’t helped her cope with her loss."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Elena? Tell Dr. West that his after-hours research with you is... concerning. The board is watching."
Elena waited until his footsteps faded before sagging against the wall, heart hammering. The static in her mind came to a crescendo, a thousand borrowed memories screaming for attention.
Foreign tactical instincts flared—pattern recognition, threat assessment. Through the noise, a memory surfaced: Williams in Hayes’s office, three weeks before his "suicide."
Hayes’s voice, sharp with conviction: "Maybe we can help you access those memories, we could see if the truth is buried somewhere in there... we’ll figure out what happened to your friend."
The memory wasn’t hers, but the surge of adrenaline was real. Williams had discovered something that, in the end, was worth dying for.
Elena snapped back to reality with a barely audible gasp. Without missing a beat, she returned to her workstation. They’re always watching. How did she get in this deep? But it made sense the longer she worked; the best containment protocols were the ones you never saw coming.
A news helicopter, a metallic vulture circling its prey, hovered above NeuroCore’s tower, broadcasting the gospel of memory preservation.
"The next step in human evolution, engineered by man," they broadcast. As if "man’s" touch hadn’t always turned gold to shit.
Blood in the sand. Thompson’s death. The taste of copper in her mouth—but this time, Elena recognized these borrowed memories for what they really were: weapons waiting to be aimed. Thompson’s last words echoed in her mind—"Remember me"—and for the first time, she understood: remembering wasn’t just about preserving the past. Sometimes it was about surviving the future.
[END FILE]
[SURVEILLANCE LOG: ARCHIVED]
[SESSION END: 2045.04.17 17:23:44]
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Until the next chapter,
—The Narrator.
Elena is unraveling, but it’s a controlled unraveling. Her mind is fracturing under memory incursions, yet she’s still running diagnostics, still showing up for work, still wearing the lab coat. There’s a haunting irony to her professionalism in the middle of a psychological collapse.
Incredible… I have questions, and also need more.
This is tense!
I love it!