Chapter 5 Whose Memory is Fake?

Chapter 5: Whose Memory is Fake?

I wake in stages, consciousness returning like tide washing over sand. White ceiling. Antiseptic smell. Machines beeping steadily beside me. Not a hospital—the equipment is too advanced, the room too luxurious. A private facility.

"Patient is regaining consciousness," a clinical voice announces. "Vitals stable."

I keep my eyes half-lidded, feigning grogginess while I assess my situation. Restraints on my wrists and ankles. IV in my arm. Surgical tools arranged on a nearby tray. Through the large observation window, I see Ward speaking intensely with a silver-haired man in a lab coat—Dr. Mercer, presumably.

"The procedure carries significant risk," Dr. Mercer is saying, voice muffled through the glass. "The previous subject experienced catastrophic rejection—"

"I'm not paying you to recite failures," Ward snaps. "The prototype is perfected now. You assured me."

"The technology is sound," Mercer concedes. "But memory integration requires psychological compatibility. Your wife's resistance could trigger a cascade failure, just like—"

"She is not Claire," Ward interrupts. "She's stronger. She'll adapt."

Claire. My sister. The previous subject.

Horror blooms as the pieces connect. Ward didn't just experiment on Claire—he tried to overwrite her memories. And now he plans to do the same to me.

I need to escape. Now.

The restraints are medical-grade, but the left one has a slight give where it connects to the bed frame. I work my wrist back and forth, ignoring the raw skin as the cuff chafes. A nurse enters, checking my vitals without meeting my eyes.

"Water," I croak. "Please."

She hesitates, then holds a cup to my lips. When she leans close, I whisper, "He'll do this to you too, eventually. Anyone who knows too much."

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. "Rest, Mrs. Stevens. The procedure begins in an hour."

After she leaves, I redouble my efforts on the restraint. Blood slicks my wrist, providing the lubrication I need. With a final, painful twist, my hand slips free. I make quick work of the remaining restraints, then disconnect the monitoring equipment.

Alarms will sound soon. I have minutes at most.

The room has no traditional exits except the door leading to the observation area where Ward still argues with Mercer. But there—a service panel near the floor, likely for maintenance. I drag myself toward it, limbs heavy from sedatives.

The panel resists, then gives way with a quiet pop. A tight utility corridor stretches beyond, dimly lit by emergency lighting. I squeeze through, pulling the panel closed behind me just as shouts erupt from the procedure room.

I crawl through dusty conduits, following the slope downward, hoping for a way out. Instead, I find something else—a server room, humming with machines. A workstation glows in the corner.

Voices echo from nearby corridors. The search is spreading. I lock the server room door and rush to the computer, praying for access.

The screen prompts for credentials. On instinct, I try:

Username: wstevens

Password: claire

Access granted.

Of course. In Ward's twisted mind, I am his possession—an extension of himself.

The database opens to reveal thousands of files organized by project name. One catches my eye: "MNEMOSYNE." The Greek goddess of memory.

I click it open.

Video files, research documents, case studies—a decade of research into memory manipulation. I scan through entries, each more disturbing than the last:

"Subject C.T. exhibits strong resistance to memory implantation. Increasing dosage of compliance agents."

"Subject's identity framework collapsing under integration pressure. Recommend neural reset and restart of protocol."

"Final attempt at full integration unsuccessful. Subject experienced catastrophic psychotic break followed by cardiac arrest. Project temporarily suspended pending acquisition of new primary subject."

Claire's medical file includes a death certificate. Cause of death: "Experimental procedure complications."

My stomach lurches. They killed her—Ward killed her—trying to overwrite her mind with artificial memories.

Footsteps approach. The door handle jiggles.

I download what I can to a flash drive from the desk, then open one more file—a video labeled "Final Session - C.T."

Claire sits in the same procedure room I just escaped, looking gaunt and hollow-eyed. "I won't do it anymore," she says to someone off-camera. "The headaches are getting worse. I'm losing myself."

Ward's voice responds: "Just one more treatment. You're so close to perfection."

"Perfection?" Claire laughs bitterly. "You mean becoming her. Becoming Whitney."

"Becoming whole," Ward corrects. "Two halves reunited."

Claire shakes her head. "I won't survive another session. You know that."

"The risk is acceptable."

"To you." Claire looks directly at the camera, her eyes—my eyes—filled with resignation. "She'll stop you, you know. When you try this with her. Whitney always was the stronger one."

The video ends. I wipe tears from my face, rage building like a physical force. Claire knew. She knew he would come for me next.

The pounding on the door grows more insistent. I need a weapon, an advantage, anything.

On another screen, I notice a facility map—and one particular room labeled "Storage: MNEMOSYNE Prototypes." Three doors down from my current position.

I slip out through a maintenance hatch seconds before security breaches the server room. The storage facility is locked with a keypad, but the code from the workstation works here too. Inside, shelves of equipment line the walls—and one glass case contains what looks like a portable hard drive labeled "Memory Archive: C.T."

Claire's memories. Extracted, stored, ready for implantation into a new host. Into me.

I grab it, along with a tablet containing what appears to be research notes. As I turn to leave, I spot one more item—a small case containing syringes labeled "Neural Disruptor."

According to the tablet, it's designed to temporarily block memory formation. A tool used during the procedure to prevent rejection.

I take one, tucking it into my pocket.

The facility has descended into chaos—alarms blaring, security personnel running in all directions. Using their confusion, I make my way toward what appears to be a service elevator.

Just as the doors open, a hand grabs my shoulder.

"Whitney."

Ward stands before me, his expression a mixture of fury and desperation.

"Get away from me," I hiss, backing into the elevator.

He follows, hitting the emergency stop button as the doors close. "You don't understand what you're running from. What I'm offering you."

"I understand perfectly." I hold up the memory drive. "You killed my sister trying to turn her into me. And now you want to, what? Turn me into some hybrid of us both?"

"I want to make you whole," Ward insists, advancing on me. "Claire is part of you. Always was."

"We were separate people!" I shout. "With separate lives, separate dreams!"

"You were incomplete!" he roars back. "Two halves of the same soul, torn apart at birth. I'm trying to reunify what should never have been divided."

His madness is absolute. Complete. There's no reasoning with this level of delusion.

"Claire left you a message," I say quietly. "Before she died."

Ward freezes. "What?"

I pull out the flash drive. "Her medical records. Her videos. Her death certificate."

His face contorts. "You have no idea what those files contain. The context—"

"I know enough." I cut him off. "I know she died because of your obsession with making us interchangeable. With owning us both."

Ward lunges suddenly, pinning me against the elevator wall. "Give me the drive."

"Never."

We struggle, his superior strength against my desperation. The syringe falls from my pocket, rolling across the elevator floor.

"You think you can escape me?" Ward hisses. "Everything you are belongs to me. Your company. Your home. Your very memories."

With a savage twist, I knee him in the groin. He doubles over, and I dive for the syringe.

"My memories are my own," I spit, uncapping the needle. "And so were Claire's."

Before he can recover, I plunge the neural disruptor into his neck and depress the plunger.

Ward's eyes widen in shock, then glaze over. He slumps against the wall, still conscious but disoriented.

I restart the elevator, riding it to the ground floor. When the doors open, I step out into what appears to be an underground parking garage. A sign reads "Stevens Pharmaceuticals Research Division B."

Of course. Ward has been conducting his memory experiments through his own company. Hidden in plain sight.

I find an unlocked service vehicle, hotwire it using skills I didn't know I possessed, and drive out into the night, Claire's memory drive clutched in my hand.

Three days later, I'm holed up in a motel on the outskirts of town, having survived on cash withdrawn from an ATM before Ward inevitably froze my accounts. The neural disruptor would have worn off long ago, and I have no doubt he's hunting me with everything at his disposal.

Using a laptop purchased with cash, I access the files from Claire's memory drive. What I find shatters the last pieces of my world.

Video logs of Claire's "treatment" sessions. Brain scans showing implanted memory pathways. And most damning of all—Claire's personal journal, dictated during her final days.

"The procedure is failing because Ward doesn't understand what he's trying to do," she explains, her voice weak but determined. "He thinks he can merge us, Whitney. Create his perfect woman by combining your ambition with my compliance. But that's not how identity works."

I listen, tears streaming down my face, as my sister details the horrific experiments Ward subjected her to. Memory suppression. Personality overlays. Forced integration of skills and traits harvested from surveillance of me.

"The worst part," Claire confesses in her final entry, "is that sometimes I can't remember which memories are mine anymore. Did I graduate law school, or was that Whitney? Did I fall from a tree house at age eight, or did she? He's taking everything that makes me me."

The entry ends with Claire staring directly at the camera, her eyes clear despite her deteriorating condition.

"Whitney, if you're watching this, he'll come for you next. There's only one way to stop him—expose everything. The lab. The experiments. The records of what he did to me. It's all there, in the subbasement archives. Section M-17. Our mother's birthday is the access code."

My hand trembles as I close the video. Claire died trying to protect me, trying to leave a breadcrumb trail I could follow. And I will not let her sacrifice be in vain.

The next morning, I disguise myself as best I can and make my way to Stevens Pharmaceuticals' main building. Using service entrances and delivery routes I somehow remember despite never having worked there, I make my way to the archive level.

Section M-17 requires a six-digit code. Our mother's birthday: 071562.

The door slides open.

Inside is a small room containing a single pedestal. On it sits an ornate urn—white marble with gold inlay.

Claire's remains.

Beside it lies a thick file folder labeled "Project MNEMOSYNE: Phase One Conclusion."

I flip it open to find detailed reports of Claire's "treatment" and subsequent death. Ward didn't just experiment on her—he documented everything meticulously, creating a roadmap for his next attempt. With me.

Tucked into the back of the folder is a handwritten note from Ward to Dr. Mercer:

"Proceed with acquisition of subject W.T. Employ any means necessary. Previous failure provides valuable data for successful integration."

Cold fury washes over me. I take Claire's urn, clutching it to my chest, and the damning files. As I turn to leave, the door slides open.

Ward stands in the doorway, flanked by security. His face is haggard, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights.

"I knew you'd come here eventually," he says quietly. "She always said you were predictable when it came to family."

I back away, holding the urn like a shield. "Stay away from me."

"It's over, Whitney," Ward sighs. "The board has been informed of your... mental break. Your confusion about Claire. Your delusions."

"My delusions?" I laugh incredulously. "You're the one who tried to merge us like we were software programs!"

"I tried to heal you," he counters. "After Claire died, you fractured. Created this elaborate fantasy where you were separate people, when in reality—"

"Stop." I hold up the research files. "It's all here. Your signature. Your orders. Your confession."

Ward's expression hardens. "Those are confidential company documents. Altered by you during your psychotic episode."

He's rewriting reality again. Creating a narrative where I'm the unstable one.

"You want her memories?" I ask, raising Claire's urn. "You want what's left of her so badly? Come and get it."

I unscrew the top, revealing the ashes within.

Ward's face contorts with horror. "Put that down."

"You killed her trying to make her into me," I say, my voice breaking. "You destroyed her identity piece by piece. And for what? So you could own some perfect hybrid woman who doesn't exist?"

"You don't understand what I was trying to accomplish," Ward pleads, taking a step forward.

I scoop a handful of ashes from the urn. "You want Claire? Here she is."

With that, I thrust the handful of ashes toward him. "Eat them," I demand, my voice deadly calm. "Go ahead. Take her inside you. Isn't that what you wanted all along?"

Ward recoils, genuine revulsion crossing his face.

"That's what I thought," I whisper. "You never loved her. You never loved me. You only loved the idea of possessing us both."

Something in Ward breaks. He falls to his knees, his carefully constructed facade crumbling completely.

"I just wanted to hear her say it again," he whispers, tears streaming down his face. "Just once more."

"Say what?"

"That she loved me." Ward looks up, his eyes haunted. "Before she knew what I was. Before she saw the monster. She loved me, and I destroyed it. I thought if I could make you remember being her, just for a moment..."

The security team shifts uncomfortably, witnessing their employer's breakdown.

"You can't manufacture love, Ward," I say softly, replacing the lid on Claire's urn. "Not with all the memory manipulation in the world."

I walk past him, still clutching the urn and the files. No one moves to stop me.

"Whitney," Ward calls after me, his voice hollow. "You won't survive without me. Everything you are is because of me."

I turn back one last time. "No, Ward. Everything I am is despite you. And everything Claire was, you tried to erase. That's your true legacy."

As I walk away, carrying my sister's remains and the evidence of Ward's crimes, I make a silent promise to Claire:

I will expose everything. I will reclaim both our stories. And I will ensure that Ward Stevens never plays god with another woman's mind again.