All right! With the arrival of Dead Space 2, I've decided to start "Dead Space: Forgotten Memories", the sequel to "Dead Space: Into the Abyss"! I'm in the middle of trying to purchase the game now, but I've decided how I'm going to begin this story! I'm not going to jump right into the events of the game, but instead build it up over the first few chapters or so. If you haven't already, I suggest you go back and read "Dead Space: Into the Abyss" before reading this one, because there are numerous spoilers from that story. With that in mind, I hope you enjoy this sequel, which will be uploaded as I play through the game, so I'll be plotting the story as I go through the game, even though I have an overall sense of how I want to handle certain characters. Enjoy! :)
DISCLAIMER: Only my OCs are mine. Everyone else belongs to Visceral Games and EA.
WARNING: There will be Dead Space and Dead Space 2 spoilers throughout this story.
Italics- Dream sequence
He was running. For how long, he didn't know. All he knew was that he had to move quickly for some reason.
"Ring around the Rosie…"
Lights flickered around him, and hands that smelled like the dead tried to grab him, but he fended them all off. He had to get out of here.
"A pocket full of posies…"
Tripping over his feet, the young man fell as horrible screeching noises seemed to follow him wherever he went. When he fell, however, he was stuck. He couldn't get up anymore. He couldn't run at this point. Up ahead he could see someone moving towards him, though who, he didn't see.
As he tried to get up, the person moved closer to him, and he recognized who it was. "Isaac!" he gasped as the traumatized and slightly delusional systems engineer advanced towards him, wearing his mining uniform and covered in blood from head to toe. His eyes were blank, as they had been for a while now.
"You said you would come back for me," Isaac reminded the boy in a harsh whisper as Unitology symbols flashed all around him. He grinned slightly, sending fear into the young man's heart.
"Ashes…ashes…"
"Isaac, wait!" the teenager cried, extending his hand, but like everything else around him, Isaac disappeared and yet another familiar face approached him. This time, it was a man around Isaac's age, with black hair, a black beard, blue eyes, and an evil smile on his face.
"No," the teen gasped, "You're dead! I killed you on the Crew Deck!"
"I will never be dead to you, Phase Two," Challus Mercer replied, smirking as he advanced towards the fallen boy, holding what looked like a metal stake in his hands.
"You cannot fight your fate," Mercer said, raising the metal stake, "No one can."
"NO!" the boy cried as Mercer stabbed him in the head with the stake. From behind the psychopath, an Infector appeared and began to transform his body, his unseeing eyes facing the sky above him as something began to ring.
"We all…fall…down…"
One year later…
RING! RING! RIIIIIIING!
"Ahh!" I cried, my eyes snapping open as I glanced around and heard my alarm go off at 6:30 in the morning. Reaching over, I bashed it until it shut up, and I took a few deep breaths as I ran my fingers through my hair. My upper arm throbbed uncontrollably, and taking a flashlight from underneath my bed, I checked it out…only to realize that the gashes Mercer had inflicted were still there after all this time.
"Timmy?" Allen, my fourteen-year-old brother, asked sleepily from his bed in our shared bedroom, "Is everything okay?"
"Y-yeah," I stammered, "Go back to sleep, Al."
"I can't," my brother responded, "Because it's time to get up for school, remember?"
I glanced at the calendar next to my bed and sighed. "Oh," I said, "Right. Go ahead and get ready. I'll go next." Allen nodded, grabbed his things, and left the room. I remained in bed, examining my scars, as well as the marks on my stomach where Mercer had attacked me when he was a Slasher. It was just a dream, Timmy, I said to myself, Only a dream.
Flipping onto my side, I buried my face into my pillow again, trying to block out what I had just dreamt about. Something I intended to forget about for the rest of my life. Ever since I…I returned from being trapped in my copy of Dead Space last year (which I had sold back at this point), I had been having that same dream. But then I told myself it was just a dream. I no longer had the game.
I remembered the day I sold the game back like it was yesterday, though that was probably due to the fact that it was a day after I had bought it.
"Well, I see you've returned," Mercedes commented as soon as I stepped into Game Stop.
"I'm just here to sell Dead Space back. I'm not here to joke around," I told her, which shocked her.
"Oh!" she gasped, "You're selling the game back? Why?"
"I don't want it anymore," I replied simply, taking the game out of my book bag and placing it on the counter, facing the cover away from me.
Mercedes was thoroughly floored. "But…but…you were so excited about playing it yesterday!" she stammered, "I don't understand. You didn't like it?"
I shook my head. "No, I didn't," I responded, "I decided it wasn't my type of game. Too much blood, guts…death." I shivered. Mercedes only shrugged, though she looked seriously worried about me. She scanned the bar code on the back as I gave her the receipt.
"Listen," I added a second later, "I'm sorry for my behavior yesterday. It was uncalled for and I shouldn't have been so crass with you."
Mercedes widened her eyes again. "You're apologizing?" she questioned, "I didn't think you were the apologizing type, but I forgive you. I'm also sorry for the way I treated you. I should have been more professional in the way I handled your behavior." I just sighed and looked away.
"I forgive you," I assured her, "I'll just be glad to have that game out of my sight."
Mercedes raised her eyebrows. "I don't know you that well, but judging from the boy I saw yesterday, you're not acting like yourself. Is everything okay?"
No. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
"Yeah, sure," I lied, "But let me tell you something: if you decide to play this game again, always remember the importance of family and friends."
And with that, I looked away from Mercedes as I accepted my money back and walked out of the store.
Turning the light on next to me, I took a look around my room for a minute or two, grateful to be alive and with my family. I couldn't believe how much of an asshole I had been last year. But things were different now. I helped out more around the house, for one thing, and I spent more time with my brothers.
"Bathroom's free," Al announced as he entered the room again, wrapping a towel around his waist, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," I assured him, smiling. And I was.
Once I was in the bathroom, I shut the door and took off my night shirt, examining the scars on my arm, my hands, and my stomach again. I sighed as I ran my fingers across the incisions on my arm. Over the last year, different people had asked me where I got them from.
"I cut my arm when I fell down my wooden stairs," I would explain to them to throw them off. They didn't need to know what really happened. I was trying to put it behind me, anyway, which worked for the most part. Not that I was happy about it; it was frustrating not being able to talk to anyone about what had happened to me. Hell, I couldn't even talk to my own family out of fear that they would have me checked into a mental institution.
Hours later, after eating breakfast and feeding my now one-year-old brother, David, Allen and I drove to school in my car that I had finally gotten a few months after the incident. Looked like I could finally drive on my own, huh? I thought about what Mom had said to us before we left.
"I can't believe you boys are growing up so fast," she had said, getting a little teary-eyed, "Now that Timmy's a senior, we're going to have to make a few changes around the house."
"Like what?" Allen asked.
"You taking my place as being the oldest brother," I teased, "Now you get to babysit Dave like I always do." I smirked as Allen stuck his tongue out.
"Well, there is that," Mom agreed, "I can't believe how much you've grown up since last year, Timmy. I don't know how it happened, but I'm glad you did."
"It's a long story, Mom," I replied, exhaling, "But Al, when you're taking care of Dave when Mom isn't around, remember what I told you. Okay?" I gave him a firm stare as he tilted his head to the other side and considered my statement.
"Okay," he decided, "But I still don't understand why."
"I just don't want you to do that." That meaning don't sing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" at night. I wouldn't even go into that.
Before we left for school, Mom had pulled me to the side just as Dad entered the room with his morning coffee and newspaper.
"You know, Timmy," Mom said, "I appreciate that you've matured over the last year, but I can't help but wonder if everything's okay. You've been a little…off this whole time."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I don't know," Dad piped up, "Jumping at slight noises, avoiding your favorite sci-fi movies, and all of a sudden hating Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Now, I know nursery rhymes are childish for you, but you never objected to any of them until now." I looked down at the ground as they continued.
"And those mysterious cuts all over your body," Mom prattled, lifting my sleeve and exposing Mercer's incisions.
"Ow!" I gasped, "Mom!"
"Timmy, if someone's hurting you, you have to tell us!"
"Mom, Dad, nobody's hurting me," I insisted, pulling my sleeve down, "I told you I fell down the stairs."
Mom shook her head. "Your father and I were discussing this," she explained, "And the way these cuts are arranged…it looks like someone ran a knife across your arm or something." I looked away again, feeling tears prick my eyes.
"And those marks on your stomach," Dad continued, lifting up my shirt, "That doesn't look like an accident, either. It looked like someone cut you there on purpose, too. Just like your arm." I didn't answer.
"Your mother and I have been trying not to make a big deal out of this, but we can't ignore it anymore. What's going on with you, Timmy? Who did this to you?"
Challus Mercer, I thought to myself, A crazy Unitologist scientist on the USG Ishimura from that Dead Space game. But you'd never believe me if I told you any of that.
"Nobody," I insisted for the last time as I grabbed my bag, "This is nothing for any of you to worry about."
Dad rose to his full height as he stared down at me, and I suddenly realized where I got part of my personality from. "My oldest son returns home with mysterious cuts on his body that he can't even explain," he lectured, "I think that's a damn good reason for us to worry!"
I didn't want to talk about this now. Al and I were going to be late. "Look, we'll talk when I'm home later," I assured them, "We have to get to school."
And now, sitting in the car, I reflected on my school life ever since the incident. Things had gotten better as far as the social aspect was concerned, which I was happy about. I parked in the senior parking lot, where Al and I met up with the other students as we waited for the doors to open. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my old group of friends, John, Paul, Mark, and Andrew, shooting daggers at me after the last year. I couldn't believe I had ever been friends with them. They were all arrogant pricks who didn't have a care in the world. And they were never really my friends. They had decided to ditch me once I started changing my ways.
"Hey look, it's Timmy!" someone whispered from the side, and I smiled and waved back.
"Hi, Timmy!" a girl greeted.
"Hey, Mandy!" I replied, nodding to her. Almost nobody at school could believe that I had turned into a nice guy over the last year. It hadn't been easy, but somehow, I managed to convince the others that I had changed.
"Where are you going?" another boy, Roger, asked me, approaching me.
"Psychology," I replied, "Want to go together?"
"Sure." Roger, Mandy, and I began to head inside the building as a few voices echoed behind us.
"Well, well," Paul began as he and my other former friends cornered us, "Since when did Timothy Stamford turn into such a saint?"
I narrowed my eyes at them. I wasn't exactly a "saint", per se. Just better than I used to be, that was all. "What?" I replied, smirking, "Can't handle someone being nice for once?"
"You don't know how different it's been," Mark piped up, "Ever since you ditched us."
"I didn't ditch you," I argued, "We grew apart and I found new friends."
"It was that game," Andrew accused, pointing a finger at me, "If you hadn't played that Dead Space game, you wouldn't have changed."
I felt my hands ball into fists, but I didn't want to start fighting in front of Roger and Mandy. "Let's go, guys," I said to them, "They're not worth it." We turned to pass them when I felt Andrew grab my scarred arm.
"Mark my words, Stamford," he warned, "You're going to pay for ditching us." I narrowed my eyes again.
"Let go of me," I hissed, prying his hand off my arm and leaving with my friends. As soon as we were inside, Mandy turned to face me.
"Are you okay?" she asked, "What were they talking about before?"
"Don't worry about it," I assured her as we entered the Psychology classroom. As we sat down and took our books out, Roger glanced at me.
"So Timmy," he asked, "I managed to get my pre-ordered copy of Dead Space 2. Want to come over later and play it?"
Tearing my gaze away from my textbook, I turned to stare at him. "Dead Space 2?" I asked, playing dumb.
"You know," Roger answered, "Isaac Clarke? The Sprawl? Loses his mind at the end of the first game-"
"Thank you, Roger," I thanked him sarcastically, "But I'm not into those games."
"I think you'd like it. You seem familiar with the first one." I waved him off just as our teacher, Mr. Garcia, began the lecture.
"All right, class," he began, putting his reading glasses on, "Today, we're going to begin talking about psychological disorders and the effects they bring with them. Who here can tell me about…Posttraumatic Stress Disorder?"
At first, nobody answered, but then, I raised my hand. "Timmy?" Mr. Garcia asked.
"It occurs after most traumatic events," I explained, "Such as a car accident or an attack of some sort. He or she suffers from flashbacks of the events, nightmares, and has trouble trying to put the event aside." Sounds awfully familiar, I thought to myself.
"Very good," Mr. Garcia said, "The degree of PTSD varies depending on the incident. While most victims recover after a while, some never do, and it's important to be there for the patients, whether they are friends or loved ones, when they need us."
Snap! The pencil I was writing with broke, and everyone turned to face me. "Sorry," I mumbled, my face turning red, "I'll just get a pen." However, Mr. Garcia just continued on with the lecture as if there were no interruptions.
"For the next twenty minutes, I want all of you to think about the next lecture. I'm going to show you a few slides, and I want you to write down your reactions to all of them as I speak." He turned on the computer and began to take us through his next lecture, and at that, I felt myself zone out completely. Resting my head in my hand, I just stared vacantly at the screen as Mr. Garcia continued lecturing. I was normally an attentive student, but not so much lately. In fact, not so much over the last year. My grades hadn't slipped or anything like that, but it was harder to concentrate on my school work when I had a lot of other baggage to deal with.
"Timmy," Mandy hissed from my left as she passed me a note. Taking it in my hand, I opened it under the desk and read the message:
Are you sure you don't want to come over to Roger's later? He's really excited about Dead Space 2!
I figured it wouldn't hurt to spend some time with them, though I would suggest we do something else. It had been hard convincing everyone that I had changed and I wasn't about to pass up this chance to actually keep friends.
Sure, I'm in, I wrote back, But no Dead Space 2. Why don't we try Resident Evil?
We've played that game so many times already, Mandy wrote back, We've never tried Dead Space 2 and we thought you could help us with the story.
I can't help you there, I replied, even though it was a lie, I don't know a lot about the first game either. Sighing, I raised my head up to the teacher again as he lectured, and I took notes carefully so that he wouldn't catch us passing notes back and forth. I then flipped through a few pages of my textbook, and on one of the pages, I suddenly thought I saw a familiar, bloody face. Gasping out loud, I slammed the book shut, forcing everyone to stare at me.
"Timmy?" Mr. Garcia asked with concern, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," I assured him, "I just got a chill, that's all."
"Do you need to step out for a minute?"
"I guess I will," I replied, "I'm sorry." I got up from my seat and then exited into the hallway, where I rested my head on the wall and sighed. I felt horrible, but what I thought I saw scared me to no end, like it had for the last year.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated, and when I looked down, I saw it was a text message from Mom: Timmy, it's Mom. Don't forget that you have a doctor's appointment after school today. Don't worry, there won't be any needles this time!
Yeah. Ever since…that, I had been afraid of the doctor, even though I knew it was an irrational fear. I couldn't help it, though: every time I went to the doctor's office, I was always worried there would be something that involved pain. I had a certain doctor to thank for that. One who had justified murder and torture by claiming he wanted to "save" me. I knew it was childish to bail, but I wouldn't go. I would go watch Dead Space 2 over the doctor any day.
Taking a deep breath, I entered the classroom again, feeling better already.
Later on in the day, after I dropped Allen off at home, I drove over to Roger's house, deciding that I would skip my appointment. He and Mandy were already there and hovered over Dead Space 2. I felt my stomach turn again, but I swallowed in an attempt to calm down.
"Check this out, Timmy!" Mandy quipped, practically dragging me over to the Playstation 3, "Dead Space 2!"
"It…looks amazing," I said to make them happy, though I wanted to run as far away as possible.
Just as Roger was about to start the game, we suddenly heard his mom knock on the door. "Roger!" she cried, "It's your turn to feed the dog!"
"Oh, damn," Roger cursed, "I forgot. Hold on, guys. I'll be right back." Putting his controller down, he got up and left.
"I'm going to go to the bathroom," Mandy announced, "I'll be right back, too." And with that, she left as well. I was the only one left in the room as a game I didn't want to play flashed in front of me. I felt horrible for bailing on my doctor's appointment, but my fear was just too much.
Just as I was going to call my mom to apologize for this (since I assumed she had found out by now), I suddenly felt something vibrate in front of me, and when I looked up, I noticed the controller was shaking back and forth as something orange appeared on the screen. On the other side was Isaac, and he seemed to fix his gaze on me. "No!" I shouted, "No! Go away!" But Isaac continued to advance towards me, extending a hand out as I tried to block him out of my mind.
At that moment, my phone rang, and I picked it up. "Timothy Stamford!" Mom snapped from the other end, "How could you skip your doctor's appointment? You know this was an important one!"
I couldn't answer. "Timothy?" she growled, "You answer me right now!" But I still couldn't, for my gaze was fixed on Isaac Clarke.
"Timmy," he whispered harshly as I felt everything fade to black around me once again.
When I was finally able to wake up, I shifted around a little bit before I opened my eyes. Great, I thought angrily, Where did I land this time?
Sitting up, I suddenly took notice of the bed sheets covering my body. A bed! I thought, Am I in some sort of apartment? Not a creepy spaceship like the Ishimura?
Throwing the covers off, I then noticed a bright, orange light pouring into the room, and when I ambled over to the window, I realized where I was. The tall buildings and the planet Saturn in the distance were a dead giveaway. Oh, no, I thought with dread, Not the Sprawl again! Flashbacks of my last stay here came back to me, and I closed my eyes in an attempt to get rid of them.
I looked down at the rest of the civilian space station as I remembered what had happened the last time I was here. Isaac! I thought, turning and sprinting out of the apartment until I found myself standing in the middle of the station once again! For a minute, I looked around in awe, and it just occurred to me how many people were on here. Last time I was here, it was over one million! How much time had passed since that incident?
My first instinct told me to go find Isaac Clarke, the systems engineer that I had left here the last time, and my other instinct suggested that I get as far away from him as possible. How could I face him now? After I had accidentally broken my promise to go back for him?
"Young man," a stern voice suddenly rang out, breaking me out of my thoughts. I whirled around to face a police officer who was glaring at me.
"Yes, sir?" I asked, folding my arms.
"Do you need help getting somewhere? You can't stand in the middle of the road forever."
I shook my head. "Sorry," I apologized, "I'll just be going." And before he could say anything else, I was already running down the street towards the mental hospital. As soon as I spotted the large white doors, I gulped. Isaac was in there. Would he recognize me? I hoped he would and wouldn't at the same time. Swallowing my nerves, I opened the door and stepped inside.
My God, this place was amazing! Everything was just so meticulous, and even the patients seemed like they were being kept in order. A plus right there. "May I help you?" a female voice asked, and when I turned around, I noticed a nurse standing behind me.
"Hello," I greeted politely, nodding a little bit, "I was wondering if I could get a tour of the hospital. I'm thinking about going into the psychology field and thought this would be a good place to start." That wasn't true, but nobody needed to know that.
"Well, young man, you came to the right place," the nurse replied, "What's your name?"
"Brad Waters," I lied, "Thank you very much, Nurse…Jenkins!" I glanced at the nametag on her scrubs, and she nodded and began to lead me around the building as she explained its history and policies as far as patients went. I didn't care about all that. I just wanted to find Isaac!
As we climbed up a set of stairs, I asked, "Have you ever had to deal with really difficult patients?"
"We've gotten a few every now and then," Nurse Jenkins explained to me, "Three years ago, one of our patients claimed he wasn't safe here and that he needed to find her, whoever "her" was."
My heart zoomed up to my throat. Could that have been Isaac? Three years had passed since then? "Thank you very much for the tour," I said as soon as we passed the intensive care wing, where some of the more difficult patients were situated, "But I think I can find the restroom on my own. Thanks again!"
"Are you sure?" Nurse Jenkins asked nervously, "You seem awfully young to be wandering around by yourself."
"I'll be fine," I assured her, "I'm just going to take care of some private business." Please don't let me have to get more vulgar than that, I thought, but to my relief, I didn't have to.
The nurse nodded and walked away, and as soon as she was gone, I turned and entered the intensive ward. I was afraid of what I would find here, but I had to look. Since I had been power walking, I slowed down significantly as voices reached my ears. Tiptoeing through the hallway, I stopped in front of a specific door as I spotted a few doctors standing in front of someone.
"Is he settled down?" a female doctor asked.
"Yes," another doctor answered, "We can begin." Some of them moved aside, and I gasped when I saw who the patient was.
"Isaac Clarke," a male doctor began, "I'm going to show you some images and I want you to tell me about them. Think you can do that?"
There was no response from Isaac, but I instantly noticed how different he looked. He was much thinner than I remembered, and his hair was still black, but going on gray. There were dark bags under his eyes as well. "Isaac," I whispered under my breath, wanting to go inside, but holding myself back, as I was unsure what was going on in that room.
"First image," the man announced, holding up a picture of the USG Ishimura, "What can you tell me about this?"
I glanced nervously from him to Isaac, and I wondered what the engineer would say. He just stared down at his lap and twiddled his fingers.
"Do you remember what you were doing on this ship?" the man asked, "Who you were with? Why you were there?"
"No," Isaac finally spoke up in a scratchy voice. He didn't look up at anybody. He didn't even move.
"No?" the man, whose name I caught was Edgar Foster, echoed, "What about this?" He held up a picture of a blonde woman. Nicole, I thought to myself.
"Nicole Brennan?" Foster asked, "Did you know her? Was she serving on the Ishimura at the time as a senior medical officer?"
"No," Isaac repeated in a slightly frustrated tone, "I don't remember her." I suddenly felt my heart contract in pity for my friend, and my heart beat faster as the interrogation continued. From the way Foster was asking these questions, it seemed like they were testing Isaac. But why?
"How about this young man?" Foster pressed, holding up a photograph of me this time. I gasped to myself. Where had they gotten that from?
"His name is Timothy Stamford, though he preferred Timmy. He was a survivor aboard the Ishimura, a participant in Dr. Challus Mercer's experiments aboard the ship. Do you remember him?"
I nearly cursed in anger. A participant? No way in hell was I ever a participant in those horrible experiments!
"I told you!" Isaac growled, clenching his fists, "None of it is coming back to me!"
"Well, Isaac, you're going to have to try, or else we can't help you."
"None of you will be able to help me." I watched as some of the doctors backed up in anxiety, and I wondered what would happen next.
Foster put away the picture of me and then took out one of a Necromorph, the bane of this game's existence. As soon as he held the picture up in front of Isaac, the engineer suddenly began to thrash around in his seat. "No!" he cried, "Get it away from me! Get it off!"
"The sedative!" the female doctor shouted, "Where's the sedative! For God's sake, calm him down!"
A bunch of other doctors converged on Isaac and held him down as the woman held a needle in her hand. However, Isaac suddenly lashed out and attacked one of the closest nurses. I was sure my mouth was hanging open in shock, and all of a sudden, my cheek began to feel tender again as I remembered the time Isaac had slapped me on the Mining Deck. I shuddered. That had been the first sign that he was slipping into dementia and possibly paranoid schizophrenia.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Isaac roared, slapping the pictures out of Foster's hand and then attempting to make a run for it, but the other, stronger doctors held him back as the main doctor injected him with a sedative.
"Nurse, fetch a straitjacket!" one of the other doctors ordered, and as they attempted to wrap the engineer in a straitjacket, I turned and ran. I couldn't bear to watch anymore.
What had happened to Isaac in this awful place?