Several Years Earlier...

  John remembered. He wasn't quite sure what he was remembering, only that he was. The Voice in his head would show him pictures, and then he would know these things as truth; as his past. He already knew about sensations. John had felt pain and cold, but also warmth and comfort. Now it was time to learn new things.

  John moved his legs gently against the fluid that held him, close and tight, like a mother's embrace. Or what he thought that might feel like. The Voice in his head had told him he had a mother, and a father. But it had not given them names or clear faces. Just that they existed, so that he could.

  The cable that came out of the back of his neck itched every time the Voice spoke new things into his head. He hated the sensation, unable to scratch the uncomfortable feeling away. But that itch was always proceeded by new information. It told him that he was male, that he had a wife, a son and a daughter. They were his family and he loved them. When he thought about what they were called, the way that the Voice called him John, it had stopped for a moment, the memory freezing. Suddenly, he knew. His wife was Denise. His son was Colin. His daugther, Judy.

  They were happy, living in their suburban townhome. John had just been promoted to Detective, the Voice told him. His job with the Toronto Police Services was prestigious, and he was quite skilled. When he thought about what skills, the Voice froze again, and suddenly his muscles tingled with memories just like his mind did. He knew how to run, to shoot a gun. He knew how to collect and process evidence. John knew he could investigate cases, and solve them with ease. The Voice told him, he had been in the miltary before that and he had learned how to fight, how to kill.

  He did not know how he knew, but he knew that he did.

  The days would pass, and John would enjoy floating in his fluid, with child-like wonder. When the Voice came, it told him all about the world, what was in it and what his role would be. He learned to be curious and to be angry. He started to gain political and religious idealogies. And then he didn't have those anymore.

  Sometimes, when the lights went out in his home, it was easier for him to see through the liquid. He could see the blue light of screens reflected on the white floor. John knew he was supposed to sleep when the lights were off, but like a curious child, he would peek. And sometimes, John wasn't John at all.

  His eyes would be open, and a memory that was not his would play like a movie in the back of his mind. He saw a big Cathedral, set in a modern time. He saw the faces of people who were important to him; young adults who were training hard. He knew his friend and colleague, Gideon, who was in charge. He also knew the boy they had taken in off the street, the one that started slicking back his messy brown hair to impress a girl. This memory would take him through much of this time in the Cathedral, and John would watch with interest as this version of him read books and taught his knowledge to others.

  But every once and a while, there would be a memory that scared him. He wished the Voice would come to take it away, but the Voice was not supplying this memory.

  He would be in a large room, filled with crates and there was a circle on the floor, glowing with light. He would cut his hand and the blonde teen in the center would float off the ground, a glistening golden sword appearing in his hand. And then he would strike, and John knew pain in those memories. Until that version of him succumbed to his wounds. In this way, John also knew death; He had experienced this version of himself perish to this golden blade.

  Sometimes, when he was awake during the day, the people on the outside of his home would acknowledge him. They would point, or wave lights at him. One person would tap-tap on the glass. This made John not feel so alone, isolated as he was in the glass pod. There was a woman who came often, not one of the regulars, but a vistor. She had a badge that had letters on it. If John squinted hard enough, he thought he could see NHPS. When he asked the Voice what it meant, it did not answer him.

  The woman had warm skin and dark hair. She seemed strong and confident, where as some of the others in the long white coats seemed hunched and skittish. John liked when she visited, because she would acknowledge him, floating in his tube.

  The day the men in the black outfits came, John was already anxious. The Voice had not spoken to him in some time, and his mind had revisited old memories put into his head. He relived the same things over and over, until they felt like they had happened. He knew those things to be real: his family, his job, his past.

  A stray bullet impacted his glass tube, causing the fluid to begin leaking out. John panicked, thrashing as much as he could, hoping someone would come help him. His heart raced as the sound of bullets whizzing filled the room. These noises were louder with the glass shattered; the lights were brighter without the green fluid that was leaking out.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It startled John when he felt the cable in the back of his neck dislodge. It was even more disturbing when the tube that had always been in his throat, feeding him, helping him breathe, was likewise torn free. John stumbled out of the tube, naked and afraid as a newborn, laying in the blood that was pooling on the white floor. With his new eyes adjusting, John saw that all the people in the white coats were dead. The people in the black tactical outfits remained. Those were the ones who meant to hurt him.

  The one closest to him seemed surprised by his presence. John reached out with a shaky hand, unsure. He knew words, but his mouth had never had to speak them. He gurgled helplessly. The man in the uniform pointed his gun at John, and he could feel himself recoil. He understood the gun and what it could do.

  As the other men gathered around John, they spoke quietly, but never lowered their weapons. Scared and alone, John tried to reach out again, grabbing at the pant leg of the nearst solider.

  Yes, solider made sense. They were like him. Why couldn't they see that?

  The soldier fired a warning shot into the ground and John recoiled, his shout growing louder as his vocal chords adjusted. The fear of death formed from the memories of his other life, the one in the big Cathedral, and it crept through him like veins of ice.

  That icy fear, mixed with the burning anger that they would not acknowledge him as a person as they discussed what to do with him, mingled somewhere deep, somewhere more ancient than this form.

  Pale grey tentacles lashed out, grasping, probing, tearing at everyone within reach. John could feel his body moving quickly, although he was unaware that he willed it so. He felt strong and not like a frail, soggy thing on the floor. Razor teeth chewed into sinew and bone. Organs were torn and strewn. He could hear the gunfire and cries of despair, but they seemed so distant now.

  "Help! Somebody help me!" One of them cried, before being torn in two, each part of his body being flung by gore-slicked tentacles. A few of the others used a tiny card to get out of the room and into the hallway, so John followed. He felt his mouth unhinge, wildly so.

  "Help! Help me. Somebody Help Me!" The mimicked sound of their dying comrade left his throat. But it sounded wrong. It sounded foreign when it passed his lipless face. He lunged forward, eviserating those who remained.

  When there was no longer a threat, he returned to being cold, soggy, naked John. Sitting on the ground in a pool of blood and guts. It scared him, terrified him. He looked into the glass displays, the corpses of monsters inside. But also the reflection of himself, faintly outlined. The emaciated grey form, lamprey teeth and tentacles stalked him, mirroring his movements. John cried out, feeling awful about what had happened. This thing that he saw as his reflection was horrific.

  "Hel...p. Help...me?" He felt his throat tighten and release the words. Almost choking on them, he practised.

  "Help! Somebody help me." He cried out, alone in the hallway.

  John groped across the ground, trying to find something to give him warmth. He settled on the blood stained clothes of some of the soldiers. First taking pants, then a shirt, boots. When he stood finally, holding the wall for support, he tried walking.

  He stumbled a few times, like a baby deer, but his memories told him he knew this. His muscles knew.

  "Help somebody!" He tried again, this time, with more inflection.

  He moved to the locked door, slamming his hands on it. Then he remembered the tiny card that had been used to open the door to the lab. John knelt and dug through the viscera of the nearest soldier. Eventually, he was able to find one labelled SGT. J. CALLUM.

  The door beeped open and suddenly John was assaulted with the smell of fresh air. He took his first deep breath and walked up the stairs out from under the marker on Partridge Island.

  John stood on the edge of the beach, taking in the sight of the water. He was careful not to get too close, as everytime he looked at his reflection, the scary grey thing was waiting for him. Stalking him. A reminder that he felt guilty for killing all those soldiers, men like himself. But something inside him took relief in his new found freedom. His life was no longer memories, but what he could make of it. Without the guidance of the Voice, he would have to find his own way.

  John sat in the sand, covered in blood, trying to figure out how to get off the island. There was a haphazard path made of strewn rocks, but he didn't want to risk hurting himself and falling into the water, which proved to be dark and full of the creature, the reflection of his darker self. Instead, he continued to practise talking out loud, gradually becoming more confident and projecting louder, further.

  "Help! Somebody please help!" He shouted at the water.

  "Is someone there?" A voice called back in a deep baritone. The sound was pleasing to John, so he repeated his call.

  A small fishing boat with a motor and a white flag with red symbols pulled up to the shore. A large man, with dark braided hair jumped out of the boat and rushed to John's side. He reminded him of the woman with the NHPS badge and John felt safe.

  "Oh jeez buddy, are you hurt?" The big man asked. John shook his head. The man went back to his boat and came back with a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders.

  "You shouldn't be out here, let me get you back to the main land. My name is George." He said.

  "John." John told him, feeling the new words of his name, spoken aloud. "John Callum."