“There’s a difference between watching a memory and physically entering one. Our bodies will stay here,” he says, tugging me to sit next to him. “This way we can’t interact with anyone and cause split memories.” He glances at his watch, one I’ve never seen him wear before, and takes my hands.
Rose stands silently beside Silas, gnawing on her nails. “Make it quick. He could wake up any second,” she says, but my body’s already flaring with warmth, every cell vibrating with energy.
When Parker last traveled us, I clamped my eyes shut. This time, I keep them wide open, electricity roaring up my arms and building within my chest. I suck in a deep breath to combat the pressure crushing my lungs.
Rough sandstone walls materialize before my eyes, encasing me and obscuring Silas’s office. I stiffen, my heart rate jumping. Is the unease clawing against my rib cage my own emotion, or Parker’s echo as he lived through this moment?
I blink, and the walls have crumbled, a grand home cinema appearing in their wake. Plush leather sofas fill the three tiers, centrally divided by crimson, carpet-lined stairs. The cinema is mostly empty, occupants seated only on the sofas on the lowest level.
Professor McGregor sits facing the audience on a wooden chair at the front of the room, his back to the screen and an antique wooden box clutched in his hands.
Parker wasn’t lying when he said this memory would be different through his eyes. My visions of this memory are clouded by darkness, leaving me to rely on sounds and primitive feelings such as fear. With Parker, every aspect of the room is so real I’m having trouble believing I’m in his past. The rich, oaky smell of leather hangs in the air, mixed with a softer floral scent I cannot place.
Ivory half-moon lamps line the room, domes of soft light accentuating the red and gold patterns in the walls. Parker’s younger self is lazing on the sofa to McGregor’s left, furthest from the door. Rose and Silas sit on the other sofa, Rose picking at her nails while Silas leans forward, his covered forearms resting on his knees. They’re all wearing the same square smartwatches and strange black uniforms, made of an unusual fabric that fits snugly against their bodies.
Professor McGregor winds a lever on the back of the box, each flick of his wrist producing a series of sharp clicks.
Parker groans. “Please, not again,” he says, tilting his face toward the decorative ceiling and stretching his arms above his head. “I’ll be hearing that creepy tune in my sleep tonight.”
“Thenfocus,” McGregor says, and the clicking halts.“Concentrate on the sound of the music or the rotation of the ballerina, and see if you can slow it down.”
Parker glances around the room with an indifferent expression, and yet another jab of apprehension fills my chest.
“This is a waste of time,” Rose says. “It’s impossible.”
“We don’t know that,” McGregor snaps, scanning the three recruits before him. “Now concentrate. All of you.”
“Why are we getting punished for showing up on time, when Nickol and the rest of the Alphas aren’t even here?” Rose asks.
McGregor ignores her question and places the wooden box on the floor before him. “We’re going to try this again. Remember your training. Find your focus before you begin.”
He leans down and flips open the lid. A miniature ballerina pops up in the center of the box, its paint faded with age. The ballerina rotates, and I flinch at the off-key, high-pitched melody of Sleeping Beauty’s “Once Upon a Dream”. I try to step backward, but my body is still planted on the bed back in Silas’s office. My feet push back into the bed base, every muscle straining. I’m trapped inside Parker’s past, and the only way out is to finish watching it.
Parker and Rose stare at the music box, eyes glued to the rotating ballerina, but with each passing second, my heart rate quickens.
Something’s wrong.
Silas jumps to his feet a second before my older self barges into the room, pale-faced and short of breath. “We have to go. Now,” she orders, freezing before the spinning ballerina. Her trembling hands rise to her mouth.
I don’t need an echo to feel her heart racing in her chestor the terror flooding her body. I’ve felt it every night since I was seven years old. I’m living my recurring nightmare in perfect detail.
A middle-aged man with short, dark hair enters the room behind her, flushed and breathing heavily. “You need to come with me,” he says to her, straightening his tie. An armed man appears behind him.
“Nickol?” Professor McGregor says.
My future self twists to face the man—Nickol—and backs away from the door. “Stay away from me.”
“I just want to have a quick chat in my office,” he says.
The room’s silent besides a few lingering, off-key notes as the music box runs out of rotations.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says.
Nickol nods to the security guard, who pulls a handgun from his holster, and the room erupts into chaos. Everyone rushes to their feet. Rose and McGregor are yelling, and Parker and Silas storm forward.
Emotions flicker through me—confusion, disbelief, betrayal—but the moment they reach me, they vanish, as if Parker’s plucking them from my body. I wonder why he doesn’t shield me from the silent rage simmering beneath the surface, like a dark snake slithering under my skin, preparing to strike.
Silas reaches my past self first, wedging himself between her and the gun aimed at her head.
