The Agency


It swung open and Aiden stood there looking at me.  

I jumped into his arms.  

“I thought you were dead!” I said.

He gave me a half-hearted smile.

“What?” I asked.

But then I noticed what he was wearing; his was wearing the outfit of patient.  

“No,” I cried, “no!”

They had erased his memory.

I heard shuffling behind me and felt a blow hit me right on the head.  I closed my eyes.



The quiet, familiar beeps of a machine greeted me as I awoke.  I tried to open my eyes but they were crusted shut.

“She seems to be responding well,” said a voice to my right.

“Yes, hopefully she will join us aga-”

“She’s awake.”

I tried to fake sleeping, but my side hurt.  To calm myself, I traced the stitches in my side, trying to get my breathing quieter and slower.

“Skye, we want to welcome you back.  We found you passed out in the desert and with a cut in the side that resembles Aiden Phillips’s knife.  We heard that you tried to stop him from stealing a classified document, but he was able to get the upperhand.  The agency thanks you for your dedication to us.”

I frowned something was off. My first instinct was to smile and say, "of course," but an urge at the back of my mine told me not to.

The nurse's smile turned into a frown. The Boss nudged her with his elbow and whispered something in her ear. She nodded.

"I'm going to have to inject you with a serum, because your body has rejected the stitches,” the nurse tells me.

I smile, but then I frown again.  Something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is.

The nurse tentatively walks toward me with the syringe, holding it in front of her like a shield.

Think. I tell myself, think.  I try to recall how I got my injury on my side and it wasn’t from Aiden, it was from…

I push up into a kneeled position on the cot and look at the machines.  The machines that surround me are used to extract memories from a person and reprogram them to think events happened differently.  

“You stole my memories,” I accuse the nurse. “Again.”

She looks back at the Boss, “We did it for your own good.  Now let me help you.”

She lunges toward me, but I jump off the cot, knocking into the machine.  The IV’s in my forearm and hand rip out.  

“Skye,” she says again, “Skye!”

And the name sounds familiar, but it doesn’t at the same time.  Like it belongs to me, but it doesn’t.


The End

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