Short Stories

For A Day

Are we alive, or just breathing? This question crossed my mind in an endless loop as my daughter went through her treatments. Long days turned into long weeks of travelling between the NICU, home and work. It was an impossible hill to climb, every moment at hospital spent with her was overshadowed by tests and every moment at home was spent wishing I was by her side. Was it her survival that we were fighting for, or her life, and could I even tell the difference?

But today was different. Today, we brought her home. The house felt alive when we brought her home. The nursery, left untouched, stood ready like a time capsule. As my wife carefully laid our girl into the cot, she turned her head into real cotton sheets for the very first time, the scent of home seeming to soothe her. Surrounded by soft toys and bouquets of flowers, her presence filled the silence in these walls.

My wife and I stood over her, marvelling. How her dark hair caught the overhead light, her tiny fingers curling as she stretched and repositioned. How could something so perfect come from us?

‘Welcome home.’ I say to her.
Our daughter coos.
‘It's your first day here.’
She looks almost surprised.
‘And it’s such a relief to see your face.’
I trace the outline of her cheek.

Our girl was born with a severe heart defect, of an unbelievably rare variety, and it was totally incurable. For months her beautiful face lay trapped behind an oxygen mask. The norm for her was to be obscured by cannulas and splints, covered by CPAPs and wires. She'd been raised in a cold, stainless steel NICU that thrummed with rhythmic beeps and the sting of disinfectant.

We placed our faith in doctors to get to the bottom of it, but as they discussed the latest studies and experimental treatments we watched as our girl missed out on more and more. By the end of her second month on earth I realised she didn't need machines or treatments, she needed stuffed toys and Saturday morning cartoons. She needed to draw on walls and spill orange juice behind the couch.

And the treatments became more and more experimental as the calendar waned. The doctors claimed to care but they saw her condition, they didn't see her. So after playing their game and marching to their tune for months it all came to a head.

No treatments had made any meaningful impact. She hadn't gained weight, her tiny heart still wasn't pumping right and she was getting more and more tired. I knew before they even said it, ‘All avenues have failed. She will need a heart transplant.’
And I replied.
‘A transplant is a temporary fix. It's not a cure.’

As forces beyond her control discussed her fate, my daughter paddled her splinted arms at me. I looked into her smiling eyes and realised in all her short life she'd never spent a single day at home. A home that waited anxiously for her, eager to fill the void her absence left behind.

Somewhere along this road - the one that was paved with care plans and tests - there was a trade-off between her quality of life and her recovery. So I made my decision.
‘No more.’ I said, my voice steady and sure. ’I’m taking her home.’
I'd expected more noise, more arguments, obligatory cautions - heck, even anger. But nothing came. No pressure from the treatment team. No urges to fight for one last try. The room fell silent.

And so that's what we did, we gave our girl one day at home. Unburdened by the machines and the bureaucracy - we carved out a day where she could be free. Where she could feel the breeze through an open window and watch the sun crawl across the grass. A day where she could know love beyond the sterile walls of the NICU.

And in one single day our baby's horizons had expanded. She smiled and cooed and waggled her arms at life's simplest treasures. The same old city appeared new and fresh with her in the car. She watched the sky race past at unbelievable speeds with wide-eyed wonder. I could only imagine how the sun felt on her unburdened face, how the wind must have felt in her hair.

But all days must come to an end, and the sun hung its head as it dipped low towards the horizon. Her small body that was so full of life that morning was now heavy with exhaustion. All too soon had her hours been whittled away, but each and every moment was spent giving her the precious time she never got.

‘I thought I’d have more time, baby girl.’ I told her.
And she rasped her shallow breaths.
‘Isn’t that what we all think? That tomorrow is a promise, not a gift?’
She breathes as best she can.
‘And you may not survive, but you most certainly did live.’

She spent her last few hours in my arms, leaving quietly with a final gasp, too weak to even cry.

Shattered Boundaries: The Nowra Escape Story

August 4^th 1944, No. 12 Prisoner of War Camp
Nowra, NSW

The camp sat at the edge of dense bushland, a monotonous backdrop to the lives of the Australian diggers who guarded it. Lieutenant James Mitchell and his men had grown weary of their posts. Stuck in what felt like a glorified holding pattern, they longed for the thrill of active combat, but each and every one was turned away at the recruitment centre when the call came out. Poor eyesight, too small, too large, too young and too old, No. 12 POW Camp was guarded by the leftovers and rejects whilst the real soldiers went off to fight. Their disappointment was palpable.

“Can you believe we’re still here?” Corporal Tom Harris grumbled, leaning against the barbed wire fence. “We should be out there, fighting, not babysitting these prisoners.”
“At least its payday though,” Private Andy Collins replied, ever enthusiastic. “That’s something to look forward to. Can’t get a pint on the front lines mate.”
At this moment the fence rattled as it stopped a baseball from hurtling any further. Harris and Collins almost leapt out of their skin.

On the other side of the fence a Japanese prisoner waved his apologies as he scooped the ball up and re-joined the game. The impatient players blurted what could only be interpreted as insults as the game picked up right where it left off. It was the most peculiar thing.

Baseball was the biggest fad in Compound B. The Japanese were obsessed with it. The CO took note of it and the camp had recently received additional baseball bats and gloves to give the POWs something to do. Compound B was grossly overpopulated so any distraction for its occupants made life easier. To the diggers, it was a bitter reminder of their idle duty.

“I’d rather be on the front lines,” Harris said, rolling his eyes. “We’re stuck here while the real action’s out there.”
“Come on mate,” Collins reassured him. “Get a good pub meal in ya and you’ll forget all about it.”
At this moment, Leftennant Jones sauntered, casually puffing a cigarette.
“Sorry Col.” He said with a mischievous grin. “Need you to stick around. Officers are dining in the city tonight. Senior NCOs are off to town.”
“What!” Collins growled. “But sir we’ve been on watch the last two weekends!”
The LT shrugged, “Last minute change. The next lot of active service are deploying, the CO wants all Officers to be present.”
All the optimism and life drained out of Collins in that moment and the LT pat him on the back and walked away triumphant.
“Corporal Harris you’re on the Vickers tonight as well!”
Collins was quick to scuff the dirt with his heel.
“Its not fair.” He cried. “How come they get to go into town all the time and we don’t?”

But Harris was hardly listening. His gaze was far off towards the nurse’s station, where his troubles melted away as Nurse Bennet was quietly sipping her tea and admiring the landscape. She pretended not to see him as he looked on, but her composure broke when she’d noticed him starting. A smile spread across her painted lips. The two of them had been eyeing each other for some time.

“Not all good things are in town Collins.”

***

Hiroshi Tanaka paced the confines of Compound B, his mind racing. He looked amongst his surroundings and sprinkled amongst the games of Baseball were those who’d fallen ill, who’d given up, who’d accepted their dishonour. Captured and imprisoned, Tanaka felt the shame pressing down on him. At the start of the war he was a proud warrior, now he was just a ghost, drifting in this foreign wind without his ancestors to guide him.

He recalled the adrenaline of battle as he flew over Darwin just a few years before. The wind rushing by his canopy as his Zero flew effortlessly through the air, the wings emblazoned with the rising sun. His nerves steeled as he broke through thick tropical clouds, Darwin looming in the distance. With his brothers in formation at his back, he’d never felt more ready to die. His entire lineage had come to that very moment and it was all now up to him.

“Are you good mate?” One of the guards barked. Tanaka snapped out of it.
“Kangaroo!” Tanaka shouted and launched into a jovial laugh. The guard pulled some kind of face before moving on, muttering to himself. Tanaka observed him with a critical eye.

They were old, their movements sluggish and their eyesight failing. Their overconfidence and poor physical condition were glaring weaknesses. It was Friday and Tanaka could see the line at the orderly room was thinning out, smiling diggers rushing off with envelopes of cash, eager to get the first truck into town. The security was growing lax. The moment was soon upon him.

That night, after lights out, the cold deterred the bravest of diggers. Tanaka’s hut was packed to the brim with his comrades. Shoulder to shoulder, sitting, kneeling, standing on bunk beds, however they could fit, everyone was gathered around a mud model of sticks and stones. Tanaka laid out his plan to the crowd of hushed souls, every one of their faces steely, resolute, as they considered the enormity of their tasks. The breakout was set, the time for action was now.

Tanaka spoke, resonating with conviction, fuelled by the power of his decision.
“The way of the warrior is death.” He said through gritted teeth. “Honour may not win power. It may not win money, nor love. But it wins respect. And respect wins power. May our ancestors forgive us.”

Fellow prisoners, stoic faces cracked with emotion, recalling the events that brought them here. Inspired by his resolve, without a further word, they followed Tanaka’s lead as they quietly gathered makeshift tools, spare baseball bats and prepared for the breakout. Hiroshi’s meticulous planning made use of every opportunity: from the guards’ routine shifts to the weaknesses in the camp’s defences. There was no way they could fail now.

***

Harris jolted awake to the sound of a bugle piercing the night, and Nurse Bennet was the first out of bed to the window. Her jaw hung open and she gasped in horror. Harris tumbled as he pulled his clothes on.
“Is it the officers? Are they back?”
No. His blood ran cold as he was met with the orange glow of a huge fire coming out of Compound B. Japanese prisoners surged out of the compound with a ferocity that tore down the fences and battered the gates. The bulk of the men were gone and they were completely vulnerable.

Then it hit him.
He was supposed to be manning the Vickers.
Harris pulled on his greatcoat and rushed out the door. Collins was stumbling over pulling his boot on.
“Damn it, hurry up they’re escaping!” Harris barked. “Get the rest of the boys up now! I gotta get to the gun!”

A roaring crowd of prisoners were charging the barbed wire fence as Harris sprinted along the perimeter – rushing to the truck with the Vickers machine gun. It was a crowd of hundreds, roaring in defiance as the staccato of all three rifles on duty began to open fire. Harris ran as fast as he could, his heart racing as the frenzied prisoners clambered up the barbed wire fences in droves.

Harris saw it all so clearly now, the obsession with baseball was a ploy. They were all armed to the teeth with sporting equipment and they were wearing baseball mitts to protect their hands from barbed wire. They worked in tandem as they climbed, creating a safe barrier as they poured over the top of the fence. Harris yelped in horror as the roaring prisoners crossed the fence and came rushing into view.

The armed prisoners multiplied, as Harris ran, screaming in his wake as flaming rolls of toilet paper and loose bricks were cast after him
“Shinu!” They all cried. “Shinu!”
He gasped for breath as he leapt up onto the flatbed of the truck and onto the Vickers Machine Gun, whirling around to face the horde of crazed prisoners.

Harris’s eyes went wide when he saw a crowd of hundreds, hundreds, of prisoners charging him. With a horrified scream, he squeezed the trigger and the rattle of the gun soon overtook the chaos. Ratatatatatat!
Rounds flew down range at incredible pace, ripping through the mass just fifty meters away. The crowd of enraged prisoners soon fell to the overwhelming might of the machine gun, dropping by the dozen like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Fervent in their resolve, the prisoners continued to charge. It was as if they were inspired by the onslaught.

Click!
With a sudden and violent jerk, the Vickers ran dry. The ammo was in the truck cabin, no time to get it out because the crowd was still coming. Harris’s hands went to his head as he watched the tidal wave of prisoners bear down on him. In a desperate move, he yanked the firing pin from the Vickers and bent it entirely out of shape.

He then took one last look at the Nurse’s station before the crowd consumed him.

***

Tanaka cried as he beat down the his target with his nail bat. The plan wasn’t even to break free, or to die. It was to do as warriors did and keep fighting. As the blood of his victim splattered across his bare chest, he hefted his weapon into the air roared to the heavens with avidity. The cold wintery sky replied with a crackle of thunder. His ancestors above blessed him with the power of battle and infused his very being with their blessing. He had restored himself, his soul was set ablaze.

The sting of adrenaline, the fires of Compound B, it all brought him back to that haunting day, when he flew alongside his brothers, ready to drop bombs on the oil stores in Darwin. Gliding across the ocean, zeroing in on his target.
Then, suddenly, inexplicably, bang!
Powerful impact sparks detonated against his engine as the Australian AA guns punched through his canopy. His flight controls caught fire, the dials and meters overclocked as the cockpit bellowed with smoke. In his shock he pulled on the yoke, but there was no response, he was going down. His destiny would instead carry him home.

That was the day he accepted his death. But, to his horror, he awoke in confinement. No chance to defend his life. No chance to contest the enemy. He was simply placed into this life of purgatory. But no longer.

For his plan had worked, 200-300 man groups attacking in four different directions to overwhelm the Vickers guns. He surveyed the north, east and south and saw they were struggling to make enough headway to get over the fences. The element of surprise had been lost and his fallen comrades laid in mountains against the fences, bodies strung up in the barbed wire and strewn across the fields. The remainder continued to fight, but the clock was ticking now, the rest of the army would come down on him.

“Tanaka-sensei.” One of the crowd caught his attention. In his arms was the Vickers Harris had used, broken and useless. “What do we do now?”
The remainder of his group, a meagre 40-50 men, stained with soot and blood, looked to him for the answer.
“The plan was not to escape. It was not even to survive.” He addressed everyone. “It was to do as warriors do and fight. Our honour is restored. Fulfil your duty and continue to fight.”
“What then?” Somebody asked.

Tanaka tightened his grip on his weapon.
“Then come what may.”

***

In the cold light of morning, Leftennant Jones surveyed the battlefield as the dead were stacked into improper and unceremonious piles. One thousand prisoners staged an escape on the one night the active service deployed, on a payday, during an officer's event. THe planning coincided to exploit every wekness in the processes and structure of the POW camp. Fresh-faced recruits were the only ones available to respond and even so it was an eye watering 14 hours after the breakout started.
The recruits were regrouping, their faces a mix of anger, shame and exhaustion. The camp was a mess of overturned equipment, broken fences and the eeries silence left in the wake of the escape. Nurse Bennet approached the Leftennanet cautiously.
“Lieutenant, we need to inform the nearby towns. The escapees could be dangerous, and the civilians should be warned.”
Jones turned sharply, his eyes cold and stern. “Nurse Bennet, do you have any idea what you’re suggesting?”
She balled her fists.
“I do, sir. It’s our duty to protect the people. If we alert them, they can be vigilant and safe,” Alice insisted, her voice steady despite the tension.
Jones’s expression hardened. “If word gets out, it could ruin the reputation of the army. The complacency of Camp 12 is already a black mark. Careers will be destroyed." He threw a finger in her face. "Don't think that doesn't mean yours either! If you blab a word of what happened here you'll be out of this man's army."
“But sir, people’s lives are at stake. Doesn’t that matter more than reputations?” Nurse Bennet's voice wavered slightly, holding her ground, but the young LT did not budge.
"The towns remain unaware."
LT Jones knew the decision wasn't easy, but he beleived it necessary. The army's reputation depended on maintaining control, even in the face of failure. Turning back to his men, he barked his orders. The camp's future and his career depended on succeeding.
Still, only one soldier could have planned all this. And, as of yet, Hiroshi Tanaka could not be found.

[FIGMENT]

MemTech promised to rid the world of pain by erasing memories at the press of a button. A quick scan could remove your most painful or unproductive moments faster than any therapy session. Weeks, sometimes years of trauma could vanish in the blink of an eye. A bad breakup, an embarrassing night out, even the unbearable loss of a loved one – gone. Everything was perfect. Until the memories started fighting back.

On a quiet afternoon, the first case of rampant memories plunged the world into chaos. A father of four, our for a day at the mall, came face-to-face high-school ex-girlfriend - not having aged a day. She was jealous as a green-eyed monster and before anyone understood what was happening, she tackled him off the second-story balcony.

From that day onwards, forgotten memories began to manifest- as real as you and I – and a world’s worth of pain, rage and unresolved trauma came flooding out. Abusive teachers stalked ex-students, war flashbacks levelled city streets and unspoken fears haunted every corner of the world. Have you ever seen a baby’s nightmares come into the real world? No of course not, there’s a reason you haven’t, it’s because God never intended us to.

With pain spilling into every corner of the globe, humanity formed a task force to contain the crisis and we’ve been at war with the memories ever since. That leads you to me, Call sign Figment – memory eraser from the DisreGuard.

***

The Erebus V8X screamed down the rainy streets, neon signs streaking past in a kaleidoscope of colours. The engine purred beneath me as I sent it around the next bend, tires gripping like a vice and on the next straight I let it roar. This car cost more than the GDP of a small nation and it purred as I fed it more precious revs.

My life has always been about bending the rules. Toe the line with your fingers crossed. I’ve annoyed every boss I’ve ever had and always balancing on the edge of being fired. But here’s the trick: if you live like that, you’d better deliver. And, babe, I haven’t been fired yet.

The unmistakable flash of blue and red lights appeared in the rear-view mirror. Single cruiser, struggling to keep pace. A smile spread across my face.

Gotcha.

The Erebus growled as I downshifted, letting the speedometer run down to a respectable 40. The cruiser clung to my bumper as I rolled to the side of the road, rain hammering the roof like a snare drum. I cut the engine and waited.

Tap. Tap Tap. The cop rapped on the window, stern and unimpressed. I dropped it an inch.

“Any idea how fast you were going miss?”

“Fast enough to find you.”

And just like that – bang!

The shot echoed through the quiet street as the cop hit the pavement.

Sliding out of the car, I tapped through menus on my watch and initiated a full body scan. The cop gasped as he peeked down at his chest wound. Where a pool of blood should have been was a bright blue glow shining directly out of the wound. His eyes locked onto mine, wide and terrified, and I tried my best to ignore his gaze.

More red and blue lights streaked over the horizon, the sound of engines spooling. Damn, these guys were annoying. Two speeders and a drone soon screeched to a halt around me, barking their orders.

I sighed hard, fished my badge from my pocket and held it high. The drone zipped in front of me, it’s camera, like a big ugly eye, whirred and twisted. After an eternity, it fluttered away, satisfied I was who I said I was. The speeders soon followed, leaving me alone with the downed cop.

“Dispatch. Officer down.” He wheezed as he watched the two cars pull away from him. I crouched down, taking in the details.

“Outdated uniform, plain text two-way radio. And you don’t have fingernails.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re a memory.”

The cop winced in pain as his form began to splinter, the bluish glow tracing out cracks in his skin as time wore on. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus as the details came back to him.

“Delaney Morris was speeding.” He recalled. “Drunk. Rich family. Clean record. She lost her license. It destroyed her reputation-“

“- so she got her memory erased.” I finished for him, rolling my eyes. “Some memories are worth keeping, you’re not one of them.”

I drew my weapon and fired.

The cop shattered like glass, his form dissolving into a swarm of glowing fireflies that scattered into the night. For a moment, the world was silent, save for the rain. My watch beeped – Job Complete.

***

Home was supposed to make the world feel a little less heavy and the shifts a little less long, but when I stepped inside, all I could hear was the machines humming. Nan was slumped in her chair, gaze fixed on the window, unblinking. She didn’t greet me. She didn’t stir. I doubted she could even see the rain streaking the glass.

With no urgency, I quietly hung my coat on the rack, tucking my holster into the drawer. I stepped carefully through the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge, prepping myself to appear before her.

I pulled up a stool.

“Hey, it’s me.” My voice violated the silence.

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, rubbing my hands together as if they’d warm me up.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I had.” I said, taking a swig. “One of the memories I took down tried to take my head off. Had a left hook that hit like a truck. Guess what I did?”

I waited, the answer hanging between us. She didn’t move.

“I dodged. Obviously. And then I made them wish they were forgotten.” My laugh was hollow. “Classic, right?”

The silence swallowed me whole. My voice dropped low, quiet even.

“Do you regret it? Trying to forget everything? Are you even still in there?”

The rain tapped against the window.

After an eternity, my watch bleeped loudly and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I took one last look at her. Another job already.

“Next time I’ll bring cookies.”

The alley reeked of rain-soaked garbage and regret, perfect for a pair of DisreGuards. Echo was already there, leaning against the wall like she owned it and she took a long draw of her vape as I pulled the Erebus up beside her. She flicked a glance at her watch, then me.

“Five minutes late.” She said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Losing your touch or your memory?”

“Had to make sure Nan got to bed alright.” I grumbled as I stepped out the car. “What’s the job?” Echo wasn’t ready to spill. She looked at me with that same smug look she always did.

“Heard the cops gave you some trouble.” She motioned towards the Erebus. “That piece of crap finally breaking down after your driving?”

I rolled my eyes and began yanking gear out of my trunk. Guns, blades, a device that looked like a blender but wasn’t.

“I was baiting out a memory of a cop. It took a few red lights to find him. Let’s just say my bank account will hurt in the morning.”

A chuckle broke Echo’s perfect composure.

“What about your night?” I asked.

Her smile faded instantly. “Baby nightmare."

I paused. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged it off, but her silence lingered for a beat too long.

“So, what’s the job?” I said, snapping her back.

Echo took another drag before pulling up the briefing.

“The geeks in head office flagged a buidling with a power bill fourteen-times higher than average. Cameras caught a guy hauling in a load of electronics.

I frowned. “Could be a squatter. People like old tech.”

“Could be.” She said, flipping the knife in her hand. “Or bootleg MemTech.”

“From a lone occupant? Where’s the memories he’s making?”

Echo helped herself to a crowbar in the trunk.

“That’s what we’re paid to find out.”

***

The old Cheesy Chester looked like it had given up years ago, windowless, sagging and brimming with garbage. A few lights flickered inside, too weak to pierce the darkness. Echo and I moved as one across the parking lot in silence. We exchanged wary glances and Echo’s hand wandered over her holster as we approached the door.

Inside, it was all wrong. A squatter in this weather would need heat, so I expected to hear the hum of an oven or the whir of a fan, but there was only silence. Something was wrong, something was waiting.

“Stay sharp.” I whispered and Echo gave a tight nod.

The building groaned as we stepped through the broken glass door. The crunch of our boots against the scattered shards was far too loud. The cold hit like a wall, then the smell; mildew and rust. We continued in separate directions, clearing the restaurant floor.

My flashlight cut through the darkness, drifting over some vacant tables and unremarkable piles of garbage. A booth near the corner clung to rotten birthday party decorations, something old memories would cling to, yet there were no signs of life. Echo weaved her way out of the kitchen and gave the thumbs up, nothing was back there either.

Then, a sound. Faint, muffled, and coming from the hallway. A groan, maybe a shuffle, like paper being dragged across the floor. A single door at the far end stood between us and whatever was beyond it.

“What do you think?” Echo murmured. “Fear of zombies? Clowns?”

“Shut up and cover me.” I muttered.

The storeroom door gave way with an ungodly screech. Dust swirled in the flashlight like a warning. The sound was louder now, the shuffling scraping against my ears like nails on a chalkboard. Revolver steady, I paced inwards, footsteps muffled by the dust on the floor. Echo kept her distance, but close enough to act.

“Zombies,” she repeated, just under her breath. “Could be a nest. Or, you know, killer clowns hiding in the vents. Cheesy Chester had a mascot, right?”

“Focus.” I hissed.

We rounded the last aisle, the sound louder than ever. A pile of crates stood between us and the far wall, mountains of electronic parts scattered across it, and beyond it something shifted. My grip tightened on the gun.

“Anything comes out of there moaning, you’re handling it.”

I shot her a look and stepped closer.

The noise again, clearer this time, a shuffle. A groan. My sights were firmly on the corner as I rounded it. And there he was.

Slumped against the wall, was a man. His head lolled forward, his breathing ragged and shallow. For a second, my gut twisted, he was pale and incoherent, wheezing and squirming in his spot. I let out a slow breath.

“Relax.” I called back to Echo, keeping my eyes on him. “Not a zombie. Just our guy.”

Echo scurried to my position and glanced down at him.

“Man, he looks half-dead.”

The man was catatonic, amid a mess of circuitry and wires. Amongst the chaos, I spotted it: a jerry-rigged headset smeared with half melted cheap plastic. The Bootleg MemTech.

“He’s fried his brain trying to forget something.” I said, tossing the headset back into the pile of junk.

“But where’s the memory he just tried to erase?” Echo asked the room.

The dusty old storeroom had little more than scattered debris and stale air, there was nothing that should anchor a memory. Then, as if to answer my question, a noise came from a crate by the man's side, a stir, a shuffle, a mumble. Slowly, I drew my weapon, stepping closer, the flashlihgt beam trembling over the wooden box. I dared to peek inside.

There, nestled in the crate, wrapped in the man’s jacket, was a baby.

The child blinked up at me with huge trusting eyes, unblinking, wondering what I would do.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Echo muttered in disbelief. “Is that a memory? What’s it doing here?” I swallowed hard, stepping closer to the crate. The baby’s unwavering gaze pinned me, pulling something raw to the surface, something I couldn’t push back down.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

My hand hovered over the baby, trembling. It made no sense. In the crate there was a host of photos of the man and the boy. One of them at a sunlit park, a family photo and finally one here, at Cheesy Chester, a garish balloon arch framing what had to have been the baby’s first birthday.

“Looks like our guy tried to forget to bring the boy back.” I realised. “Then he planned to remember again. Diaries, photos, home movies. It’s all here, Echo.”

A quick glance at the boy’s hand’s confirmed no fingernails.

“Just… Do it,” Echo’s voice was low. She stood with her arms crossed, face grim. “It’s just a damn memory. Destroy it and let’s move on.”

I nodded, my mouth dry. I know what I should do. I knew.

But I couldn’t.

“I can’t.” I admitted. Echo stepped closer, her eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean, can’t?”

“I can’t do it!” The words came out sharper than I intended. I reeled myself back together and spoke seriously. “It’s a baby, Echo.”

Echo blinked, startled by my outburst. For a moment, something flickered across her face, but she quickly masked it with a sigh.

“It’s not a real baby though, is it Fig?” She sounded almost accusatory. “It’s a damn memory.”

I shook my head. The baby began to cry.

“This is different.”

Echo didn’t argue right away. For a while, there was nothing but the soft cry of the child in the room.

Most rampant memories are the by-product of the original MemTech decades ago, But this... This was something else. Intentional recreation. That kind of thing was usually the work of terrorists or criminals, not lone actors. The baby’s small hands waggled toward me and I felt something crack inside. The man tried to let go of all this. Tried to erase the pain of losing him. The little guy sure was loved.

And now he was mine to destroy.

“Sorry, Fig.” Echo softened her tone, patting me on the back. “It’s okay, I understand, but I gotta be hard on you sometimes.”

With a deft motion, she drew her knife and plunged it down without a second thought. My hand shot out, catching her blade just inches above the baby. The sharp edge bit into my palm and I hissed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I didn’t answer her. My other hand balled into a fist and crashed into her jaw, sending her staggering backwards.

“Don’t do it, Echo.” I pleaded, shaking my stinging hand.

But she was already back on her feet. She snapped a kick directly into my ribs and I doubled over. As she stepped toward the crate I threw myself at her – and that was that, the room erupted into chaos. Shelves toppled, sending pots, pans and appliances clattering to the floor. Dust filled the air as I grappled with her, trying to pin her arms.

“Stop!” I begged, my voice strained.

But Echo wasn’t listening. Her forehead smashed into my nose and I saw stars. My lip split under her next punch and the taste of blood was sharp in my mouth. Her blows were relentless. I ducked under a wide swing, desperate to regain control. I drove her into the wall, holding her in place.

“Just listen to me!”

“Do your damn job, Fig!” She growled throwing wild hooks into my ribs. Something inside me snapped and my fist lashed out, connecting squarely with her nose. The world seemed to pause. Echo stumbled, dazed, her hands reflexively flying to her face.

I held up both my hands.

"I’m sorry.” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it for her or myself.

Echo straightened, her eyes tightening in fury. Blood trickled from her nose, but she didn’t seem to care. Her knife gleamed in her hand.

“Babe, settle.”

She charged, slashing wildly. My back crashed into a countertop and I had nowhere to go. My fingers brushed the inside of my coat against something small and smooth. Thinking fast, I kicked her hip, shoving her backward just enough to gain breathing room. As she recovered, her eyes darted to the device in my hand.

Finally, remarkably, Echo paused. With a disappointed look, her hand flew to her side, finding the small disc I’d placed on her.

“A taser disc.” She scoffed with contempt. “You gonna shock me?”

I shrugged, trying to mask the tremor in my hands

“You gonna stab me?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Do your freaking job, Fig.”

She lunged again. And I pressed the button.

In a spectacular display of sizzling lights and flashing pulses of electricity, Echo convulsed as the taser disc sent her crumpling to the floor. I stood frozen, my heart pounding, struggling to catch my breath. Then, the reality of it all just dawned on me, I just tased my friend.

The baby’s fussing plucked my attention and I scooped him up.

“Why do you care so much?” Echo scowled, convulsing on the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to answer her, the words got caught in my throat. I couldn’t wait. Cradling the baby, I made for the door as fast as I could.

The streets were eerily quiet as I darted across the parking lot, baby nestled tightly in my arms. The dull throb of pain in my ribs sent my adrenaline crashing, replacing it with the weight of what I’d just done. Echo wouldn’t stay down for long and the thought made my chest tighten. I needed somewhere safe, somewhere to think.

The Erebus came into view and I bundled the baby into the passenger seat, shushing his quiet whimpers, then rushed around to the driver’s side. I rubbed the blood off my knuckles, and my ribs flared with every movement; I was starting to wonder if one of them was broken.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

The voice startled me. My hand shot to my weapon as I spun to face the source. A man, leaning against the wall, grinning like he’d waited all night for something like this. He didn’t flinch at the sight of my gun.

His jacket was military-grade, charred and worn at the edges and his boots had the kinds of scuffs that came from running towards trouble, not away from it.

“Sloppy technique.” He teased. “Looked more like flailing than fighting.”

I winced in pain. Echo got me good.

“You have three seconds to make yourself someone worth listening to.” I growled, cocking the hammer.

“Oh, you’ll listen.” He smiled.

I didn’t like him, especially not the way he acted like I wasn’t a threat.

“I’ve got a habit of picking up strays.” He said. “Here.”

And with a flick of the wrist he slid a business card through the window.

Echo’s furious shout cut through the silence like a knife and my stomach dropped. She leapt through the broken windows of the Cheesy Chester and broke into a full sprint at us. I glanced back at the man. He was gone.

“Damn.”

Echo was closing fast. I scrambled into the car and the Erebus thrummed to life as I shifted into reverse. The tires screeched as the engine’s growl echoed off the walls as we tore backwards out of the lot. Echo’s silhouette loomed, closing the distance with a terrifying, almost inhuman speed. Her focus was razor sharp, locked onto us like a heat seeking missile.

I swung the wheel hard, spinning us out onto the street. The car fishtailed as I slammed the pedal to the floor. Echo didn’t stop. I caught her reflection one last time, standing motionless in the lot, her gaze burning into my back even as the distance grew. Whatever line I crossed tonight there was no going back.

The highway stretched ahead, bathed in the pale light of dawn. I gunned it, the Erebus sending us home.

**

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet, save for the thrum of the usual machines. I closed the door behind me, my pulse still racing. The baby lay bundled in the jacket in the crook of my arm sleeping. I had no idea how such a fragile thing could tear my world apart and make it whole at the same time.

Nan was where I’d left her, propped up in her chair by the window. Her eyes started blankly ahead, unseeing, unknowing. I set the baby down on the couch beside her and knelt down, searching her face for something, anything at all that could tell me if I was really making the right choice.

Nothing.

“Well,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I think I messed up. Big time.”

Her lips twitched ever so slightly, but she didn’t respond.

“They’re going to come for me,” I murmured. “Echo’ll tell them everything and I won’t’ be able to talk my way out of it.

The baby cooed softly from the couch, as if mocking me. I glared at it.

“I should have left you there, I should’ve just…” The words died in my throat. Because I couldn’t have. The sound it made, the cry, even those big curious eyes made it all impossible.

“I suppose in this line of work it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?”

Nan did not reply.

“How much time did I really have before I was going to start making the same mistakes you did?”

Nan’s lips twitched ever so slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she never could.

“Or was that the point all along?” I murmured. “Am I just here to…” I searched for the words. “Fix what you couldn’t?”

The baby paddled his arms and the business card the stranger left slipped out and fluttered face up onto the floor. A big symbol of a hippo was on the front with the following: Hippocampus. Sanctuary for memories.

I reached down for it, my bruised fingers trembling slightly. My hand ached from the fight. My thumb brushed against the edge of the card and I winced at the sting of a broken nail. Memories weren’t’ supposed to feel pain. But I did. I always did.

I dropped the card and sat back, my eyes darting between Nan, the baby and the clock on the wall. Each tick chipped away at whatever time I had left. It was time to make a decision.

With shaking hands, and ringing ears, I pulled the false nails from my fingers.