'Til Theft Do Us Part: Part I

(The scenes of this story are in a curated order, not a chronological one.)

DREAM INTERFACE RESEARCH ETHICS BOARD

Guidelines for Shared Dream Observation, Entry, and Interpretation

Revision 12.4 — Approved

I. STATEMENT OF INTENT

The purpose of shared dream research is to better understand the role of preconscious memory formation, future-oriented cognition, and relational imprinting in human psychological development.

Dream Interface technology does not create memories, desires, or outcomes.

It merely reveals existing structures.

Participation in research does not alter an individual’s autonomy.

#

Kitchen. Night. One light left on because neither of them wants to be the one to turn it off.

“Can I ask you something?” Astrid says.

Damien looks up from the sink. “You already are.”

She doesn’t smile. “This isn’t small.”

He dries his hands slowly. “Okay.”

“Have you ever altered my memory?”

Plop. No tremor. She surprises herself with that.

Damien flinches. “That’s a loaded question.”

“So is that a, yes?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Of course not.”

Astrid watches his face, not listening to the answer so much as the speed and texture of the sound.

“You work with memory,” she says. “Dream memory. Integration. Reconciliation.”

“I research it,” he corrects.

“You oversee teams that do more than research.”

“They observe,” he says. “They contextualize.”

She nods, conceding only an inch of the ledge. “Have you ever contextualized me?”

He exhales. “Where is this coming from?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Damien turns away, reaching for a glass. He fills it with water but doesn’t drink. “You’ve been reading things you shouldn’t.”

“I’ve been remembering things I can’t place.”

“That happens,” he says gently. “Especially with people who are imaginative.”

Astrid works her jaw. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn me into a case study.”

Damien looks genuinely hurt. “I would never experiment on you.”

“Then swear it,” she says.

He hesitates.

Astrid feels the heat rise — familiar.

“Have you ever adjusted my recall?” she asks. “Smoothed something. Dampened something. Removed access.”

“I have never changed who you are,” Damien says carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He sets the glass down. “You’re safe,” he says. “You’re stable. You’re happy.”

“That’s not proof, Damien.” she snaps. “That’s marketing.”

He flinches again. “You’re being unfair.”

“Then be clear,” she says. “Have you ever been inside one of my dreams?”

Silence.

The refrigerator clicks. A car passes outside.

Damien’s voice is calmer, quieter when he speaks. “Everyone has overlapping dream environments.”

“Damien.”

“It’s part of how we connect,” he continues. “How we anticipate each other.”

“Damien,” she repeats, sharper. “Have you ever seen something in my dreams that you didn’t like?”

He closes his eyes.

“I’ve seen things that scared me,” he says.

Astrid’s chest tightens. “About me?”

“About losing you.”

She laughs, short and humorless. “You don’t get to frame this as romance.”

“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m framing it as care.”

“Care doesn’t require access.”

“Neither does trust,” he counters.

She steps back, eyes searching him, for anything that feels...false. Practiced.

“Is there anything,” she asks slowly, “that I don’t remember because you decided I shouldn’t?”

Damien looks at her like a coveted object he’s dropped and cracked.

“You remember everything you need to,” he says.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s true.”

She shakes her head. “I feel like there’s a room in my mind I keep walking past. And every time I reach for the handle—”

“Something interrupts,” he says.

The silence stretches until it becomes tension. Strained.

Astrid steps away from him, heart pounding, heat crawling up her spine.

“If I find out you touched me without my consent,” she says, “I won’t forgive you.”

II. DEFINITIONS

Key Moment

A psychologically inevitable event encoded outside linear memory, often experienced as déjà vu, recurring dream imagery, or emotional recognition without context.

#

The room is dim by design. Softened at all corners.

Astrid lies back in a reclined chair, a thin mesh cap settling over her hair. The material is cool, almost damp. A white uniform adjusts it with practiced care, fingers never lingering long enough to be personal.

“Baseline mapping only,” the technician says. “No entry. Just observation.”

Astrid nods, eyes already half-closed.

“Think of it as listening to yourself think,” the woman continues. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s reassuring,” Astrid mumbles.

A quiet smile. “Most people find it is.”

There’s a faint ping as the system comes online.

“Before we begin,” the woman says, “I need to ask a few questions.”

Astrid opens her eyes again.

“Do you have any recurring dreams?”

“Yes.”

“Do they involve places you’ve never been?”

“Yes.”

“Do they involve people you don’t recognize?”

Astrid hesitates. “I think so.”

“That’s okay,” the woman says, her tone cradling. “Uncertainty is common.”

She taps her tablet.

“When you think about your future, does anything ever feel…in your face but off limits?”

Astrid frowns. “How do you mean?”

“Like a room you always see but never enter,” the woman says. “But you know exactly where the door is.”

Astrid’s throat constricts. “Yes.”

The woman doesn’t react. She simply notes something down.

“We’re going to let your mind drift naturally,” she says. “If you see anything, just describe it. There’s no, right method, wrong answer, or ‘this way is better,’ follow your own feelings."

Astrid exhales. The chair seems to shift her weight, redistributing it until she feels lighter than she should.

The ceiling blurs.

At first there’s abstractness. Blended color. Motion without meaning.

“Tell me when something distills,” the woman says.

A pause.

“There’s… a table,” Astrid says slowly. “Wood. Warmth. There’s light on it. Like late afternoon.”

“Good,” the woman says. “Anyone with you?”

“I don’t see anyone.”

A pause.

“I feel like I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For someone to arrive.”

The woman’s stylus stills, just for a second.

“Do you feel anxious?” she asks.

“No,” Astrid says. “Calm. Like this has already happened.”

“Already happened,” the woman repeats softly.

“Yes. Or like it’s… something I’ve seen before.”

“In a dream?”

Astrid swallows. “Yes, but, it feels like a memory.”

Trickling silence, careful and controlled.

“Do you recognize the person you’re waiting for?”

Astrid shakes her head, eyes still closed. “No. But I trust him.”

“Him?”

“Yes.” A warmth spreads through her chest at the admission. Unexpectedly.

“He feels kind,” she adds. “Room temperature. Like he doesn’t need to convince me of anything.”

“Can you see his face?” the woman asks.

Astrid tries. The image resists. The blur intensifies.

“No,” she says. “It’s like… the space where a face should be.”

“That’s fine,” the woman says. “Sometimes the mind protects what it values.”

Astrid’s brow furrows. “From what?”

The woman doesn’t answer, at first. “The, not always gentle, touch of awareness.”

She adjusts. “If this person spoke, what would you expect them to say?”

Astrid’s lips part before she can stop herself.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Something subtly intrudes. Like blood entering water. Just enough to notice. Impurity.

“That’s very good,” the woman says, her voice carefully neutral again. “You’re doing very well.”

Astrid floats there for a moment longer, suspended in a feeling that has no narrative yet. No context. Just texture.

And a growing presence. Swarming. Discoloring. Corrupting.

Then the ceiling comes back into focus.

The room sharpens.

The woman removes the mesh cap.

“That’s all for today,” she says. “Baseline complete.”

Astrid sits up slowly, disoriented. “That was it?”

“Yes.”

Astrid swings her legs over the side of the chair. “Did you… see anything interesting?”

The woman glances at her tablet. Then back at Astrid.

“We saw what we needed to,” she says.

Influence

Any action that meaningfully redirects, delays, or prevents a Key Moment.

Influence is strictly prohibited.

#

"You're elevated." The voice is masculine. Upbeat.

Astrid shifts in her chair, linen rubbing against her skin. "I'm fine," she says into the earpiece, rubbing her thumb into the soft grooves of her palm like she's checking for traction.

"Breathe, remember where you are."

"I know where I am."

"Then say it."

She closes her eyes. "I'm a stone on the water," she whispers. "I'm a stone on the water."

The phrase slips away. Heat swells instead. Pressure.

"Describe your surroundings."

Astrid opens her eyes. Candlelight. Polished wood. A long communal table. Laughter layered in the background.

Her gaze drops.

A wine bottle, half-full. Her fingers clenched around the neck.

"Everyone's staring at me," she says.

There's a momentary silence in her ear. Then, faint delight. "That's because you've just crushed your wine glass with your bare hands."

Only then does she feel it. Warmth spilling over her knuckles. Red lines slowly tracing their way toward her wrist.

She blinks. "That's inconvenient."

"Your stress response is manifesting physically," the voice says. "You're safe. You're doing well."

"I'm not angry."

Her body betrays her with a sharp, involuntary jolt. The table rattles.

"Vitals say otherwise. Heart rate spike. Cortisol surge. Not uncommon for first-time participants."

Astrid looks up.

Every face nearby has frozen. A circle of attention she did not consent to.

"What are you all looking at?" she snaps, standing fast. "Is this part of it? Am I missing a cue?"

No one answers.

"Because if you're waiting for direction," she continues through heavy breathing. "Well here it is—fuck off!

Silence. Tense and startled.

Astrid grabs the wine bottle, claps her blood-slick hands together once.

"Action!"

Then she sits.

Inhales.

Exhales.

"Where did that come from?" she asks quietly.

"Mmm. Emotional bleed-through," the voice says. "Totally normal. You are well within safe parameters."

Around her, the moment dissolves. Conversations resume. Chairs scrape. Glasses refill. The world forgives her instantly.

Someone steps into the space beside her.

"Hey," a man says gently. "Are you alright?"

Astrid looks up at him. He's already holding a napkin, folded thick. Concern softens his sharp features.

"I—" She glances at her hand, then back at him. I think I broke something."

He winces in sympathy. "That looks painful. I can grab some proper towels. Maybe a first-aid kit."

"That would be—thank you."

He smiles, brief and easy. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

She watches him thread through the tables, momentarily lighter. The heat in her chest eases, just a bit.

"Astrid," the voice says. "If you need to ground yourself, try taking some shallow breaths."

She nods absently, eyes still tracking him.

Minutes pass.

The chair he vacated remains empty.

She scans the bar. The hallway. The bathroom corridor.

Nothing.

Her pulse quickens. "Where did he go?"

"Hmm. There's no data on his whereabouts. His signal is...gone."

"That's not possible," Astrid whispers. "He was just here."

Distortion.

"Astrid...Astrid can you hear me?"

The scene skips like a bad frame rate.

"I'm pulling you out."