They always say death changes you. But what if you've died more times than you can count? What if death isn't the end, just another memory file stored somewhere in your DNA, waiting to be reactivated?
I stood there, drenched in synthetic rain, watching myself, fifteen years younger, more alert, a scar cutting across his left brow like a slash of defiance.
He wore my face.
And yet, he wasn't me.
He had no fear in his eyes. Just quiet rage. Maybe even a sense of duty.
"I remember those eyes," I muttered, half to him, half to the ghosts flickering in my brain.
The younger clone tilted his head slightly, almost like he recognized me too.
And then, without a word…
He pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed across the crumbling skyline. Neon lights blinked in the distance. But Adam didn't fall. Not this time. Instead, the world bent inward and rewound itself.
A blink.
A breath.
He awoke.
My communicator buzzed against my wrist, its interface blinking in soft blue hues. "Memory visualization complete. Exiting safe mode."
I sat hunched over on my decrepit sofa, sweat clinging to my neck. The same memory loop again. The same nightmare. I felt it like it had just happened, like I'd actually been shot.... again.
There's no escaping your own mind when your memories are shareable, replayable, sellable.
Across the room, the globe spun in holographic silence. Our planet reduced to a projection. A broken toy.
And then she touched my shoulder.
Aomi. Small frame. Pale hands. Warm eyes that rarely asked, always understood. She stepped into the flickering glow of the hologram, her presence softening the sharp corners of the bunker.
"You don't have to do this, Adam," she said. "You're not responsible for what happened. Let it go. Come with me."
He looked at her, her silhouette framed by ghostly blue light. She had always been his anchor, the voice that pulled him back from the edge. But some wounds fester too long.
"Please," she whispered, taking his hand.
He stood. But just as she smiled, he stopped cold.
"Don't do this," he said.
"You're not alone anymore," she insisted. "Take me into the light."
"No… it won't make a difference."
A sharp beep shattered the moment. The communicator on his wrist pulsed yellow.
Two identical DNA signals… entangled.
Again.
I stared at the dots. One of them was me. The other? My past. My mistake. My mirror.
"This is happening again," I said aloud, more warning than realization.
Within minutes, Adam was airborne on his PRD-7 drone, slicing through layers of neon mist and corrupted air.
The coordinates led him to the underbelly of Sector 11. An abandoned subway station, its ceiling cracked open to a flickering starless sky. Shards of wall and glass littered the ground. Rusted statues bearing the Lambda symbol stood solemnly like guardians of lost time.
There, near the edge of a broken pillar, he waited.
The suitcase in his hand buzzed. Weapons. Illegal.
His client was coming.
And then, from the shadows, a boy emerged. Leather jacket. Scarred brow. His eyes locked on Adam.
No.
Not again.
I felt the world split in two.
"You're me," I said.
"No," he said calmly. "You're me."
The universe stuttered. Our communicators synced instantly. Our memories overlapped. My thoughts became his. His became mine.
A cursed reflection.
I didn't want to fight. But one of us had to die.
They lunged.
A blur of fists and steel. Each move mirrored, anticipated, countered. Adam swung high, the clone ducked low. The clone slashed left, Adam parried right.
In that instant, their shared consciousness made everything predictable and painful.
Every punch felt twice. Every bruise mirrored.
But the younger clone adapted faster. His reflexes weren't bound by trauma.
A rib cracked.
Blood spilled.
Adam hit the ground.
He had his hands around my throat.
My own hands. Younger, stronger.
And I was choking on the pain of my past.
We screamed together, same pitch, same tone. Two halves of the same broken code.
And just when I thought it was over…
Bang.
A bullet tore through his skull.
We both collapsed.
An armored drone descended from above, mechanical arms reaching through the haze. It grabbed both clones, attaching grappling hooks to their limp forms.
Then it vanished into the clouds, taking them back to wherever clones were stored, reset, and recycled.
Memory banks.
Data vaults.
Graves.
I woke up again. New clothes. Same room. Pandora X.
Neon signs buzzed outside the bar window. A street girl was dancing for credits. Someone was auctioning memories in the corner "First kiss, real time-stamped, no overlays."
I lit a fake cigarette.
A stranger sat next to me. Slick hair, sly eyes.
"So, what's your profession?" he asked.
"Memories," I said. "I buy. I sell."
He leaned in, curious. "The exclusive kind?"
"Yeah. The kind that cost more than credits."
He smiled. "What do they cost?"
I turned to face him, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Pain."