Echoes in the dark

The abandoned subway tunnel echoed with the steady drip of water and the distant rumble of trains. Kenta sat in the shadows, his back against the cold concrete wall, trying to make sense of the night's events.

His fingers traced the outline of the data chip in his pocket. The mission had been a success, but at what cost? The encounter with the armed humans had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Not because of the danger—he'd faced worse—but because of the unsettling familiarity of it all.

Kenta closed his eyes, and immediately, the visions returned. Flashes of a life he couldn't remember living. A basketball court. The woman's smile. The man's encouraging voice. And now, new fragments: the crack of gunfire, the acrid smell of smoke, a child's terrified scream.

His eyes snapped open, heart racing. These couldn't be mere hallucinations. They felt too real, too raw. But if they were memories, what did that mean for everything he thought he knew about himself?

A soft beep from his communicator interrupted his thoughts. It was time to report in. Kenta took a deep breath, schooling his features into a mask of calm efficiency. He couldn't let his doubts show, not now.

The holographic image of his handler flickered to life before him. The alien's elongated features were impassive, but Kenta sensed an undercurrent of tension.

"Report," the alien commanded.

Kenta recounted the mission, his voice steady. He mentioned the ambush but downplayed its significance. "The data is secure," he concluded. "I'll deliver it to the base as soon as it's safe to move."

The alien's large, dark eyes studied him for a long moment. "You've done well, Kenta. But there's been a change of plans. Bring the data to these coordinates instead." A series of numbers flashed across Kenta's vision.

"Understood," Kenta replied, even as alarm bells rang in his mind. A change in protocol was unusual, especially mid-mission.

"And Kenta," the alien added, its tone softening slightly, "be careful. The humans are becoming... unpredictable."

The transmission ended, leaving Kenta alone with his thoughts once more. He should have felt reassured by the alien's concern. After all, they had raised him, trained him, given him purpose. They were the closest thing to family he had.

So why did he feel so uneasy?

Kenta shook off his doubts and prepared to move out. As he navigated the maze of tunnels, his mind wandered back to the girl he'd seen earlier. There had been something about her, something that had stirred feelings he didn't understand. He found himself wondering what she was doing now, whether she was safe in her bed, oblivious to the secret war being waged around her.

He emerged from the subway into the pre-dawn twilight. The city was starting to wake up, early risers hurrying to work or stumbling home from late nights out. Kenta blended in seamlessly, just another face in the crowd.

As he passed a small park, something made him pause. A group of teenagers were playing an early morning game of basketball, their laughter and trash talk carrying on the cool morning air.

Without conscious thought, Kenta found himself drawn closer. He watched from the shadows as they played, his eyes following the arc of the ball, the quick pivots and feints of the players. It all seemed so... familiar.

"Hey, you want to play?"

Kenta started, realizing one of the players had noticed him. It was a girl, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes bright with the exertion of the game. With a jolt, he recognized her—the same girl he'd seen the night before.

For a moment, Kenta forgot how to breathe. Up close, her smile was even more dazzling. He should leave, he knew. He had a mission to complete. But something kept him rooted to the spot.

"I... I don't know how," he found himself saying, the lie tasting strange on his tongue.

The girl's smile widened. "Everyone starts somewhere. Come on, I'll teach you."

Before he could protest, she was tugging him onto the court. The ball was in his hands, its texture oddly comforting. The girl—Jamaica, he heard one of the others call her—positioned herself in front of him.

"Okay, try to get past me," she challenged, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Kenta hesitated for a split second. Then, acting on instinct, he moved. A quick feint left, then a crossover to the right. Jamaica lunged to block him, but he was already past her, leaping into the air. The ball left his hands, arcing towards the hoop.

Time seemed to slow. In that moment, suspended between earth and sky, another memory flashed through Kenta's mind. The same motion, the same exhilarating feeling of flight, but on a different court. A man's voice, filled with pride: "That's my boy!"

The ball swished through the net just as Kenta landed. The court erupted in cheers, but he barely heard them. His mind was reeling. How had he done that? Where had that memory come from?

Jamaica was staring at him, her expression a mix of awe and suspicion. "I thought you said you didn't know how to play," she said.

Kenta opened his mouth, but no words came out. How could he explain something he didn't understand himself?

Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his head. The world tilted alarmingly, and he staggered. Through the haze of pain, he saw Jamaica reach out to steady him, concern etched on her face.

"Hey, are you okay?" Her voice seemed to come from far away.

Kenta pulled away. He couldn't stay here. It wasn't safe—for him or for her.

"I have to go," he mumbled, already backing away.

"Wait!" Jamaica called after him. "At least tell me your name!"

Kenta hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Kenta," he said, before turning and running.

As he fled, Jamaica's voice echoed in his ears, mingling with the fragments of memory swirling in his mind. One thing was becoming increasingly I'mclear: the life he thought he knew was built on shifting sands. And now, those sands were starting to crumble beneath his feet.