"Ex Memoria"

11. A Face of Comfort

Chicago, Illinois – in the year 2021

Walking through those doors, it might have felt as though there should be more happening. There was a painting playing hodge podge with people's heads, surely there should be more activity in the news center of the television studio. But then it hadn't gotten bad enough that people either made the connection or even noticed at all… not yet. The Doctor honestly hoped the situation would not have time to deteriorate to that level, but it still could.

He also had to admit that, to some extent, what he was about to do left him with a sense of anticipation. In all his years, all he had encountered on Earth, when matters reached public awareness, there was one face, one steadfast voice he knew to count on.

In all the years of her career, Trinity Wells had seen more than her share of strange and otherworldly events. If he had to talk to any one newscaster, it would have to be her. That he would now meet her was almost too thrilling for words.

She had aged as gracefully as anyone could, but she still had that same steely sort of determination in the face of impossible things. Now he needed her to catch on to the situation as promptly as anyone could. He waited until he could get her alone, very aware that he himself was at risk of spreading the memory infection if he didn't concentrate on keeping everything where it needed to be.

Concentrated as he was, there was still a small sort of smile on his face, like the first words he would speak to her would go along the lines of "Hello, I'm the Doctor, big fan." She'd spotted him standing there, looking at her, and she'd walked toward him a few paces.

"Can I help you?" she asked, and for a moment he had forgotten why he was there. He blinked and took a step forward.

"Can you ever," he spoke before remembering himself and getting to the point, offering his hand, which she shook as he went on. "Miss Wells, my name is John Smith," he declared, deciding it would facilitate gaining her trust. "There is a situation unfolding as we speak, in this very city, and I need your help to let the people know. Time is of the essence."

He could see in her eyes all the thoughts crossing along. There was that journalistic side who wanted to know, but there was also the other side, which resorted to the possibility that this man standing before her was either crazy or dangerous, or both. At the very least, she was in a familiar place where she felt safe and where she knew security officers were within reach. She wasn't running, so he took this as a cue to carry on.

"This will sound entirely impossible, but you're Trinity Wells, you've covered enough events of the sort to, hopefully, keep an open mind." Her posture shifted.

"I'm listening." As it so happened, there was an ad for the museum and its exhibit plastered on a nearby bulletin board. The Doctor scampered up to it.

"You've heard of this exhibit, haven't you?" he pointed to the ad.

"Naturally," Trinity nodded.

"There is a painting in that exhibit. I don't know how it found its way there or who is responsible, but there's something wrong with it."

"If you're going to tell me it's a forgery, I'm not the one you…"

"It's not a replica," the Doctor cut her off. "It's not even that special," he shrugged.

"So then what is so…"

"Something in that painting, or perhaps the frame, I'm not sure, but something transmits what you might call a virus. Anyone who comes to stand before it has been or will be infected, and they will pass it on." Trinity Wells went on observing him. She might not have trusted him entirely just yet, but it was serious enough that she couldn't keep from investigating it at least a bit.

"What kind of infection are we talking about?"

"Memories," the Doctor revealed plainly. Trinity Wells' face shifted again, though she was still listening. "It allows for one memory from one person to be swapped out with another's. And it will go on, and on, and it will spread, and if it is allowed to spread, it will breech the city, the country… The whole world is at risk of a total individuality breakdown."

She said nothing. She kept staring.

"I know you have no reason to trust me. But I also know the work you've done. I have a proposition for you, one that will prove to you both that I am telling the truth and that truth can be expected from me." He paused, wondering if this statement had been redundant. Regardless, he would soon be relieved to see he was getting through to her.

"Where is this proof?" she asked.

"Go to the museum. Not to the painting itself but to the curator. Her name is Gillian Moran Fiorentino. Now, you won't be able to find her on your own. There will be a young man named Chris. I can tell you how to find him. Tell him the Doctor sent you, that he is to explain to you exactly what's happened to Miss Moran Fiorentino, and to let you see her. You'll need to be careful. Her case is very advanced due to her level of exposure."

"And what about you?" she asked after a beat. "Where's your proof?" The Doctor smiled, reaching in his pocket to write down a number.

"After you've seen her, call here."

He gave her the number, watched her consider it… And then she nodded. She would go to the museum.

After he'd left the studio and watched her go, he took a breath. He didn't have to worry about her being infected. As much as he'd tried not to, he had passed it on to her. He knew, because he could recognize the new memory. He only wondered what she'll have gotten from him.

TO BE CONTINUED (TOMORROW)