《Who Needs Heroes, Aria Moon?》


 Chapter 1 - Twilight

    Blue and green light strikes my vision with a brutal force as I open my eyes for the very first time. Strange liquids fill the glass tank in which I am floating, drifting. A screeching sound, the metallic roar of foriegn machines penetrate my senses, brutalising my ears. When I open my eyes again, the world beyond the tank remains blurred, though figures, dark silhouettes crowd the tank, their shoulders hunched. I imagine the hunger of desperate predators in the eyes of these strangers.


    In the corner of my eye something dark and thin, a sliver of metal, extends within the tank, stretching toward my body. As I turn to face it I see yet more of them. Something sharp presses into my back. I spin again, legs kicking wildly in the water. The needles surround me, piercing my skin in a unified, sharp assault.


    Pain soars through my skull and the world vanishes around me, replaced by a dark, damp alleyway.


    I stride through the alley, toward the body, my shadow is chased by neon lights and my hat is beaten down by pouring rain. A man lies dead at my feet, his blood mixing with the rain and filth pooling on the floor. His file said he was a hated man, someone behind me suggests that was why he¡¯s been killed. As always, the person behind me is wrong, they miss the big picture. I mumble something under my breath, a thought incomprehensible to me most of all, before tipping the contents of a flask between my lips.


    The world shakes, and changes. Something breaks within my mind. My eyes split apart and I scream my way into a new place.


    I¡¯m in a police station, lying on a bench and waiting to see a client. A man in blue overalls approaches me. A quick glance around the room reveals three others in similar uniforms. As the man grabs me by the shirt and lifts me up, I look down. I¡¯m wearing the same outfit.


    I sigh. Of course, I¡¯m not here to see a client. I¡¯m one of the prisoners.


    The man¡¯s saying something, yelling, really. Apparently I¡¯m the reason he¡¯s here. Doesn¡¯t explain why I¡¯m in prison, but it explains why he just punched me.


    Oh. He just punched me.


    It takes a moment of frozen time for the pain to register.


    It takes several moments more for the concept of pain to unfold, like a letter caked in congealed mould, within me.


    I spin from the force of the blow and fall, collapsing to my knees, in a brand new place. I¡¯m crouched down in a bar behind an overturned table, bullets cutting the air around me, tearing my cover to tiny, wooden shreds. Something, a bullet or fragment of wood, catches me in the side. There is no pain, only blood.


    I¡¯m out of ammo.


    A bullet shatters a piece of table and takes me in the shoulder. I collapse, falling to my stomach, face striking the hard surface of the bar.


    The world shakes one more time and I shut my eyes. Something screams, pitched fury and fear. My body writhes and hands press against me, holding me down. Turning me over? Something cold touches my back. Hands, unwanted, are all over me.


    Where are my clothes?


    I want them to stop but they can¡¯t hear me over the screaming.


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    I open my eyes. Blue and green light strikes my vision once more. But before I can close them, rough fingers grip my face and hold the eyelids open. Tears fall down my cheeks and the screaming continues. More hands, pressing on my legs. The piercing light begins to dim.


    Am I the one screaming?


    As a test, I try to close my mouth.


    The screaming stops.


    Slowly, the world falls quiet around me. Hushed voices speak nearby. Lights hum and my breathing shakes my body, rattling it from skin to bone. The fingers holding my eyes open release my face. One by one, the strange and foreign hands on my form slip away. I blink, but resist the urge to screw my eyes shut once more.


    Instead, I focus on my breathing, slowing it down. My hands shake against the cold hard floor. After a moment, the hands return, gently this time, lifting me up and carrying me. It¡¯s a short journey, before they set me down on a chair. Another figure appears in front of me. A man. He shines a bright light in my eyes, moving it left, then right. Terrified that they¡¯ll force my eyelids open once more, I keep my eyes open.


    After a brief examination, the man leaves and someone else presses something into my hands. Whatever it is, it¡¯s soft. I look down. Fabric, dark. I search my memories for its name but find only the memories of the alley, the prison and the bar.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gown,¡± speaks the voice of an unfamiliar figure. She¡¯s old, smiling gently. Green clothing, faded, worn. Grey hair hangs in tangles down her cheeks. How long has it been since she washed it? Bags under her eyes. Tension in the face muscles. Is she forcing the smile?


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about them, animals,¡± she continues, ¡°They really can be monstrous. Normally we try to restrain you with straps and a bed and the like, but it¡¯s a busy day and we didn¡¯t have any left.¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t gone home in a very long time,¡± I finally said. My voice is tired, lower than I expected. A bit of gravel. A touch of hostility. Is that who I am?


    I don¡¯t quite know who I am.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be alarmed,¡± The woman says, ¡°Your memories will come in time. I¡¯m also a clone, I remember leaving my tank as vividly as the day it happened.¡±


    ¡°Clone,¡± I whisper, the word meaning nothing to me. ¡°Why can¡¯t I remember anything? Why can¡¯t I remember who I am?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re no one,¡± The woman responded, ¡°Every clone is no one at first. Until they regain the memories of someone. Your¡¯s are still fading in, but you¡¯ll have them all back eventually, I assure you.¡±


    My attention returns downward, down to the gown in my hands. I run my thumbs over the surface. When I next speak, my voice is hollow. ¡°I¡¯m no one?¡±


    ¡°For now,¡± the woman said, ¡°But then, very soon, you¡¯ll be Aria Moon.¡±


    ¡°Aria Moon,¡± I said, testing the name on my lips.


    ¡°Welcome,¡± The woman extended her hand, ¡°Welcome, Aria Moon, to Harmony.¡±

 Chapter 2 - Bodies in Motion

    As I shuffle down the grey corridor, ever illuminated by those green and blue lights, I hear a conversation from two men in lab coats. They walk beside us. Beside the twenty five shuffling forms of other clones. They¡¯re all naked, just as I was when I left the tube. Many still have strange fluids dripping from their figures. All tremble. All eyes are wild.


    ¡°You¡¯re new, but you¡¯ll learn eventually.¡± The first man is still talking. I tilt my head to the side, half looking at him as he speaks. ¡°Clones are all slow when they wake up. They can¡¯t think right, can¡¯t see right.¡± I catch a shift in his pitch when he says clones.


    ¡°So they can¡¯t hear us?¡± The second man asks.


    ¡°If you ask me,¡± The first man continues, that shift in pitch now overtaking each word, derision swallowing the conversation, ¡°We should send them in like this. They fight the Synthetics out in the wastelands just as they are. No more human lives lost.¡±


    The second man rubs his index and middle fingers against his palm, there¡¯s a hitch when he speaks. Is he uncomfortable? ¡°Well, we wouldn¡¯t send them in just like this right?¡± He tries to force a laugh. I allow myself a smile. Uncomfortable with the conversation, he changed the subject.


    The second man continues. ¡°We¡¯d at least give them some clothes, right?¡±


    At the mention of clothes, I slowly shift my face downward, staring at the floor, eyes locked to the damp concrete meeting my footsteps. I am the only one wearing clothes, clad in a dark gown, given to me by one of the doctors. An elderly woman robbed of sleep, estranged from her bed.


    ¡°If we don¡¯t give them their memories,¡± The first man says, ¡°Then they don¡¯t get their sense. They won¡¯t care or even know if they¡¯re naked.¡± It¡¯s at this point that the hair on the back of my neck tingles. I know that his eyes are on me.


    ¡°All except this one here."


    ¡°Why does she have a gown,¡± the second man asks. ¡°Everyone else is naked.¡±


    The first man holds back a laugh, but only barely. ¡°Are you kidding? You don¡¯t recognise this one? She¡¯s Shale¡¯s¡­ I don¡¯t wanna say girlfriend, maybe her wife away from her wife?¡±


    ¡°Shale, as in Madame Shale?¡± The second man, ¡°Shit, I do recognise her! From that vid that leaked.¡±


    ¡°Exactly¡± The first man continues. As he speaks, the second man places a hand on my shoulder. My entire body goes stiff, sharp. He pulls, redirecting my walk away from the slowly marching clones. ¡°This way, You¡¯re not going with the rest of them.¡±


    The first man¡¯s voice sharpens, ¡°What did I tell you? She can¡¯t understand us. No point in speaking to her.¡±


    ¡°Is that why we¡¯re taking her up top?¡± The second man begins, ¡°To see Madame Shale?¡±


    ¡°Guess she wants her mistress back¡± the first man doesn¡¯t hold back his laugh this time.


    When the first man speaks once again, I hear something¡­ A cruel lilt envelope his tone.


    ¡°Damn shame that they do cover her up. There are some fine bodies shambling down this hallway, but she¡¯s gotta have the best.¡± He starts to whisper. ¡°I was on the detail pulling her out of the tank earlier. When she was writhing on the ground, kicking and screaming, we had to hold her down.¡± He half laughs, ¡°For her own good.¡±


    ¡°And let¡¯s just say,¡± his next words chill my blood, ¡°I was holding down some of the fun bits.¡±


    Before I can even stop myself, the plan forms. It¡¯s simple. Effective. And the moment it¡¯s come to light in my mind, my body acts accordingly. My hand darts upward and slaps the cup out of the second man¡¯s hand. It clatters to the floor, spilling clear liquid across the already damp concrete surface. The first man is already in front of it. Good. Before the second man can react, I step forward and grab the first man¡¯s long blonde hair. I pull. The bastard stumbles back. Already overbalanced, he steps onto the watery floor. His legs go up, his head goes down. He crashes to the floor. In a second, my foot finds purchase on his throat and pushes down. He begins to writhe, but the fall has dazed him. I knew it would.


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    The second man tries to grab at me and I catch his wrist, twisting it around his back. In seconds, both are at the mercy of my will. The slightest pressure of my foot and the first man chokes, the most tentative touch of my hand and the second man¡¯s arm is broken. Movement from behind me, boots on concrete. Before I can even turn, cold metal is pressed to my neck. Again, my skin trembles. The steel is circular. The barrel of a gun. Something in the back of my mind recognizes the gun. Has this person threatened me before?


    ¡°Let them go. And then turn around, slowly.¡± The voice is commanding, and yet, within a sense of comfort, comfort that his order will be obeyed. Whoever is speaking, he¡¯s used to being in command.


    I¡¯m tough. I remember that much. But I¡¯m obviously not bullet proof. I release my hold on the second man and, with reluctance, slowly step off the throat of the first. Then, steadying my breathing and holding back an anger I hadn¡¯t realised was still raging, I turn. The new man before me is clean shaven, hair well kept. Sharp jawline. Uniform recently cleaned. Dark brown hair. Hard eyes. Police? Guard? Not enough information to decide. Gun in my face though, there¡¯s a gun in my face and that¡¯s certainly enough information for me to decide to listen to him.


    The man, his name tag identifies him as Lancer, presses the barrel to my forehead. I wonder if he¡¯s that bad a shot.


    ¡°Every time we pull you out of the tank, you end up in some kind of trouble.¡± His voice is stern. Not rough like my own, but he seems consistently on the verge of erupting.


    ¡°But this,¡± he growls, ¡°This is the first time you¡¯ve outright attacked someone, clone.¡±


    ¡°Aria,¡± I keep my voice even, ever mindful of the gun in my face. ¡°My name is Aria Moon.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± he says calmly, ¡°You CAN hear us already.¡± Lancer lowers the gun, tucking it away in its holster. Though his hand remains noticeably near it. ¡°One of these days, the doctors need to figure out how you wake up so damned fast.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Can I go now?¡± I ask.


    Lancer gestures at the two men behind me. ¡°You just attacked two humans. If you were anyone else¡­ Do you understand how much trouble you¡¯d be in? What did they even do?¡±


    I open my mouth, ready to explain. But something holds me back. A thought, a worry. Clone, they call me. Humans, they call themselves. Who- What am I to these men? I know in that moment that my objection, my reasons, are smoke in the wind. Lost. To them, beyond pointless. Simply nonexistent. I pocket my objection and look away from Lancer, away from the humans in the room. The sigh I release is heavy, worn down by five minutes of the utter exhaustion summoned on me by the world.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I say, ¡°Not to you, at least.¡±

 Chapter 3 - Synthetic Conflict

    ¡°Let me begin by saying what a delight it is to be speaking to people who don¡¯t know who I am. It¡¯s a novel thing if I dare say. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. My name is Emery Shale. But everyone calls me Madame Shale. Think of it as a fun little nickname. If you¡¯re watching this video recording then you must be very confused. And that¡¯s alright, I¡¯m here to explain everything. Let¡¯s start right from the beginning.¡±


    ¡°Many years ago, the human race made the whole planet our home. It was a beautiful, wonderful age of innovation and culture. However, that time was brought to an end with the Synthetic Revolution. Synthetics, robots, rose up and waged war on humankind. As a- peaceful- people we found ourselves unable to battle the tide of mechanical violence raging all around us. Many humans, many good people, died. We were reduced down to three million. Which may sound like quite a lot, but when compared to the eight billion we once numbered at¡­ The fall was a tragic time for humans. Tragic, indeed.¡±


    ¡°As of now, the last of the human race lives not far away from where we are now. Safely tucked away in the mountains, preparing to one day retake the planet for its rightful owners. But these things take time. Surrounding the entrance to the mountains, is a deep, cavernous trench known as Harmony Valley. The Synthetics and their army cannot reach the human stronghold without first passing through and taking Harmony Valley.¡±


    ¡°And so, many brave humans, some of whom are with you now, left their home and formed Harmony City. A defensive fortification all within the valley itself. These brave humans defend against Synthetic attacks, they hold off the threat that faces us all.¡±


    ¡°However, this was an imperfect solution. Against the Synthetic onslaught, many of those brave humans fell. They died at the metallic claws of the monsters who tear away at our home. Many of us searched for a solution. And I think you will find that none have been more successful than the solution found by the Shale Future Foundation. The solution, found by yours truly.¡±


    ¡°Every resident of Harmony City has had their genetic material copied and stored. The same approach has been taken with their memories. With our miraculous technological strides, we¡¯ve been able to clone those citizens. And so, when someone dies, we simply remove their clone from the tank and provide them with the memories of their corresponding human.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°The result of this, is you.¡±


    ¡°At the end of this orientation, you will be presented with the clothing and effects found on the person of your former self at the moment of their death and you will be escorted to your home. Your employers have been notified of your recent demise and have made the appropriate allowances for your return into our wonderful culture of self-determination, our work for the good of humanity. Please be aware that allowance times, the period in which your employer will permit you to remain at home for recovery, will vary depending on the employer and the pressing needs of your position.¡±


    ¡°Of course, you are wondering how long it may take for your memories to return. This is highly dependent on your generation of cloning. If you are being cloned for the first time, you are a first generation clone, and your memories are likely to return within the next two days. Second and third generations of clones will likely take between four days and one week, respectively. As it stands, at the time of recording, we have yet to have clones of greater generations. But rest assured, we will continue to publish our guidelines on the care of newly born clones for employers and Harmony City residents to be advised by."


    ¡°Now of course, you may find yourself asking about the synthetics, about your safety. After all, I¡¯ve said already that we, the people of Harmony Valley, are the last defense against the synthetic invaders. However, there is absolutely no need to fear them. They have never once attacked our valley and they never will. Why? Because of our brave soldiers in the Synthetic Repellant Group. For some of you, this will be your future. The SynthRep Group functions as Harmony¡¯s military, travelling beyond the valley to meet our brutal, metallic enemy in open combat. Many of you, in this room, are likely members of SynthRep, and to you I say thank you. I offer my undying respect and gratitude for securing a future within Harmony Valley.¡±


    ¡°I extend my gratitude to all of you. You make up my most wonderful extended family. And be certain to look to the Shale Future Foundation for all of your service requirements and needs, perhaps even to some of our sister businesses. As a clone brought to live by our hands, we want to ensure your continued prosperity in Harmony. As such, your Clone Identification Card will even provide you with a 7% discount on all of our services. Thank you for your time and welcome to your new life in Harmony.¡±

 Chapter 4 - Bathed in a Neon Light

    The orientation plays across a series of dancing, flickering screens that slide across the hard concrete wall as I walk. Captain Lancer leads me down the dark hallway, the steel doors of an elevator awaiting me at the end. When those doors open, they reveal within them an elevator box of polished hardwood. Fine detailings of roses, leaves and vines curl up the walls of the elevator, carved with passionate skill and a careful, masterful hand.


    I step from the lights of blue and green into the warm hues of the elevator. Captain Lancer remains in the hallway, hands behind his back and a twinkle of annoyance in his eyes.


    As the elevator doors close and the hum of the motor whirs in the background, the voice of Madame Shale continues. She is talking about the duration before our memories will return. Two days for the first generation. At the most, a week, for a third generation.


    A moment before, I¡¯d heard¡­ from a source my whirling, tap-dancing memories cannot recall, that this is my sixth time being pulled from the elevator. Sixth generation. I try to recall my past, see a way through to who I¡¯ve been before. But all I find is smoke and fog. My only memories are of the last few moments. My memories are of burning light and foriegn hands, invasive touch and unkind words.


    The elevator¡¯s hum ceases and the doors slide open. The floating screens, bearing the smiling face of Madame Shale, turn dark. I step from the elevator into the hallway before me. My bare feet press into a thick, soft carpet. Plush texture wraps around my toes and heel. A gentle song, the whimsical lilt of a violin, drifts through the hallway. The walls, like the elevator, are carved hardwood, polished and augmented with the work of artisans and woodcarvers. As I walk I notice the photographs to my right, lining the wall. All of them of a woman, sitting at a desk. In the first, the woman¡¯s desk presses against a wall of rough concrete, the light from a square half meter window casting light past her. I recognise the red of her short hair, the warmth of her smile and the sharp green of her eyes. She¡¯s younger than in the video, but it¡¯s certainly Madame Emery Shale in the image.


    Each image that I walk by shows her behind a new desk, bigger, larger than the one before. The window grows in width and height and slowly, picture by picture, she rises above the city. As she rises, so does she age, lines and wrinkles finding her face and the red of her hair losing its luster. At the end of the hallway, the last of the pictures behind me, I face forward, toward another door. I reach my hand out to open it but the two sides slide apart, revealing a living image. Standing before me, in an office of three glass walls, is Emery Shale.


    ¡°You¡¯re in one of those pictures,¡± she says. ¡°The last one, on your right. Care to guess where?¡± She taps her finger on the surface of her table and smiles. She steps forward, away from the table and holds out her hands. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Aria,¡± her voice is sweet. As she steps toward me I see just how much of this woman has been robbed by photos and video, by recordings and screens. Standing before me, arms open, eyes warm, more so than I¡¯ve seen in my brief life, she becomes beautiful.


    ¡°We have so much to talk about.¡±


    She takes my hand and leads me toward one of the glass walls of her office. She presses a hand against it and pushes. The glass door slides open, revealing a balcony of glass and the city of Harmony stretching below and beyond.


    Walls of stone rise from both sides, reaching beyond where we stood and up to the cloudy evening sky. Into the walls of the valley, stretching out into the distance are buildings; homes carved into the sides of the valley walls and expanding out from them. There are bridges and walkways connecting the sides of the walls. Within the valley itself, are thousands more buildings, large and small, spires and blocks, twisting shapes and cylinders and lights and the rampant noise of human beings. And all of it is below us. The air touches my skin, I shiver. My feet seem to touch nothing as I stand on the glass balcony. It is as though I am flying, drifting, held up by an unseen power.


    Madame Shale turns to me, sadness conquering her eyes. ¡°What happened to you, Aria?¡±


    I say nothing. She knows I cannot remember.


    She closes her eyes and allows herself a brief nod, accepting that truth. ¡°I know, you don¡¯t remember. It¡¯s just¡­ You vanished. You packed up and left us, three months ago. You worked remotely, barely sent communication. . And then ten days ago we stopped hearing from you. Just¡­ we just heard fragmented, fractured reports of a woman with mint green hair causing fight after fight, dancing from one drunken rage to another. For ten days you were nothing more than a news report spreading from district to district.¡±


    She turns away from me, opening her eyes to watch the flickering lights of the city. Their frantic neon hues colour the world below. Harmony City is a sickly rainbow. But at this height, those lights don¡¯t reach us. The warm glow of the single, calm light of Shale¡¯s office brushes our backs as we watch the city.


    ¡°Who was I?¡± I ask, finally cracking the silence.


    ¡°Not a simple question¡± Madame Shale does not look at me as she speaks. ¡°But I¡¯ll do my best to answer.¡± She turns away from the city and back to the office, striding away from me.


    ¡°Was I under the desk?¡± I ask. ¡°In the picture, the one you said I¡¯m in. Was I under the desk?¡±


    ¡°You were,¡± Madame Shale says, turning to face me.


    ¡°Why was I under your desk?¡± I know the answer, but the question leaves me anyway.


    Madame Shale only smiles and walks back into her office.

 Chapter 5 - A Second First Impression

    ¡°You were a private investigator before you came to us,¡± Madame Shale begins, leaning back into her frankly enormous chair. The light from the fireplace dances up her legs, shrouding her form in never motionless waves of light and shadow. The music playing at the edges of my ears presses awkwardly against my thoughts, as though confronting something within my mind, an internal song that pushes against the order and clarity of Madame Shale¡¯s orchestral recording.


    ¡°I was a private investigator?¡± I ask, ¡°How did I end up working for you? Rave reviews? Word of mouth? Was I the talk of Harmony and you just HAD to get your hands on my unique set of talents?¡±


    Madame Shale laughs, actually laughs. She leans forward in her frankly enormous chair and slaps her leg. ¡°Hah! There was certainly word of mouth about you Aria, but none of it was good.¡± She pauses, sipping her wine and retaking control of her composure.


    ¡°We¡¯d had a problem, one that needed solving, that no one on my team could figure out. And then, you came to us. Damn near broke every bone in Captain Lancer¡¯s arm getting through the door, made a mess of the lobby, fought your way up to the elevator. You broke into my office, gun in hand, right arm drenched in blood and violence in your eyes. Then, a moment later, you dropped the gun and rushed for the liquor cabinet, stopping only to vomit on my rug. You sucked down half a bottle of wine, turned to me and begged for a job.¡±


    My body goes taut as Madame Shale recounts the story, blush reaching my cheeks and humiliation pooling in my gut. ¡°Why did you hire her¡­ that person?¡± I can¡¯t handle it, I can¡¯t bear to identify that catastrophe of a human¡­ That catastrophe of a clone of a clone of a clone again and again was someone who I had once been, or who had once been me. We had been each other six times as of this morning.


    I think. I wrap my hands around my head and resist screaming, the frustration of trying to understand this situation tearing through my heart.


    Madame Shale examines the contents of the fireplace, eyes locked to the flames. ¡°Because you solved the case then and there. Between three bottles of my best drink and bursting into tears next to the vomit, you solved the case. I didn¡¯t care what state you were in, what the word of mouth was. I hired you on the spot to work for us.¡±


    Nothing comes, no memory of my former life rears its head.


    ¡°So I was your personal P.I.?¡± I finally say.


    ¡°Not officially. No. That was the plan, originally, but you said you¡¯d have an easier time doing your job if you posed as a normal employee. You spread a rumour in the offices that you were a mistress of mine, jilted and enraged at discovering I was married. The security footage from your little rampage vanished and soon you were on the books as a¡­ package courier.¡±


    I chew the information for a moment, rubbing my temple with my index and middle fingers. Too much information too fast. My head is light. The world sways and dips from left to right. Why is my body so heavy?


    It doesn¡¯t matter. I push through it.


    ¡°Why a package courier?¡± I ask, before holding up a palm, ¡°Wait no, let me¡­¡± I take in two breaths, slow and steady. ¡°As a courier,¡± I begin. The conclusion forms word by word in my mouth and mind simultaneously. ¡°As a courier, I can move between departments with ease, between office buildings even. And it¡¯s just low level enough that anyone who doesn¡¯t know my face, who couldn¡¯t place me as your mysterious mistress, would just ignore me.¡±


    Madame Shale nods. ¡°Exactly.¡±


    I chew on my lip, ¡°I was smart. Some of the time, at least.¡± I look up, meeting her eyes, ¡°You said you hadn¡¯t seen me in months.¡± My knuckles turn white as my hands tighten into firm fists in my lap. I sense the reflex as a method of staving off the terror in my gut. ¡°You said I left, moved out three months ago, and eventually you never heard from me again.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The orchestra bursting from the recording comes together in a masterful display of skill right as I am about to complete my question. A smile, half remembered from lifetimes ago, finds my lips. For a moment I don¡¯t finish the¡­


    ...question.


    What question?


    The world returns to me slowly, sharpening into focus in gentle waves. Madame Shale is standing at her desk on the other side of the room, examining a series of papers, glass of wine at her side. When did she move?


    ¡°What,¡± I swallow, uneasy and unsure of the taste of the words in my mouth, ¡°what just happened?¡± The whole sentence feels disjointed, like none of the words connect with each other, like nothing I just said made any sense.


    Madame Shale looks up at me and smiles. ¡°That¡¯s normal. Right now your memories are returning. Something in the room must have triggered it.¡±


    ¡°My memory, returning¡± I say slowly, ¡°Yes of course. My memory.¡±


    ¡°What did you remember?¡± Shale asks, walking over to me.


    ¡°Nothing important,¡± I say quietly, ¡°Nothing worth remembering.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± She says. Her fingers clenching against her glass suggest that she doesn¡¯t believe me. But it¡¯s the truth. I didn¡¯t remember anything worth remembering. Supposedly my memory was returning to me, but nothing came.


    ¡°Was I- asking something, earlier? I had a question¡± I say slowly, ¡°But it¡¯s slipped away.¡±


    Madame Shale shrugs, ¡°No idea. Maybe it¡¯ll come back to you later. But I think right now, you would be best served by a very long rest. Come, I¡¯ll have someone escort you to your quarters.¡±


    ¡°My, quarters?¡± I ask.


    Madame Shale nods, ¡°You haven¡¯t used them in some time, not since you moved away to that dingy apartment above the bar, but we¡¯ve kept your room as you left it. I think you¡¯ll find it quite to your liking.¡±


    She walks past me, vanishing behind my vision for a moment before returning with a wooden walking cane in her hands. She holds it out with one hand, offering it to me. ¡°This is your¡¯s.¡±


    I take the cane in my hand, waiting for a familiarity to rise from it, but none comes. ¡°Why did I- Why do I have a walking stick?¡±


    ¡°You have a problem with your balance,¡± Madame Shale explains, ¡°You never told me full details, but sometimes you get light headed, or feel heavy, and it makes you rather prone to falling over or limping about the place. The cane makes your life a fair portion easier. Supposedly you once collapsed onto a corpse at a crime scene.¡±


    I take in the information with my eyes closed, casting my thoughts back to earlier, and how heavy my head felt, how it never quite wanted to stay up straight. I sigh, gripping the cane, and stand up, leaning my weight on the cane.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, when the room finally stops spinning around me, ¡°I think bed might be a good idea.¡±


    My room exudes warmth, it radiates comfort. The wonderful carvings along the wooden wall panels depict small animals and old children¡¯s tales. Among them is an image of a bear and a small boy in a circle of trees.


    And a conversation, two unfamiliar voices speak so very familiar with each other, stirs in my memory. And as I stand in the center of the room, the city of Harmony laid out in its cold majesty to my right, I begin reciting the conversation to myself.


    ¡°Pooh, when I¡¯m--you know-- when I¡¯m not doing nothing, will you come up here sometimes?¡±


    ¡°Just me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Pooh.¡±


    ¡°Will you be here too?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a lovely story, I have it in my memory banks!¡± A mechanical voice leaps out from nowhere. I spin in place, but no one else is present. ¡°Who¡¯s there!¡± I demand, strangely scared.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a who, not really¡± says the voice. ¡°I¡¯m a Fidget.¡±


    ¡°Fidget?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes!¡± she says, so unbelievably excited to introduce herself, ¡°I am Fidget. Hi, how are you?¡±