Alex

Confrontation

"Why can't I shake this memory?" I muttered, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the room seemed heavier tonight, pressing down like an unwelcome weight.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, is an anxiety disorder that can develop after someone experiences or witnesses a traumatic event," ALPHA replied, its voice calm, clinical, and devoid of emotion.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "ALPHA, that was meant to be a rhetorical question."

"My apologies. I was programmed to assist where possible," it responded.

"I know, ALPHA," I said, my tone softening. "I'm still getting used to this... being connected thing." I paused, turning the memory over in my mind for the thousandth time. "Dr. Meyers said he wiped my memories, yet I can't escape this one. Why this one?"

ALPHA hesitated before replying, almost as if it were calculating. "Residual neural patterns may have persisted during the initial wipe. Strong emotional attachments or moments of heightened stress are more likely to embed themselves deeply into the brain's neural framework."

I rolled onto my side, the faint hum of the microcomputers within me a constant reminder of what I was. "So, what you're saying is... this memory survived because it hurt the most?"

"That is a logical hypothesis," ALPHA replied. "Would you like me to assist in blocking this memory?"

I considered the offer for a moment, but the thought of erasing it—of losing that last thread connecting me to my old life—made me recoil. "No," I said firmly. "Not yet. It might hurt, but it's a part of me. I need to figure out why it's still here."

"Understood," ALPHA said. "If you require assistance, you only need to ask."

"Thanks, ALPHA," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. As much as I resented the pain this memory brought, I couldn't let it go. Not yet. It felt important, like a puzzle piece waiting to fit into the larger picture of who I was... and who I needed to be.

The alarm blared again, its shrill tone reverberating through the walls.

"Security breach detected," ALPHA declared in her unshakable voice.

I bolted out of my room, adrenaline already coursing through my veins. When I reached the control room, Dr. Meyers was hunched over the monitors, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

"What do we have, Doc?" I asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"One heat signature detected," ALPHA replied.

"Just one?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. That didn't make sense. The Consortium never operated solo.

Dr. Meyers' expression darkened, his scowl deepening. "Samuel," he hissed.

"Samuel?" My mind flashed back to the training exercises, to the tactical precision of one of the Consortium's most formidable creations. "I'll take care of him," I said, already turning to leave.

"Alex, wait." Dr. Meyers' voice was firm, almost pleading. "We shouldn't rush into anything. Samuel isn't just another ACE soldier. He's—"

"ALPHA, can you confirm there's only one of them?" I interrupted, trying to keep my focus.

"Scanning now," ALPHA replied, but I didn't have time to wait for her analysis.

"There's no time for that," I said, already heading toward the armory.

Inside, the racks gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. My hands moved with practiced precision, picking out weapons that felt like extensions of my own body. I grabbed a pair of pistols, holstering them on either side of a leather sling strapped across my chest. A compact submachine gun hung at my hip, and I tucked a combat knife into my boot. This was overkill for one opponent, but something told me not to take any chances.