A hand lays its firm grip on the shoulder of Francis Murphy. He has been sitting at his son's bedside for the last 13 hours, the hospital's harsh white lighting, reflecting off even harsher white walls, unable to sting his eyes any more than the thick veil of his own tears already have.
The hand gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I am sorry, Francis."
Francis squeezes his son's hand yet again against his face, kissing it as yet another tear rolls slowly down his tired, distraught face. The action is not reassuring, and the words fall on numb ears, almost hypnotised by the hours of hospital machine bleeping; the slow and steady soundtrack to a life falling apart right before his eyes.
Visibly flinching at the ECG monitor's every tone, he turns around to the figure behind him. "You've... tormented my family for years, and I'm supposed to believe.... what? You're here to actually comfort me? Well, fuck you." Francis snaps, quickly turning his gaze to the door as a doctor passes by.
"Well, I didn't think you'd believe me." The man slowly makes his way around the bed, taking a seat on the other side. Francis scrapes the tears from his eyes, red a blotchy now, with his rough shirt sleeve. He scratches at the small scar in the middle of his left palm, and resumes his grip on the small boy's hand.
A few minutes of agonising waiting pass, a small eternity with only the chemical smells that linger in the air and the back of the throat to keep the father company.
The man leans forward in his chair, gaze also resting on the young face, bruised but almost peaceful, lying in the bed in front of them. "How much are they going to take?"
"I don't fucking know, you actually think I'm caring about fucking payment right now?" "Well, maybe you should be." the man replies bluntly, turning the serious glare to Francis, who meets him with an equally icy look of loathing. "They're going to take a lot. Brain trauma, that's not going to be cheap. Not at all."
Francis slams his eyes shut, praying that the fees would be somewhat reasonable. He tries to tone out the incessant drone of Mike Carter, his former boss, and the ghost that's haunted his family for at least a decade now, but to now avail. There he is, right in the back of his mind.
"...amily memories, treasured moments, even the everyday things, and for what? Market research? Just to make us into statistics, to research human routines and patterns? You just know that these things are all going into those new AI tin cans they've been raving about, they'll end up tak--"
"Please... just shut up."
Mike stops his usual energetic hand gestures mid-flow, letting his hands heavily drop onto his knees with a slap, and stands up. Walking over to the window, he looks down into the hospital's car park, fiddling with a lonely 'Get Well Soon!' card on the windowsill. "They'll take everything from you. But I have an offer, and I'm sure you'll find it more appealing than whatever they try to push on you out there."
Francis knows what's going to happen now. 'It's been the same request year after year, no matter the situation, and he's going to ask me again here.'
"I'll cover you for all of the bills, all of the procedures, that come out of this. I don't care much for my own memories - far too many of them nowadays. But you know what I want in return." he grins, his ultimate victory over the grieving father finally realised.
Francis nods wearily, moving his zombie-like gaze to the floor, fresh tears stinging his cheeks. Mike saunters back over to Francis, kneeling down in front of him, smirk spreading even further across his wide face. "You took a lot from me, Frank. You took a lot from me, and then I left. I was gone. And now so is she, so I'm going to take what's left of her from you."
Rage bubbling inside his very soul, Francis glares at the pig-like face of the devil in front of him, holding back every urge to beat him where he stands. He slowly sits upright, and brings his hands together.
With his right thumb, he presses hard into the middle of his left palm, and a pale blue mist descends, obfuscating the painful view of his shattered child and the man taking advantage of him.
Automatically queued up is a memory - the most recently viewed. The most calming and soothing one he has. Just like being there, shapes slide into view. A park bench. Trees bare of leaves. Gravel underfoot. The cool smell of nearby pond life. The hiss of rain, and the cloud of freezing breath in front of him.
And her. She's there. She's there, she's cold, her long hair wet and plastered to her head, but she's there nonetheless. For even the slightest moment, in the middle of the chaos and pain of his life being burned down around him, a loving smile creeps across his lips. Francis is happy.
The warm itch of the SynapseSys™ device in his palm brings him back to reality, the loving memory melting around him, dragging him back to the sight of his child's battered face. 'There's nowhere else to run now.'
A memory savoured one last time, Francis holds out his hand to Mike, the man who would take everything from him given even the slightest opportunity. "Take my memory, then go fuck yourself." he spits. The venom in his voice falls flat, as Mike grins widely and pulls a short length of nearly transparent thread.
Francis sobs, clamping his eyes short and looking down at the floor again, ashamed at what's about to happen. Trying to throw one last insult, he chokes on his tears and the knot in his throat as the razor-sharp thread penetrates his palm. The last hope he had that the man he once worked for - hell, looked up to when they had first met - melted just as the memory had, as the SynapseSys™ Orpheus menu flashes up on the insides of his eyelids. Not even blocking everything out can help now.
Cursing the infernal device, cursing his fear of having memories torn from his head, and cursing the weakness that drove him to this, Francis presses on his palm a couple more times.
'Memory Transfer Initiated', the message reads. It flashes for a moment, words that would surely be burned into his mind until he dies, then disappears.
Francis opens his eyes. The image he'd been dreading for years had been realised, and was right there in front of him. Himself and Carter, connected by an Orpheus thread, and the searing pain behind his eyes of a memory being ripped from its home.
And just like that, there it was. Emerging from his palm, making its way slowly up the thread, a vivid pink drop of light. A memory of love. Love for his wife, and now love for his son. 'They're sorted into colours...' he thinks, clamping his free hand over his mouth, muffling the wet sobs and cries as he watches the last-remaining shred of that beautiful day, the day he met the woman of his dreams, be sucked into the greasy hands of an uncaring, manipulative husk of a man.
Bright pink. The most valuable colour.
Francis sinks to the floor, curling up at the foot of his broken son's bed, giving up holding back his cries, trying instead to desperately hide his face. Mike Carter's loud gloating and financial musings fall on deaf ears as Francis hammers away at his palm, trying to bring the memory back somehow.
Screaming, he beats at his legs and head, loudly cursing the technology, and the man, who'd taken away the defining moment of his life. Mike turns back and gives him a small wave as he leaves, Francis responding with every obscenity and foul insult that he can muster.
One last time, he jams his thumb into his palm, still convinced that it's all just an awful nightmare. Looking up at the hospital room's single, gazing eye of a light, bright as the sun, he lets out one last cry.
For the first time of what would become many thousands of attempts, the afternoon of 18th September 2019 had nothing to give him but static, and the glow of the words that would visit him in his nightmares.
'Memory Transferred'