Chapter 8 Reunion at the Meeting Place

# Chapter 8: Reunion at the Meeting Place

Morning dawns with unexpected clarity. Whether from Eleanor's chip or my own determination, I wake with purpose, my plan crystallized in the quiet hours of night.

Today is July 9th, 2023—the date from the ring, the coordinates, the supposed wedding that never was. Today I find answers.

Rowan is already gone when I emerge from the guest room, a note on the kitchen counter explaining he's been called to an emergency consultation at the hospital. Convenient timing, or part of a larger scheme? Either way, it presents the opening I need.

I dress carefully—nondescript clothes that won't draw attention, comfortable shoes for quick movement, a hat to partially obscure my face from surveillance cameras. I pack a small bag with essentials: the vial of blue liquid, the photographs from the hidden lab, and what little cash I've managed to squirrel away from Rowan's watchful eye.

Before leaving, I swallow the morning's medication—a calculated risk. I need to appear compliant if anyone is monitoring me, and a single dose won't significantly impact my clarity after weeks of secretly avoiding the pills.

The coordinates lead to a small café on Harvard's campus—Darwin's Ltd. on Cambridge Street. According to the knowledge implanted by Eleanor's chip, this is where both sets of us first met our respective Rowans. The parallels between our realities continue to unsettle me.

I take a circuitous route to reach the café, changing transportation methods twice to shake any potential surveillance. By 10:30 AM, I'm sitting at a corner table with a clear view of both entrances, nursing a cup of tea I don't intend to drink.

The café is busy with summer students and faculty, none paying particular attention to a woman alone with her thoughts. I scan faces, wondering if Rowan anticipated my destination, if his "emergency consultation" is simply a cover to follow me here.

Forty minutes pass. No sign of Rowan or his associates. No mysterious figure approaching with hidden knowledge. Just the steady rhythm of a coffee shop on a warm July morning.

I begin to doubt—was the chip a final manipulation? Did Eleanor implant false coordinates to remove me from Rowan's protection at a critical moment?

Then I notice a barista watching me. Not with casual interest, but with the focused attention of recognition. When our eyes meet, she nods almost imperceptibly and approaches my table.

"Someone left this for you," she says quietly, sliding a key across the table. A small tag attached reads simply "Storage 219."

"When?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Years ago," she replies with a shrug. "Woman said someone matching your description would come today, July 9th, 2023. Said to give you this message: 'The archives are in the basement.'"

Before I can question her further, she returns to the counter, the brief interaction complete. I examine the key—an old-fashioned metal type rather than a modern key card, with "BU Storage" stamped on its head.

Boston University, not Harvard. The significance doesn't escape me—in my memories, I completed my postdoctoral work at BU. Another parallel between worlds.

I find the building easily, a nondescript administrative structure on the edge of campus. The basement level houses faculty storage—boxes of research materials, equipment, personal effects kept in climate-controlled rooms. No one questions my presence; the key provides all the authorization needed.

Storage room 219 is at the end of a long corridor, away from the more frequently accessed areas. The key turns smoothly in the lock, suggesting regular maintenance despite the room's isolated location.

Inside, I find what can only be described as Eleanor's "memory backup library"—walls lined with hard drives, each labeled with dates spanning the past five years. A workstation in the center holds multiple monitors and a sophisticated computer system, currently powered down.

This is what Eleanor meant by Plan B—a comprehensive archive of her research, her memories, her truth, preserved outside Rowan's reach.

I power up the system, which requests a password. On instinct, I try "MIRROR" backward—"RORRIM." Access granted.

The screen fills with folders, thousands of them, organized chronologically. I open one labeled "First Contact," finding video recordings of Eleanor—of me, but not me—documenting her initial experiences perceiving her "mirror self."

"Day seventeen of anomalous reflection phenomena," she says to the camera, her voice identical to mine but her manner more formal, scientific. "I've established preliminary communication with the subject, who appears to be my counterpart in what we're now terming the 'mirror reality.' She's also a neuroscientist, also engaged to Rowan Harlow—the parallels are beyond statistical possibility."

I browse more recent files, finding one labeled "Warning - Final Record." The timestamp shows it was created just hours before the night I allegedly killed Rowan—or rather, the night Eleanor's crossing went wrong.

Eleanor's face fills the screen, her expression grave. Unlike the earlier recordings, she appears disheveled, anxious.

"If you're watching this, the crossing failed," she begins. "I'm making this record as insurance, in case what I suspect about Rowan is true. About both Rowans." She takes a deep breath. "The Project Mirror technology wasn't developed to advance neuroscience. It was created to achieve consciousness transfer—specifically, to allow the Rowans to escape their terminal condition."

Terminal condition? My Rowan was perfectly healthy, as far as I knew.

"Both Rowans have a rare genetic neurological disorder," Eleanor continues, as if answering my thought. "Cruetzfeldt-Jakob variant, with onset projected within two years. Fatal, untreatable." Her expression hardens. "They didn't tell us—either of us—until they needed our expertise to save themselves."

The revelation stuns me. Could my Rowan have been dying? Was that why he pushed for an earlier wedding date?

"The electrode arrays weren't designed for memory stabilization," Eleanor explains, "but for consciousness mapping and transfer. They needed complete neural maps of our brains to create receiving vessels for their own consciousness."

She holds up a vial of the same blue liquid I found in the hidden lab. "This compound is the bridge—genetically engineered to bind to both donor and recipient neurons, creating transfer pathways. The snake tattoo was the physical anchor, encoded with DNA sequences that activate the compound."

My hand instinctively touches my collarbone where the tattoo should be. "When I discovered the truth," Eleanor continues, "that we were being prepared as vessels for their consciousness transfer, I confronted my Rowan. He admitted everything—how they'd selected us as perfect matches, cultivated relationships with us to gain access to our research and our bodies."

Her voice breaks slightly. "Your Rowan found out too. He was going to warn you, to help me shut down the project from both sides. That's why my Rowan had to eliminate him."

So my Rowan—my real Rowan—had tried to protect me. The thought brings both comfort and fresh grief.

"I'm attempting the crossing tonight," Eleanor says, determination replacing sadness. "Not to escape, but to warn you, to help you stop both versions of this experiment. If I don't make it through, or if my consciousness is compromised during integration, find the hard drive labeled 'Reversal Protocol.' It contains the procedure to safely remove the electrodes and neutralize the compound without brain damage."

The recording ends, leaving me with a terrible understanding of what's been happening. Not just memory manipulation or gaslighting, but something far more horrific—a calculated plan to erase my consciousness and replace it with Rowan's, to give him a young, healthy body while mine dies with his degenerating brain.

I search frantically for the drive Eleanor mentioned, finding it hidden behind a false panel in the storage unit. As I retrieve it, a noise at the door freezes me in place—someone is coming.

I have seconds to decide: hide and hope to remain undetected, or confront whoever enters. I opt for the former, sliding behind a tall storage cabinet just as the door opens.

Rowan enters, but not alone. Dr. Norris follows, along with a woman I recognize as Helen, my "home nurse." Neither looks surprised by the contents of the room.

"She accessed the system," Norris says, examining the computer. "Recently—within the hour."

"Can you tell what she viewed?" Rowan asks, his voice tight with controlled anger.

"The final recording, primarily." Norris turns to him. "She knows everything now."

Rowan slams his fist against the wall, the rare display of emotion startling in its intensity. "Find her. The integration window closes at midnight. After that, the neural pathways will be too degraded for successful transfer."

"And if we can't complete the transfer?" Helen asks.

"Then neither consciousness will survive intact," Norris replies clinically. "The compound will continue its work regardless, breaking down the existing neural architecture without the guidance of the transfer protocols."

"We still have her location data from the medication tracker," Helen offers. "The pill she took this morning should be transmitting."

My blood runs cold. The morning medication—I'd swallowed it as a show of compliance, never suspecting it contained a tracking device.

"She's here," Rowan says suddenly, his gaze sweeping the room. "Aren't you, Faye? Or should I say, Eleanor-Faye hybrid?"

I remain perfectly still, barely breathing.

"Your elevated heart rate is triggering the biomonitor," he continues, removing a small device from his pocket. "I can track you within three meters. So you might as well come out."

Trapped, I emerge from my hiding place, clutching the hard drive to my chest. "It won't work," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I know what you're trying to do. What you did to my Rowan."

"Your Rowan was weak," he replies coldly. "He would have destroyed everything we'd worked for out of misguided ethics. Just like Eleanor tried to do."

"You mean he had a conscience. He wouldn't sacrifice an innocent person to save himself."

Rowan's laugh holds no humor. "There are no innocent people in this experiment. Eleanor knew the risks when she initiated crossing protocols without proper preparation. Your consciousness was already compromised the moment she made contact through the mirrors."

"So this was always the plan? To use us as vessels?"

"The plan was mutual benefit," he counters. "A shared consciousness, the best of both worlds. But Eleanor's interference forced adaptation."

Dr. Norris steps forward, a syringe in hand. "We can continue this philosophical debate after stabilization. Right now, we need to prepare her for transfer."

I back away, still clutching the hard drive. "The videos, the evidence—I've already uploaded everything to secure servers. If anything happens to me, it goes public."

A bluff, but their momentary hesitation gives me hope it might work.

"You're lying," Rowan says finally. "There's been no outgoing data from this room since we arrived."

"Not from this room, no." I maintain eye contact, selling the deception. "From my phone, which is currently in the possession of a journalist friend who's waiting for my signal."

Helen glances nervously at Rowan. "We should consider—"

"She's bluffing," he interrupts. "And even if she's not, once the transfer is complete, any fallout becomes irrelevant. I'll have a new identity, a new life."

As they close in, I realize with crushing clarity that there's no talking my way out, no clever escape. My only hope lies in the hard drive in my hands—Eleanor's "Reversal Protocol"—and whatever time I can buy to implement it.

"You'll never get away with this," I say, backing toward the computer station. "Someone will figure it out."

"Perhaps," Rowan concedes with chilling indifference. "But you won't be around to see it."

Norris lunges for me, syringe aimed at my neck. I dodge, but Helen blocks my path to the door. Trapped between them, I make a desperate decision.

I smash the vial of blue liquid against my collarbone—exactly where the snake tattoo should be.

The effect is instantaneous and devastating. Blue fire seems to spread through my veins, and the room tilts sickeningly around me. Rowan shouts something I can't understand as I collapse to my knees.

Through blurring vision, I see the most impossible thing yet—my own reflection in the darkened computer screen, moving independently, reaching toward me with determined eyes.

"Now we do this my way," Eleanor's voice echoes in my head as darkness claims me.