Nick Valentine, Personal Journal
January 10, 2296
If I'd known then what I know now, I might've told Ellie where she could put that new case and put the kibosh on it before getting us tangled up in this mess. Still, if everything I've learned is correct, then my keeping a journal just became a hell of a lot more important to me. Turns out my memory may not be all it could be. Didn't think my mind being all wet was the real danger of being a toaster, but here's the punchline: apparently, second gen synths have limited cranial capacity. When it fills up, memories start dissipating.
It started with that case, a "simple" missing person case. God knows they've been my bread and butter in the Commonwealth. Nothing about this case said "By the way, Nick, going to change your life with this one. Turn your head upside down. Make you rethink everything you thought you knew." Should I start with Ellie or skip ahead to the Nakanos? Dammit, I hate this. I hate feeling like I need to write down the full story because I might not remember it later.
Guess I'll just do what I've always done, retell the salient points and use this as a way to work out how I feel about them—maybe with a few more details than I'd normally include, given this memory issue. Which means… About three weeks ago, a very pregnant Ellie gave me the first clue that something was wrong when she told us about the case. Kenji Nakano, she said. I remembered the name nagging at the edge of my memory, but I couldn't grasp the details—couldn't picture him. Couldn't remember where I'd heard it. Did it bother me? Hell, yes, it bothered me, but I put that out of mind while Sheila and I trekked up to meet him on the northeastern coast. We arrived at the Nakano residence and talked to Kenji and his wife, Rei. Their daughter Kasumi was the case. Missing, possibly lured away, possibly ran away on her own.
Oh, and Kenji did know me.
He remembered me, had spent time with me, knew me. Post-Institute. Apparently I'd asked for and received his help in the form of much-needed boat transportation. But I… didn't remember him. I didn't know it was possible for someone outside the Institute to know me from memory when I didn't recall them. As we talked, I started to get a few flashes of memories, but they were dim and frustratingly slender. Us in a boat. His laugh, rough and cynical, the good humor mixed up with bitterness and determination. A feeling of danger, a vague recollection that everything had gone to hell. That was all. Once again Sheila proved herself to be the best damn partner a synth—or anyone—could ever have. She covered for my lack of memory like we had coordinated it, asking Kenji about his history with me. It was enough to let me bluff remembering him and his help way back when, and then we turned to the current case.
I admit, that put me on edge from the outset. Gummed up the works in my head, messed with my focus. I didn't talk to Sheila about it. What was I going to say that she didn't already know? She's not stupid and she reads me like she read a courtroom back in the day. When we were sailing up to Far Harbor, she was quiet (and that's rare enough. She's a talker. Normally, I don't mind, but I didn't want to talk when we started this trip, and she picked up on that mood without my asking. Love that woman).
We sat in the boat together as we started the trip, the course already set in, my arms tight around her. I admit, I was brooding (that's what she calls it). What if I forget her? What if she dies and what if I'm still kicking around… and then I forget her? And old Nick, flesh-and-blood Nick, and Jenny, and Eddie Winter… Sure, I've thought about how I wish Nick-the-cop's life wouldn't hang over mine raising so many questions about who and what I am. I didn't know how bad identity questions could get. Would I even be me anymore if I forget old Nick's life? Jenny? Eddie Winter? Her? So are we the sum of our memories or something more, something different? Are we something less if we lose those memories? No, I haven't lost that tendency to ruminate or to get irritated with myself for ruminating. Maybe all I am is a pile of worries punctuated by the occasional case. I'm sure the woman would disagree, but then, what's she going to say?
The whole trip took twenty hours, and after about half that (most of which the woman slept through while I held her—she never gets enough sleep), something eased up inside me. Maybe it was just being able to smell and stroke her hair. Whatever the reason, we used the second half of the time more… productively… than the first. She was enthusiastic and in a very good mood. I pointed it out and suggested it was because she was actually well-rested for the first time in months, and she rolled her eyes and asked me if I wanted to take advantage of it or not.
I'm not an idiot.
Anyway. If it hadn't been for that eerie experience with Kenji knowing me when I didn't know him, I wouldn't have believed that DiMA's memory limitations could also apply to me. And that's why here I am back to journaling. Also, if you're reading this, woman, I don't want to hear your theory on why this makes me repeat myself unless you want to hear more about why it would be better for both of us if you made a habit of getting more sleep. That's what I thought. Where was I? Right, right. Meeting DiMA… That was like looking into a not-so-funhouse mirror. Me but not me. An irritating, sanctimonious, less attractive version of me. With slightly more skin, a way worse hairdo, and no ears. Who claims to know me. This is becoming a theme, and I don't like it.
Before I go on, though, it's been two and a half years since my last entry. I should make a few notes about the interim period before I get back to meeting DiMA. Just over a year ago, the woman and I got married. Probably no better place to start than that—next entry.