Oscar stared eagerly at the condemned man. In four minutes, Oscar would know all the man’s secrets; in five, he would kill him.
Oscar—state-sanctioned psychic executioner—lifted his hands like a maestro preparing to conduct a symphony. His fingertips brushed the condemned man’s temples, wicking memory. He picked his way carefully through the crosshatch of remembrances until...
Woven seamlessly into the organic quilt of true memory were those Oscar had fabricated and stitched carefully into place.
The moon reflected in a silver blade.
An ocean of blood.
Oscar wanted the man to unremember, to know the truth before the end. He tugged at a seam, unraveling the memory.
The condemned man’s hands shot up, clamping Oscar’s head like a vice. Oscar screamed—False! All of them!—as a geyser of unearthed memories flooded his mind. Behind the patchwork of invented memory, inhabited by a wailing populace of countless wronged souls, was a graveyard of rotting remembrance. Murderer-to-murderer, psychic-to-psychic, they lived each other's confession.
The room trembled and roared as psychic shockwaves passed between Oscar and the condemned man. In time, both men crumpled lifelessly to the ground—their lives and deeds forever lost in unremembered memory.