You saw my wife in those mirrors I think. My ex-wife.
[He's still getting used to saying that. He often forgets, but the only way he'll get better is to keep correcting himself.]
Her name was Molly. I met her in California. I must have. Sometime around when I was finishing up with my doctorate, I think. My folks came out from Tennessee for the wedding. I don't think her family knew what to make of them; they were all cultured California folk, you know. I remember one of my little sisters pushed another one into a fountain trying to catch the bouquet. I can't recall which one.
I can't remember what color her eyes were. That might not be my fault. Her hair was always in front of them. She was a good woman. Very practical. Probably why she split off from me when she did. I don't blame
[No, no, no. Good things. Good memories. The rest of it can wait, can stay neatly boxed up in the back of his heart, for a little longer.]
I remember we had so much trouble deciding on a name for the baby. She wanted Tate so I let her have it if she let me pick the middle name. Meson. To go with Hadron. I thought it was clever. I used to call him Tater-Tot. He didn't talk for the longest time. I remember. I remember we were worried about it. Turns out he was just a quiet kid. He got that from her I think. He certainly didn't get it from me.
[It gets patchy after that. He wishes he had more. It must be there, somewhere. A first day of school, a birthday, something. That can't be all there is, and if he just knew the code he had to enter into his brain to unlock it he would. Vague images float on the edge of his consciousness but the harder he tries to grasp them the further away they seem to be.]
[Marco isn't sure if he hoped he would know what to say after Fiddleford told him about his family. If he did, then his hopes have been dashed.
He's forgotten his hometown - and who knows what else he forgot, the next time he died - but he still can't imagine what it's like to forget things about your own family. It must be indescribably painful, but all he can really do is pat Fiddleford on the shoulder and say "there, there," isn't it? How can he possibly hope to fix this?]
He looks like he might be old enough to think it's embarrassing. In the picture I mean. His hair got so long. He cut his bangs off with the kitchen scissors once. He had to wear a baseball cap for months until his hair grew out even again and by then he was so attached to the cap he didn't want to quit wearing it.
It's there. It has to be there. If I can get bits and pieces I have to be able to get the rest of it, right?
[Oh, yep, there it is. There's that anxiety he knew would show up sooner or later, cutting through his calm horror and scattering the thoughts he's already having trouble keeping in order. What if he can't get the rest of it? He shouldn't be able to. He burned away the neural connections with months of heavy radiation.]
I have to be able to get it back Marco he was the best thing I ever made.
Electromagnetic radiation. It fired at a wavelength strong enough to overload and destroy the pathways containing the undesirable memory, which was then recorded via electrical bounceback into an attached film canister for later use. I never watched the videos. That would have defeated the point.
[If this were another conversation, in a different context, Marco would HAVE to ask how in the world Fiddleford managed to pull that off - especially the video recording. Using radiation to destroy memories? Yeah, sure, he's known Fiddleford long enough to believe that's totally within his skillset. Recording video directly off someone's mind is on a whole other level.
Now is not the time.]
Okay well I'm not a neurologist. Evidently But in theory, isn't it possible to rebuild those pathways somehow?
[To be fair, it was less the memories themselves and more a recording of the few minutes leading up to the erasure. He put it together real fast, alright, even he doesn't know exactly how it worked. If he did it would have had a heck of a lot fewer problems.]
Neither am I so I couldn't answer any better than you could. Theoretically, maybe. I wouldn't know how to go about doing it is the thing beyond just talking about them and hoping I hit on something.
Look I know. But what if something goes wrong? What if your reverse-engineered gun gets into the wrong hands and someone reverse-engineers THAT? What if you just can't get the radiation to work backwards?
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[He's still getting used to saying that. He often forgets, but the only way he'll get better is to keep correcting himself.]
Her name was Molly. I met her in California. I must have. Sometime around when I was finishing up with my doctorate, I think. My folks came out from Tennessee for the wedding. I don't think her family knew what to make of them; they were all cultured California folk, you know. I remember one of my little sisters pushed another one into a fountain trying to catch the bouquet. I can't recall which one.
I can't remember what color her eyes were. That might not be my fault. Her hair was always in front of them. She was a good woman. Very practical. Probably why she split off from me when she did. I don't blame
[No, no, no. Good things. Good memories. The rest of it can wait, can stay neatly boxed up in the back of his heart, for a little longer.]
I remember we had so much trouble deciding on a name for the baby. She wanted Tate so I let her have it if she let me pick the middle name. Meson. To go with Hadron. I thought it was clever. I used to call him Tater-Tot. He didn't talk for the longest time. I remember. I remember we were worried about it. Turns out he was just a quiet kid. He got that from her I think. He certainly didn't get it from me.
[It gets patchy after that. He wishes he had more. It must be there, somewhere. A first day of school, a birthday, something. That can't be all there is, and if he just knew the code he had to enter into his brain to unlock it he would. Vague images float on the edge of his consciousness but the harder he tries to grasp them the further away they seem to be.]
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He's forgotten his hometown - and who knows what else he forgot, the next time he died - but he still can't imagine what it's like to forget things about your own family. It must be indescribably painful, but all he can really do is pat Fiddleford on the shoulder and say "there, there," isn't it? How can he possibly hope to fix this?]
That's a cute nickname.
For your kid.
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It's there. It has to be there. If I can get bits and pieces I have to be able to get the rest of it, right?
[Oh, yep, there it is. There's that anxiety he knew would show up sooner or later, cutting through his calm horror and scattering the thoughts he's already having trouble keeping in order. What if he can't get the rest of it? He shouldn't be able to. He burned away the neural connections with months of heavy radiation.]
I have to be able to get it back Marco he was the best thing I ever made.
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It's in there SOMEWHERE. I know it is. I know
Can you tell me how your memory gun worked? That might help.
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Now is not the time.]
Okay well I'm not a neurologist. Evidently
But in theory, isn't it possible to rebuild those pathways somehow?
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Neither am I so I couldn't answer any better than you could. Theoretically, maybe. I wouldn't know how to go about doing it is the thing beyond just talking about them and hoping I hit on something.
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No, that seems sound to me!
Stimulation, that's what you need. You need to really
really dig in there and think about things and drag the memories out to get those pathways running again.
Or
the other way around.
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But what if something goes wrong? What if your reverse-engineered gun gets into the wrong hands and someone reverse-engineers THAT?
What if you just can't get the radiation to work backwards?
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I could keep it in my room in the Arcade. No one can get in there but me. It would be safe.
Please I know you're concerned but this is too important.
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If I can't stop you then at least PLEASE promise me you'll be careful.
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Just be careful, okay?
I can't help feeling like there are safer ways to do this.