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The hum of air units and other systems kicking on spreads out through the walls. Through the floor. How deep does this place go?

Ero’s boots clack metallically on the walkway of the hall through the other door. Lights flicker on along the walk as it splits ahead. The whole place seems industrial. Almost bunker-like.

In either direction the split in the hallway drops several steps, turning again several feet along. Ero nods for me to take the right. He goes left.

Electric buzz fills the walls, clicking periodically as more mechanisms spring to life.

“Psst.” The noise comes from across a wide-open space between the walkways. I see Ero. Each walkway is lined by railing, progressing the same direction about the width of the house apart. Suspended. Above what?

Both paths lead to the same glass room in the middle. More bridgeways extend beyond that.

We enter the chamber in the center from opposite doors, unease hanging in the air like toxic fumes.

Doesn’t help that this place is straight up MK Ultra-level creepy. Reminds me of military labs from the movies.

“Computers. Monitors.”

“Remind you of anywhere?”

“Yeah.” Ero’s jaw clenches.

Marrakesh. The palace basement.

A series of screens line the panel, all labeled. Living room. Kitchen. Patio. Curiosity gets the better of me. I click the red button under the first. The monitor fuzzes, clears.

“Should I…” Ero points.

Big red button over black and yellow stripes. That’s never a good sign.

“Fuck it.” We hammer the plunger down together.

And gawk at the scene below us. Massive lockdown gates retract into the walls, lights pop on.

Revealing an exact replica of the house above us.

Down to the pool outside and a backdrop of the surrounding countryside.

A tinted glass ceiling caps the entire structure, no doubt allowing us to see down into the model home without anyone below seeing what lies above.

Where the house above was mostly emptied, this one is fully furnished. Decorated.

All of it is horribly, sickeningly familiar.

“What…?” It’s a rhetorical exclamation. This is exactly what I think it is.

“Circe. There are videos. Hundreds.” He scrolls through a file on the center console, a dated computer. “These date back four years. Look at some of these: Introduction into Family Environment , Wedding Simulation , Child A First Steps .”

It gets worse as he reads on.

“Play one of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Play that one, there.” The one labeled Replacement Child B .

Our view overlooks a bedroom. The master, two bodies sleeping in the bed. It cuts to another room. A child’s bedroom, outfitted with a crib and a small bed. Both are occupied with small sleeping forms. The rest of the house cycles through before a voice speaks over the recording.

Ananke’s voice.

“Subjects are responding well to phase three of the simulation. The initial resistance of memory implantation seems to have been resolved with electroshock, hallucinogens, and sequence immersion. Much like their wedding memories, we only needed to put them through the motions of the key moment, such as placing the rings on each other’s fingers, while induced into a hypno-static state.

Prior conditioning to code words remain effective for simple suggestions and commands. ”

Video cuts back to the children’s room. Two men stride into the room, scooping up the infant and the toddler. Another two men enter as the first two leave, replacing them with older children.

My heart races, pounding anxiously.

“Consolidating time presents a hurdle when attempting to rewrite large sections of a subject’s life.

We hope the same methods will work by inducing the suggestive and dissociated state during REM sleep.

The parent subjects will wake, follow the prescribed routine with the older versions of their children.

My hypothesis is that their minds will fill in the gaps. ”

Horror does not even begin to describe the feeling as Ero and I watch ourselves rise. Feed the kids.

Other videos are much the same through the first few months.

Day after day of our lives. Laid out and recorded. Some days we’re put through the same routine repeatedly, altering details to test retention. It’s a nightmare.

More so because some of the scenes resonate, bringing back a flash of the actual event in my mind. Even worse, most of them don’t. As if I was not even there. Or they truly recorded over my brain again and again.

Skipping ahead to a file labeled Phase 2 , the videos fall into a linear sequence.

Six months in, they stopped applying new variables.

A year later, we’ve lived through birthdays, first steps for Eva, Theo’s first lost tooth.

Almost hypnotically we jump from one to the next until we’re both numb.

My eyes burn from crying. Ero’s shoulders slump.

“Stop. Just stop,” I mumble.

He closes the player, his chest heaving slightly. Looks like he might have a panic attack.

“They were real. Our kids. Our family.”

“And completely fake at the same time.” Part of me longs to hold Ero, to lose myself in his embrace. Another part of me feels sullied, untouchable. “Whose kids were they?”

Ero only shakes his head.

Taking a breath, he opens the last file. Only one video appears in the directory.

Ananke sits in this same room, facing the camera. Behind her, the outlines of the walls below are limned in red light, the rooms dark.

“After three years and countless failures, I have concluded experiments regarding memory implantation. This research has produced incredible results. In the future, we may be able to completely overhaul someone’s life and replace it with new experiences.

Primary uses would focus on politicians, senators, presidents.

“Unfortunately, overwriting does not meet the needs of my other project. The good news is that soldiers are much simpler to program. More to come.

“As far as the subjects go, Fiero responded well to unlocking aspects of personality he previously lacked or neglected. Circe is by far the most malleable subject. No surprise there. I have no doubt that my therapy sessions with her as a child paved the way.

“In conclusion, Circe and Fiero have been reverted to a version of themselves prior to the family simulation. They will need to be monitored for brain damage, split personalities, etc. Likely, there will be residual imagery from their time here. I may be able to use that to my advantage.

“For now, Diamante will be reset following his injuries in Russia. Circe will resume her duties with Pantheon working for ‘Ananke’ and recruit the young man.”

Fucking. What.

I’m about to flip out and start smashing things in denial. I want to put something through a window. Burn this disgusting place to the ground.

But Ero tenses suddenly, glancing at another screen I barely noticed before. Probably because most of the screen is black. Only one little box shows an image of the front porch of the house upstairs. Where Dom is waving up at the camera with both hands.

“Honey. We have a guest.”

“Not funny.” Then why am I laughing? Hysterically.

We rush back across the gangway, up the stairs, slipping through the house. Too late, I notice Dom’s expression as I step outside. And the blood leaking down his forehead from a cut.

“Tried to warn you…” Dom grumbles.

“Look what that got you, Domenico.”