August 2nd, 2134

Row— Rowan. Rowan Black. That was his name. He’d remembered the syllables after the third bout of consciousness.

Darkness and silence. There was nothing except for a cold, slippery texture permeating this void. That’s all there was when his senses came in sudden, nausea-ridden bouts lasting for mere minutes.

He attempted to think, to remember what’d happened before this darkness had consumed him, to remember his life. Nothing came. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t remember how to control his body or open his eyes.

A strange sensation seeped through him as his mind struggled for answers. The taint was dull, muted, and fuzzy. It tingled. It was colder than the texture. It came from within him—from within his mind. A strange thing it was. It simmered until he slept once more.

* * *

August 6th, 2134

Teeth, fur, throaty barks… and a stench which made the cold tingle danced through Rowan’s mind.

It was a memory—that much was certain. And there were screams… A man… And a woman. Rowan couldn’t discern their blurred faces. Those screams fed the cold, and the cold gorged until it raged in an icy fire before the memory faded. The frost devoured him until he and it was one.

* * *

August 7th, 2134

“Rowan’s stable,” an old, smooth voice said.

What was that? Rowan swiveled through the void. It sounded distant and faint as if his mental-ear was pressing against thick, dense wood.

“That’s great news,” another voice said. Younger. Male.

The tone was familiar. Rowan swore he’d heard it his whole life.

Another voice spoke. It was feminine. “Oh Row—” She made a strange sound. A sob, Rowan recognized after a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

The man exhaled. “Did the stem cell treatment work? What about the bionic implants?”

Bionic implants. Stem cell? Rowan recognized the syllables, but the meaning was out of grasp. A swirl of confusion mired him. The seeping ice churned.

“Successful,” the old voice said, husky and low. “Rowan’s skull, skin, hair, nerves, muscles, etc., have all been fully regrown. As for his brain, most of his damaged cerebral cortex has regenerated, and his limbic system is functional. Though his amygdala, parts of his frontal lobe, and other systems were destroyed. The bionics will provide temporary function and promote rapid neurogenesis. His organic brain will regenerate, and the implants and nano-machines will biodegrade. He will make a full recovery, eventually.”

Comprehension slipped Rowan’s grasp again. The frost and ice ignited. He twisted and twirled in the dark, struggling for an answer.

The void reclaimed him and his consciousness faded.

* * *

August 8th, 2134

Something changed.

The raging frost now tempted Rowan beyond all else—beyond the shattered memories that’d come to him irregularly. He needed it. He desired it for it now sustained him in this black hell that’d robbed him of his body and senses. And when he thought of that sad female voice, the frost blazed like an icy furnace in his mind. It was hot and cold, tight, uncomfortable in ways but it fueled his will unlike anything else in this darkness. It kept him alive and sane, barely.

Rowan thrashed and heaved his being in this prison while the frost grew.

The darkness cracked.

His mind paused, startled by the sliver of light.

That same old voice seeped through. “This is a process based on quantum technology, taking advantages of field signatures and residual entanglements. It can restore the few memories it can find in Rowan’s mind and purge whatever experiences he’s had in the tank.”

Could this be his escape? He gathered the entirety of his willpower and threw his mind at the crack.

The slippery darkness shattered, the light breaking through in a web. He tumbled into the light just as a wave of nausea stole his consciousness. The frost burned and cried a final time.

* * *

September 3rd, 2134

What happened? Rowan squinted at the flash of blinding light. Where’s the wolf? Didn’t it just tackle him?

The light faded and the wolf lunged at him. He brushed aside his surprise and queries for later. His breathing slowed as it soared through the air, granting him valuable time to examine the canine. Large eyes. Soft snout. Exposed chest. And he wielded a titanium knife. How dare this stupid animal attack him. It wasn’t even worth the small pinpricks of annoyance in his belly.

Even without any martial arts training, it was an easy fight. Throwing the fishing rod to the ground, he sidestepped and hooked an arm around its neck. It barked and bit air. Pungent spittle and fur assaulted his senses. Strong legs kicked at his ribs. Rowan swiftly stabbed it between the ribs and pulled out, then plunged the blade into an eye. Then twisted. He met little resistance from its soft eye and brain.

The wolf dropped to the ground, twitching. Dead. Blood and brains dripped onto the forest floor from the tip of his knife.

Rowan turned, deciding to help his parents, but unfortunately, they were both unmoving, laying in pools of their own blood beneath bodies of wolves. Both dead.

Rowan sneered, a lick of anger crushing his innards in a burst of heat followed by a distantly familiar seeping cold. His parents always treated him well, fed him well, bought him nice things. Objectively, they were indeed useful. Their deaths would inconvenience Rowan’s life greatly. If there were more wolves around, he’d make them suffer. He kicked the corpse of the wolf he’d just slain, then approached his parents’ bodies and crouched. Their pulses were out but bodies still warm. “Father. Mother,” he said and nodded. “You were always good to me.” He sighed, ignoring the stench of iron and rust fuming from all the blood.

“It’s alright, Rowan,” an old voice said from behind.

Rowan jolted straight as his skin tingled mutely—not at the surprise but at the fact that the park ranger knew his name.

“This is just a virtual reality simulation,” the ranger said as Rowan turned.

The balding, old man wore a pristine white coat over a blue shirt and black pants. Circular, rimless glasses shone in the evening sun filtering through the canopy. He stood neutrally, posture straight and arms at his side. A doctor, not a park ranger, obviously.

And a simulation? Like a hyper-advanced game? A frown creased Rowan’s forehead. His skin and facials felt all too real, exactly his. This was one hell of a virtual reality simulation if it was. It had to be directly connected to his brain. Such technology had to be decades away.

Doctors wouldn’t lie, would they?

After a few sounds of consideration, Rowan decided this it may not be a lie. The park ranger wasn’t seen, and the doctor didn’t have a bulging plasma-laser rifle beneath his coat.

The doctor only studied him like a comforting security camera, face relaxed and still, no movement or a single fidget. Trained and experienced. He didn’t seem like a fake.

Rowan gave him the benefit of the doubt while dull annoyance bent his toes, the doctor’s silence maddening. He considered his next words with a thousand lines of action buzzing in his skull. He picked one question more important than the others. “Do you mean my parents aren’t dead?” He needed them—for the next few years at the minimum. They provided almost everything from food to whatever else he wanted.

The doctor’s brows furrowed by a tiny degree, which Rowan nearly missed. “Your parents are alive… and well.” He was either confused or surprised. Though he was hiding it.

And Good. Their survival saved Rowan a lot of trouble. Nodding, he picked another question. “Why this simulation?”

Those wrinkled, grayish-pink lips curled upwards. Those hazel eyes relaxed. That whole face shifted into what Rowan assumed to be a happiness of some sort—probably to help put Rowan at ease. It failed to cull his suspicions. He wasn’t a fool. This could still be kidnapping—or a dream. The doctor was already acting strangely. If only Rowan could read his mind. Curiosity gnawed at his stomach.

The doctor spoke before Rowan repeated the question. “This simulation is simply reconstructed from your last available memories. You were injured in a near-fatal accident, specifically your brain was damaged, significantly—”

“What accident?” Rowan interrupted and gestured to the wolves. “Wasn’t it a wolf attack?”

“Yes and no.” The doctor had an apprehensive look. “A park ranger intervened, and his rifle rebounded off your father’s knife, hitting you in the head. You don’t seem to remember that part. You’ve likely had much memory loss.” He emphasized that point. “The familiar environment, sound, sight, smell, and touch, helps your mind transition back to reality and lessen the physiological shock.” He spoke like a Santa or a grandfather recounting an old tale.

Rowan paused as his mouth opened. Despite helping to affirm a position as his doctor, that explanation made no sense. How would a replay of his final moments before near-death lessen shock? He’d just woken to a wolf lunging at him and his parents’ dead bodies lying in pools of blood. If anything, he should be going into physiological shock this moment. And he wasn’t going into shock. He felt serenely calm—which piqued more questions. Though he didn’t know much about brain biology. The so-called doctor could just be dumbing down the conversation.

Rowan reserved judgment and nodded. Perhaps this really was a doctor.

“How do you feel, Rowan?” His face was neutral again. “I’m sorry if this scene upset you. It was necessary to help your brain adjust.” He gestured with open hands. “Truly, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

A lie. A tinge of a sinking feeling indicated so. Rowan wasn’t sure how he exactly knew, but he’d bet his parents on it. He lied back, “I’m a bit shaken, but I understand, doctor…”

“Roth. Doctor Vincent Roth. I’m a neurologist.” He smiled briefly.

A name. Finally. Not very professional there. Doctors usually introduced themselves first thing; it was taught in their medical schools if Rowan recalled correctly. The slip-up did not help those dubious claims.

Rowan nodded, and kept his voice as on the innocent side. “But what if that wolf got to me? This feels so real.” If this Roth fellow wanted to play this game, then so be it. Rowan could do it all evening. His parents were already dead in this so-called simulation. He had nothing to lose apart from himself.

Dr. Roth pulled out a small, rectangular device from his coat pocket, holding up the screen for Rowan to see. “This allows me to pause the simulation. I was about to intervene, but you seemed to be alright. You are a fit young lad, after all.” He chuckled and pocketed the device.

True was that—the last part. Rowan didn’t need help for a tiny little wolf problem.

Glancing back at the wolf he killed, he held up his blade. Bits of eye and brain flesh and congealed blood clung to the metal. He’d done this to the stupid wolf. A small grin tugged at his cheeks. If only he had the chance kill the others by his parents’ corpses.

Then a thought struck him: If this simulation was created from his final memories, why were his parents already dead if they’re supposedly alive in the real world?

Roth couldn’t be trusted. He was up to something.

Rowan rotated his body back to face the doctor at a measured pace. He had to not let him know he’d noticed this vast inconsistency. “Can we leave now? I’d like to see my parents. How long has it been?” he asked using a concerned tone. “They must be worried about me,” he tacked on. And strangely, Rowen felt no worry for his parents. He was sure that he’d been worried about them in the past, but his memory was hazy at best thanks to this ‘accident’. He exhaled—no time contemplate on that now.

After five seconds, Dr. Roth said, “I think this should be enough time. Very well.” He took out his device again and tapped the screen five times in multiple places. “Relax, Rowen. Everything will go dark. Are you ready?” He put on that grandfatherly smile again.

Mild anger constricted Rowan’s muscles as he stared him down. That same familiar, distant coldness lapped at his spine. “I’m okay.”

Dr. Roth tapped once more, and the world actually faded to black to Rowan’s astonishment. Maybe it was a remote for a tranquilizer to activate.

* * *

September 4th, 2134

Rowan opened his eyes and took in the sight of an unfamiliar room. White walls, white ceiling, white floors. Everything was white except for pulled, gray curtains, a small, potted fern sitting in the corner, and the shiny metal of various medical machines and monitors. Several cords ran from a nearby cylindrical machine, taped to Rowan’s forehead, chest, arms, and legs. He wore some kind of loose, white gown, tucked into a single-sized bed. One machine beeped regularly and another displayed lines which Rowan assumed to monitor different electric systems in his body.

“Rowan, are you awake?” his mother’s voice said from the left. He hadn’t noticed her sitting behind and so close.

Auburn hair, hazel eyes, fit physique, and small dimples on each cheek. Definitely his mother. Maybe Roth hadn’t been entirely dishonest. “I’m—” His throat was rough and hoarse.

His mother’s hand took his. “It’s okay. Don’t talk.”

Rowan nodded. He had nodded at least ten times in the past twenty minutes, but nodding was a sufficient means of communication. Simple and direct. He didn’t have much to say anyway. It was just his mother.

“I’m so sorry Row.” Her face fell. Sadness. “It was all my fault for dragging us to that reserve. I just wanted to—” She shook her head and sighed.

Roth and his father walked in. He indeed looked like his father. So Roth had been telling the truth about both his parents. But what was he hiding? He was definitely hiding something. Rowan was sure it.

“Hey Row,” his father quipped and took a seat next to Rowan’s mother. “We made it out alive.”

Rowan nodded yet again and pointed to his throat when his father raised a brow. The man deserved at least some respect or fake respect. Or maybe no respect at all. How could he not have thought to bring food and water? The man had to be special.

“Mmmm, indeed,” Roth said. He carried a black, plastic clipboard, writing as he sat on a chair opposite to Rowan’s parents. “Just one last checkup.” He eyed a few of the machines for a moment before continuing his scribble.

The trio waited until the doctor finished his paperwork and checkup on Rowan’s health. He tapped a few buttons on the nearest machine and recorded a couple of figures on another, then took out a small flashlight and shone it into Rowan’s eyes. After a handful of other typical examinations, Roth clapped his hands together. “You’re a very healthy and lucky young lad!” He patted Rowan’s shoulder twice and began removing the taped cords, a bit unceremoniously.

Rowan watched Roth’s sly act down to every minute facial expression and shuffle. His parents must’ve been deceived; however, he wasn’t as dull. Whatever the doctor was up to wasn’t good else he wouldn’t have bothered to lie about it in the simulation. It had to be something either illegal or borderline.

But what? The quandary invoked a seeping hate for the doctor which Rowan couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Damn the memory loss. Perhaps he should speak up this instant. Though knowing his idiot parents, they’d brush him off and take the word of the good doctor.

It was still worth a try. Rowan pointed to his throat, annoyance rising. “Wa— ter.” The pressure in his veins built to a hot ache in his skull. His parents couldn’t be this stupid.

Roth looked at him and winced. “Sorry lad. It didn’t cross my mind that your throat might be parched. Doctors aren’t infallible after all.”

Damn him! He’d planned this.

A jet of rage ruptured in Rowan’s stomach, zipped up his jugular in heavy wallops of his rising pulse. For a brief second, he thought his right hand still held that knife. Oh, he wanted that knife this moment. The good doctor would definitely talk then with a little violent persuasion.

His dad rubbed his arm. “It’s alright, Row. Just signed your discharge papers. We’ll be out of here before you know it.” He leaned forward and guided Rowan to sit up on the bed.

Rowan coughed and palmed the stiff bed. Every muscle ached and burned under the exertion. He must’ve been unconscious for weeks if not months under the watch of Roth. His veins simmered and that weird chill returned to his spine. He vaguely remembered having felt this sensation before the encounter with the wolves… so it probably wasn’t something Roth had done to him.

“Are you alright, Row?” his mother asked, squeezing his hand. “You look very blank.”

He gave her two nods and a smile. “Ti— red.”

His mother smiled back, satisfied with his response. What a dumb woman. It was too easy to keep her and his father under his thumb. The shallow acting was all it took. No wonder he hadn’t felt any real worry for them.

“Indeed,” Roth said. “You’ve been out for almost two months now.” He strode over to the cabinet and fetched a pair of crutches.

Two months—enough time for Roth to have done virtually anything to his body. Rowan fought an urge to glare while his parents helped him off the bed.

The second his feet touched the ground, the room spun. His legs couldn’t handle the weight. Of course, they couldn’t. They’d atrophied in his coma. It was simple biology, and it had escaped a biologist mother. So useful she was.

“Gotcha, Row.” His actually useful father caught him as he tumbled forward, then guided him onto his crutches. His armpits strained in the weight.

Roth clapped his hands together like a dumb person again. It was all an act. “Alright, Rowan my lad. I’ll be seeing you soon again for your weekly checkup, but in the meantime, stay out of the woods and get some exercise when you can walk.” He chuckled and patted Rowan’s back. That bastard.

Rowan grumbled under his breath and let his parents guide him out of the hospital.