The Lost Memory: Prologue

The Lost Memory

Hey everyone, thanks so much for getting The Last Memory Facebook page to 50 likes. As promised, here is a small snippet of the second book, granted while it is the unedited version it should still give you an idea of where things are going in book two. I hope you enjoy it, and stay tuned for more information on The Lost Memory–due out this spring (fingers crossed).

Prologue

 

It hits him like a crashing wave, and suddenly he is surrounded. The oppressive heel of the very thing he fought to push away so many centuries ago presses his skull against the concrete.

The others tried to hold it in their hands, but not him. Oh no, he rejected it. He spent decades siphoning every drop of those terrible mortal desires from his being and embraced the power inside him. He could never experience those paltry joys and had easily cast them aside. And yet, here it is—groping at his mind with wanting tendrils, perverting his grasp on reality.

He stumbles to the pavement between Fifth Avenue and Martin Luther King Boulevard. His hands spark against the cool pavement.

Cool, is that what it is?

The feeling gnaws painfully against his bare hands. He shudders and a lamp post explodes. The sound is a screaming contradiction to his memory, and he flinches away from the booming assault.

He questions his path for a moment. His very existence was governed by a set of precise calculations, and this is definitely not part of the program. Unless… unless something has changed.

He reaches toward the familiar line, stretching his consciousness out towards home.

It feels empty.

He grasps at the connection and pulls, but is only greeted with slack.

Then it must be true. His maker is no more and this onslaught of sensitivity is proof. An azure spark spiders its way up his arm. The dancing light is a bright sun—too intense to look into.

He climbs to his feet, dragging himself into a dark alley. The lamp’s glare has always caused him irritation, but never like this. These beaming predators drill into his eyes and tear at his brain with chipped nails.

As he slides his tattered hood over his face, another thought dawns on him. If the master is gone, than what becomes of the puppet? Surely there is no more need to record history. Does one continue to collect data even when there is no one to receive it? The steadfast reality he clung to for so long is falling apart around him. What is a machine with no directive? The answer seems too clear: obsolete.

Heat rises in his colorless face along with something altogether different. He feels… hot and uncertain. The very air around him is heavy. He gasps for a breath and a wave of electricity bubbles under flesh.

He lurches forward, clutching at his ribs as the stinging pulse threatens to tear him apart. A metallic wail erupts into the air as the wave of electricity cuts through his skin and rocks the city street. Car alarms scream into the night and the street lights flicker wildly in silent laughter. The world itself is attacking him.

The once master of technology slides down the gritty brick wall. He curls into a tight ball like an unborn son of man. Blood pools around his fingertips. Dogs howl in the distance. A last siren echoes into the still night.

Lojo claws at his face, trying to remove the nagging heat from underneath. The futility is only matched by the foreboding sense of anxiety growing beneath his skull.

What is a servant to do when there is no one to serve? What do they believe when the very foundation they live by is reduced to nothing more than lies and rubble? Where do they go when everything is lost?

Each thought crashes against the shores of his mind in painful waves. All the while, the world sends its immaterial soldiers into battle against his new found fragility. Another agonizing ripple of electricity tears through him, and he slowly rocks in steady rhythm.

He tries to stop and approach these horrors logically, the way he always has. But there is only one thing the tortured warrior truly understands at this singular moment, and that is fear.

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