Ian Stewart
After the first successful transfer, technicians considered the assortment of partial memories that resisted upload. They were scents disconnected from origin, voices untethered from familiarity, and unrealized dreams from long, long ago.
A lifetime was recorded, reformatted, categorized, and tidily saved for future reference.
But fragments remained.
“Do we delete them?” one asked.
“Absolutely not. They’re all important, right?” another said.
“No—if they were, they’d have been uploaded. That’s just clutter,” a third argued.
They ultimately agreed to keep the data, but to store it locally. It was left to collect digital dust—slowly forgotten like all it contained.
“Hang on!” I shouted. Joey was still in the other room and making an absolute mess of it. I winced as something shattered.
My fingers stuck to the pages of the user guide and I had to pry them off as I flipped through, leaving behind smudgy fingerprints. It wasn’t my blood, but that didn’t make me feel much better.
“‘Welcome to your new life of adventure,’” I read aloud. “‘Getting Started, Lunar Calendars, Jewelry to Avoid…’” I heard Joey scream, inhuman and not a bit reassuring. “Yeah, I hear you buddy—ah! Found it! ‘Troubleshooting: We hope you are satisfied.” Another crash shook the walls. It sounded like a door falling off its hinges. “‘However, shapeshifting can be unsettling and results may vary. If you are unsatisfied with your decision, you have options.’ Great! Hear that, Joey? Options!”
Something crashed down the hallway, slamming from wall to wall like the world’s scariest game of Pong.
“‘You may consider relocating to a planet with a different or smaller moon.’ What?” I flipped to the last page, which was blank aside from the company’s mocking, toothy logo. “Well. That’s not helpful at all.” Something heavy slammed against the door. “Wait wait wait—there’s a number! It says to call if we’re still unsatisfied. We’re unsatisfied, right?” Another sickening thud and a splintered crack. “Let’s call.” The door exploded inward, replaced with a grotesque mass of bloodied fur and sharp ends. “Hey Joey,” I whimpered. “Haven’t seen my phone, have you?”