It starts as...a blip, really. Like radio static, or the instant you change channels on a TV set. She's driving along the Beltway in rush hour traffic, her mind wandering, and feels a sudden, intense sense-memory of the particular way sunlight filters through foliage on a narrow, tree-lined road. She blinks, and it's gone.
Or at home, working late with a stack of paperwork strewn across the coffee table alongside half-empty takeout cartons, the flickering lights of her muted TV keeping her company, and she happens to glance up as President Kennedy's face appears on the news report -- it's like deja vu, the impression that something important has happened in a moment in time just like this one, but she can't quite grasp it.
She shakes them all off, these strange half-moments, and after that first disastrous meeting with her superiors at the Agency, she never speaks of them again. But she doesn't forget. She files them meticulously away in the back of her mind, and doesn't worry away at the blank space there where memories should be, no matter how much it itches. Soon, a half-remembered voice whispers. Soon, Moira. I promise.
She visits the shooting range, fires round after round into her paper target, and the air around her reeks of cordite and sand and seawater. It doesn't affect her aim at all.
It starts as...a blip, really. Like radio static, or the instant you change channels on a TV set. She's driving along the Beltway in rush hour traffic, her mind wandering, and feels a sudden, intense sense-memory of the particular way sunlight filters through foliage on a narrow, tree-lined road. She blinks, and it's gone.
Or at home, working late with a stack of paperwork strewn across the coffee table alongside half-empty takeout cartons, the flickering lights of her muted TV keeping her company, and she happens to glance up as President Kennedy's face appears on the news report -- it's like deja vu, the impression that something important has happened in a moment in time just like this one, but she can't quite grasp it.
She shakes them all off, these strange half-moments, and after that first disastrous meeting with her superiors at the Agency, she never speaks of them again. But she doesn't forget. She files them meticulously away in the back of her mind, and doesn't worry away at the blank space there where memories should be, no matter how much it itches. Soon, a half-remembered voice whispers. Soon, Moira. I promise.
She visits the shooting range, fires round after round into her paper target, and the air around her reeks of cordite and sand and seawater. It doesn't affect her aim at all.
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