The Memory Dealer

In District 9, memories were just another product.

You could buy a vacation you never took, a lover you never met, a childhood free of bruises and cigarette smoke. Just a visit to a dealer and a few hours in the chair, and your brain would believe it all.

Legally, it was forbidden. Morally, it was complicated.

But for Iris Kade, it was survival.

She hadn’t left her apartment in three weeks. The blackout curtains hadn’t moved since Monday. The world outside buzzed with filtered optimism—fake smiles and neon skies—but inside her head, the fog was endless.

Her therapist called it treatment-resistant depression. Iris called it living with broken software.

She tried everything: pills, brain reconditioning, artificial sunlight.

Nothing stuck.

Until the first memory.

It had been small—just a 15-second clip of laughter under a streetlamp, arms around a warm body, the smell of cinnamon and snow in the air. The dealer had warned her: “You’ll remember it like it’s yours. Even if it never happened.”

She didn’t care.

For those 15 seconds, she felt something. Joy. Safety. A sliver of light in the static.

So she went back.

By her fifth visit, she had over two dozen implanted memories: a birthday party at the beach, a dog she never owned, a dance recital she never attended. Some were blurry around the edges, like dreams half-remembered. But others were crystal clear.

“I just want to feel real,” she told the dealer once.

He didn’t reply. Just adjusted her neural pad and charged extra for clarity.

Then came Memory File #27.

She didn’t ask for it. Didn’t even choose it.

But when she woke up from the implant session, it was burned into her mind.

A man, late 30s, standing in a sterile apartment. He was crying, shaking. Across from him was a woman—young, terrified, bleeding from the temple.

And then, the flash of steel.

The scream.

The blood.

Iris shot up from the chair, gasping.

“What the hell was that?” she asked the dealer.

He blinked, confused. “That wasn’t yours. That file was supposed to be wiped.”

“Wiped? That wasn’t a fantasy. That was a murder.”

He reached for a button on the console. “You didn’t see anything.”

Iris bolted.

Back in her apartment, the memory replayed again and again. Not as a nightmare, but like a video loop. It didn’t fade. It grew sharper. She could now hear the woman’s voice—pleading, calling someone named "Kara." She saw the logo on the knife: VantaCorp.

Iris knew that name. VantaCorp was a biotech conglomerate. They made memory gear, military software… and rumor had it, they ran black-site experiments.

She dug deeper.

The man from the memory was Dr. Leo Myles, a former neuroscientist at VantaCorp who vanished four months ago. Official cause: suicide.

No body. No press.

The woman’s face wasn’t in any government registry. But Iris cross-referenced her image with archived traffic cams. She found one. A week before Leo’s disappearance. The woman was walking into a private building owned by VantaCorp.

The date on the footage?

One day before the murder.

Iris knew too much.

She started getting messages. First anonymous texts:

“You’re experiencing memory overlap. Seek help.”

Then calls with silence on the other end.

One night, she returned home to find her door cracked open. Nothing stolen. Nothing moved. Except for one thing:

Her memory deck had been wiped.

All but one file.

#27.

She took it public.

Posted the footage to a secure darknet channel. Tagged known whistleblowers. Embedded metadata showing the neural signature matched Dr. Myles' recorded brainwave ID.

The next day, two things happened:

VantaCorp issued a statement denying everything.

The dealer turned up dead.

Iris ran.

She changed identities, burned accounts, lived offline.

But the memory didn’t leave.

She couldn’t delete it. Couldn’t forget.

Because deep down, it wasn’t just a memory anymore.

It had grown roots. Changed her. Given her something real—purpose.

Months later, another message arrived.

An untraceable inbox. No name.

“She was my sister. Her name was Kara. Thank you for remembering what they tried to erase. You’re not alone.”

Attached was another memory file.

Labeled #28.

Iris stared at the file for a long time.

Then, slowly, she slid the neural pad over her temple.

“Let’s remember everything,” she whispered.

And hit play. (by azmat)