CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Was Hired as a Transitional Memory Escort." Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 12, 2025

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I've always believed the work we do at Nerovia matters. Not in the vague corporate mission statement kind of way. I mean it actually matters. We change people in ways no pill or guided meditation app ever could. Neurovia is a company that doesn't advertise. We don't need to. The right people always find us. Veterans, trauma survivors.

End-of-life cases, people whose brains have been broken in ways traditional therapy can't reach. What we offer isn't healing exactly. It's something deeper, significantly more precise. In layman's terms, we build synthetic reconstructions of memory, not just playbacks, full immersions built from neural data, EG pattern exploitations and psychographic overlays. It's memory, yes, but experience the gain, lucid, tactile, interactive. Patients are guided into pivotal scenes from their own lives and allowed to observe, process,

and sometimes rewrite what's been weighing them down. Usually these sessions are managed by an AI therapist that reacts in real time, a kind of memory-native emotional companion. And for most patients, that's more than enough. But for the outliers, the ones whose minds don't play along or whose traumas resist logic, that's where I come in. They call us transitional memory. memory escorts. The name sounds gentler than the job actually is. We go into the memory immersion with the client, like a neural co-pilot. There's a whole protocol for it. Matched brain

waves, synchronized breathing, psychological rapport testing, and a biometric tether that keeps us linked but separate. I'm not there to fix them. I'm there to keep them from sinking. It's like diving into someone's personal movie, guiding them to the credits. I've done 31 immersions over the last four years. I've held the hands of women watching themselves lose their children. I've stood beside soldiers, forced to relive firefights in infinite loops. One man asked me to shoot him, just to see if it felt real. I didn't, of course.

That would have triggered a lockdown. But I thought about it. You'd be surprised how easily empathy can morph into suggestion if you're not careful. The trick is staying present without becoming a participant. Emotionally available but not vulnerable, curious, but not too deep. If you get pulled in too far, if you start to believe in the world the system builds, you You can lose track of which life is yours. Luckily, that's never been a problem for me.

The immersion sessions don't last long. A few hours, Max. The neural link is strictly regulated. Twenty minutes of leading, two hours of guided immersion, 20 minutes of cool down. It's a tight cycle, clean. You enter together. leave together. At least, that's how it's supposed to work. His name was Marcus Rell. 52. History of substance dependency, confirmed incarceration, suspected but never charged, involvement in

multiple violent offences, including arson and homicide. His intake file was redacted in all the wrong places. We're not usually given the full story. and I've learned not to ask for it. But with Marcus, there were too many blanks to ignore. The referral came from a private source, name withheld. His eligibility clearance came stamped from above my pay grade, with the kind of formatting we usually only see on government-authorised cases. But my supervisor, Devani, looked unbothered when she handed me the assignment.

Try not to read too far into his past, she told me. Just keep him on track and guide him out. Don't linger. I made a joke about not packing lunch. She didn't laugh. The first time I met Marcus in person, I already didn't like him. He smiled when I walked in, like he'd been waiting a long time for me specifically. And now that I was finally here,

The show could start. Mr. Rel, I said, offering my hand. He didn't take it. Just nodded and said, Escort, right? Correct. I'll be your tether during the immersion. We'll...

I know how it works. He cut me off with the same calm tone. I read the packet, watched the videos, took the psyche, well. You're the one who watches, right? stays beside me. That's right. I don't intervene unless necessary.

I'm here to make sure you come back in one piece. Marcus stared at me for a long time. His smile stayed, but his eyes were still unblinking, as if he were counting something in my face. You've got a good life, he said finally. Stable, real peaceful. What are you? I said, before being cut off by the intercom, letting us know that we were good to proceed on.

We ran the final calibration. Our vitals aligned cleanly, no sink drift, no cognitive latency. The neural bridge was greenlit. He lay back in the chair like it was a vacation lounger. I slid into mine, tightening the cuffs, and lowering the interface dome. The chamber dimmed, a low-frequency hums signalled the initialization of the memory environment. I felt the shift in my chest first, like my heartbeat had been turned into a metronome.

Marcus's neural rhythm pulsed through the tether, close enough to mimic, but just far enough to remain distinct. Then, we dropped in. The memory environment always starts in fragments, like walking through fog that thickens into shape. This one came together slowly, as if reluctant to be seen. We stood on a cracked sidewalk in some half-forgotten neighbourhood. The street was unfamiliar, but the lamp-post beside me was the one from outside my child at home.

The sky looked like a watercolour version of late October, and the air smelled faintly of hot metal and gasoline. Memory bleed. It's common. A little of me, a lot of him. But the deeper we moved, the stranger the hybrid became. The storefronts were labelled with real names from my life, a corner shop owned by a friend's father, a dentist I hadn't seen since I was a

13, but inside the windows were flickering images of someone else's nightmares. Dark hallways, rotting food, the shape of a body twitching beneath a blanket. I turned a corner and saw Marcus ahead of me, watching a house or a building burn. He didn't react. He just stood there. And then a surge of memories hit my brain. A woman screaming, then yanked backward into black water, her face contorted with rage, not fear.

A small child, eyes swollen shut, fists clenched, locked in a closet, scratching the door until the wood bled. A pair of hands, Marcus's, I presumed, pressing down on someone's throat. The skin under his fingers changed colour as the pressure had. held. And later, needles in a basement, dirt floor, light bulbs swinging overhead. I tried to initiate grounding protocol, policed toward the tether's orientation point, a mental beacon I could summon to shift the environment. It didn't work, Marcus turned and looked at me through the firelight. Why would we leave? He asked, voice smooth and distant.

This is still the beginning. I didn't answer, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I started counting the minutes. Two hours, Max. I just had to keep him until the end, until the credits rolled. Once the initial memory cluster stabilized, I initialized the first phase of the tetherback sequence. A gradual withdrawal designed to ease the subject towards. detachment. You start by suddenly pulling the environment, shifting colors toward neutral tones, muting ambient sound, encouraging spatial collapse around shared orientation points. The world inside

doesn't vanish. It just starts to let go, but Marcus didn't move. This meant that something on the outside was not functioning correctly. He continued watching the memory, a version of his old apartment, I think, melt and drift like ash in the wind. I didn't want to do this, he said. I didn't quite know how to interpret those words. So I did all I knew how. Marcus, I said, carefully keeping my voice calm. We're reaching the end of the window. You've done great work here, but if we stay too long, You get stuck. He finished the sentence for me.

Yeah, I know. You people are always worried about time like it's real linear. It is. Neural stability to grades past a certain point. If we don't exit within the... I'm not leaving. He looked at me, fully present. You think this idea was mine, don't you?

He muttered. I didn't respond. There was no script for this kind of refusal. We were trained for resistance, confusion, even aggression. But this, this was something else. I tried to summon the hard tether, manual override, a beacon pulse meant to force a disconnection in emergency cases. It activated.

I felt the jolt through the shared neural thread, but we didn't move. That's when I was certain that someone was interfering from the outside. The world flickered once like a film reel catching, then resumed exactly where it left off. Scenes kept looping and mixing with each other. My memories, Marcus's memories. I'd started to lose grip on which scenes were mine. I stood in a grimy kitchen I'd never seen before. But the counter had the same chip as the one in my first apartment.

I looked out the window and saw a tree, gnarled, diseased, unfamiliar. But I remembered climbing it. I blinked and I was in a back alley. My hand was wet, heavy. I looked down and saw blood on my fingers and a tire iron in my grip. I smelled copper, sweat, Rage, someone behind me was moaning, their voice rasping like they were trying to speak through broken teeth.

But I'd never been there, and yet I remembered it. Not like watching someone else's memory, not like walking through Marcus's past. It was mine, my breath, my heartbeat, the rage behind my eyes. I remember the surge, the moment of impact, the metallic vibration through my arm. Later, I found myself in a motel bathroom. The mirror cracked, a lighter in one hand, and a rubber tourniquet in the other. My reflection looked sunken, yellowed, ruined. Every part of my body throbbed with a dull ache.

The taste hit me before I realized. what I was doing. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I hit the floor hard. You see, time doesn't pass in a straight line during immersion. It folds, doubles back. You can live through the same moment a hundred times and still be surprised when something changes. And something did change. When I woke up, I was no longer in memories of his. Instead, I watched him in mine. I stood on a beach I knew, my beach from my honeymoon, and Marcus was sitting beside my wife, holding a hand, laughing.

I was in my childhood kitchen and he was washing dishes while my mother hummed nearby. I walked into my own apartment and saw him sitting at my table, reading the newspaper with my name on the byline. I tried to speak, to confront him. But he looked up at me, calm as ever, and said, You're not my guide. You know that. He folded the paper, stood slowly and walked toward me. You're my exit. He took another step toward me, his face serene. I backed away instinctively, but the memory space didn't budge. No matter how far I moved, he was always the same distance from me, like something had decided it liked his gravity more than mine.

Marcus, I said, voice low. That's not how this works. You're right, he said, tilting his head. It's not. Not officially. I've been in prison for many decades. I can't get a job with this record, let alone fix my life at my age." He spat.

So imagine my surprise when a government official reaches out to me, offering a way to not only fix my life overnight, but potentially make it better. I tried to reach for the tether again. Nothing. It was like trying to tug on a string buried in concrete. You don't get to take someone's life just because someone's else said you should. He laughed softly, like I was a child saying something naive. Oh, but I didn't choose you, he said. You think I would care to pick anyone out of a crowd?

He glanced at the newspaper in his hand, then tossed it aside. You ever wonder why you couldn't see my referral, why your clearance flagged, but no one said a word. I didn't answer. I didn't But don't worry, you weren't the only one in the dark. Most of your colleagues are clueless as well. They didn't tell me anything either, just that I was approved that I'd be illegible for neural transition. A new beginning, they called it, his eyes locked onto mine. They didn't offer therapy or prison or peace.

They offered this, a simple infiltration and practice. You're saying they used you? I said slowly. Used us? He nodded once. I was dying. He said, not sick, just empty, used up. Years of noise in my head.

They said I could be fixed, but I had to be a useful guinea pig. Useful how? They wanted to know if it could work. work, if someone could be moved, relocated, extracted from the self. They built the tech to guide people back. But what if someone could step forward instead? I stared at him, cold rising in my spine. And you agreed? He shrugged. Like I said, no other options. They gave me a path and a a person, all I had to do was go through with it. He took another step. I didn't move this time. I didn't know who you were, but like I said, you're stable and your mind was quiet enough

to let me in without fighting. My voice came out flat. You're making a mistake. His smile widened. Then he leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. I ran, or tried to. Running inside a memory immersion is like pushing through a dense wall of smoke. The world doesn't resist you. It just changes the rules as you move. Streets warped, hallways folded back into themselves. Every time I turned a corner, I was somewhere I'd already been.

The burning house. The alley with a tire iron, the motel bathroom. Marcus wasn't chasing me. He didn't need to. I reached for the emergency override again. The internal failsafe they build into every escort's tether. Mentally, it feels like grabbing the base of your own spine and pulling upward. A full body signal that says, get me out.

Nothing happened. Though desperation was pulled. pushing me to try again and again. I tried, harder. I screamed for extraction, screamed for the external team to sever the link. But the sound that came out of my mouth was wrong, not in pitch,

in ownership. It was his voice. I heard Marcus's laugh curl out of my throat and echo back at me. I turned, and there he was. standing exactly as I was standing, breathing in sync with me. We stared at each other, across a memory scape that couldn't decide what it was anymore.

One second, it was my childhood bedroom, walls covered in peeling posters, then the motel again. He stepped forward. I stepped back. He moved again. I mirrored. And then, without warning, He lunged. We collided like two magnets in a vacuum. No resistance, just impact. A full body falling inward. I hit the ground hard, but I didn't feel pain. Just disorientation. Like I was spinning through every version of myself I'd ever been. We fought with memory. He pulled scenes into the space like weapons. My first kiss, now with his face, my graduation, him shaking my father's hand, my wedding,

and he was standing at the altar in my place, smiling at my wife like he'd known her forever. I tried to push back, flooding the space with his memories. For a moment, he staggered. But I saw the relief in his eyes. He wanted me to bring it all back. The more I let his life pass through me, the deeper he sank into mine. Our body shifted mid-struggle. My hands became his, his shoulders turned into mine.

We rolled, twisted, blurred. The space cracked like glass around us, shards of memory slicing through me. I screamed again for extraction, but the noise that came out was a rasp, like air pulled through wet cloth, meaningless. And then, just as I felt something ripped behind my eyes, the light changed, the world tilted, and the chamber door opened. Blurred figures rushed towards us, suits, masks, gloves. I heard muffled voices, felt hands grabbing my shoulders, lifting me, cold metal against skin.

Detachment initiated. The neural tether groaned and split like tearing Velcro. And then... I was awake. Back in the real world, the transfer room, harsh white lights and humming equipment and recycled air. But something was off. Everything was too heavy.

My chest ached. my legs felt longer, looser. I tried to move my fingers and fell to delay, like the signal had to travel further to get there. I looked down, not at my hands. Knuckles scarred, nails bitten to the quick. I tried to speak. Just one word.

It came out gravelly, damaged. My throat clenched. And I heard the technician besie. me, clipboard in hand, smiling faintly say. Welcome back, Mr. Rel, the technician said, almost mockingly. Client emerged clean, escort stable, she said, high integrity sink, best numbers we've seen in a month. I tried to speak. I don't remember what I said first.

Probably stop or help or wait. None of it came outright. My voice wasn't just unfamiliar. It was wrong. It carried someone else's posture. I heard Marcus Rell in every syllable. I tried to sit up, but my movements felt borrowed, unnatural. My centre of gravity had shifted, like I'd learned to walk in someone else's shoes,

and now the laces were tangled around my ankles. my ankles. I'm not. I started and my voice cracked. I looked down at my hands again, hoping I'd imagined it, but the scars were still there. So was the faint prison ink smeared into the wrist. My fingers trembled. Please, I said, turning to Devani.

Run an ID match. My neural imprint. I'm not. She raised her hand to quiet me, the same way you'd hush someone, waking up from anesthesia. You're experiencing post-transfer fog, she said calmly.

It's not uncommon. You've been deep inside someone else's memory structure, residual self-image distortion can last up to an hour. Just breathe. I looked at her, begging. You know me, I said. I've worked here for four years. I trained under Patel. I did the Callahan immersion. Ask me anything. She tilted her head, patient but dismissive. That's part of the overlay, Marcus. Your system's still sorting memory boundaries.

I'm sure it'll pass. I shook my head. I'm not Marcus. He took my body. He switched with me. I'm the escort. I'm... Okay, she said gently, signaling to a nearby tech. Let's keep him off the reinforcement feed. He's still inside the arc. The tech nodded, type something into a console, and the lights above dimmed slightly.

I stumbled to my feet, ignoring strange, painful sensations littering my body, and started looking for a mirror. I needed it. something objective, irrefutable. One of the walls held a viewing panel, reflective glass, just enough to make out a face. I stepped in front of it. And there he was.

The man I'd watched walked through his memories like a ghost in his own life. His face now stared back at me. Tired, aged, worn by hollow years I'd never. ever lived. Same pale scar across the temple. Even my silence felt like his. A few hours later, a staff member I didn't recognize handed me a manila envelope. Follow the checklist. You're already pre-cleared, she said. There's a transitional housing option and a few job placements that align with your... She paused. With your profile. I opened the envelope. inside was a pamphlet printed in soft blue and grays.

The title read, Rebuilding Forward, Employment Opportunities for Rehabilitated Individuals. The back had a phone number, a smiling logo, and my name, Marcus Rell.