Chapter 3: Information Broker

Chet brewed a pot of coffee, the aroma wafting through the small café. He slid the steaming cup across the counter to me with a casual grin.

"On the house," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "You must be pretty bored, huh?"

Chet shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "If the suspect didn’t take your money, then what did they take?" He struck a thinker’s pose, clearly enjoying every second of his Sherlock Holmes fantasy.

I stared at him, unsure how to respond.

Then Chet’s face brightened with a dramatic revelation. "Aha! They must have taken your virginity!"

I choked on the coffee, the liquid spewing out of my mouth and splattering onto the counter. Chet's smirk widened as he quickly grabbed a rag and started cleaning up the mess. I glared at him, my face burning with embarrassment. I had a strong suspicion that he’d given me that cup of coffee just to see me choke.

Chet, still cleaning, chuckled. "Unfortunately, we wouldn’t know if your virginity is truly gone. It’s not like you have a hymen, right?"

"Not funny, Chet," I muttered, still annoyed by his earlier comment.

Chet chuckled, unfazed. "You looked good on TV, by the way. Ivory saved you, right? How does it feel? Have you seen the video? Ivory's appearances are always random. She doesn't have a patrol routine, so it's rare for her to show up, which is why there's always such a hubbub when she does."

I sighed, recalling the memory of that particular encounter. "I feel annoyed, and no, I haven't seen it. I can't afford the internet. But do they have video footage of it? It sure spreads fast if you know it already. This world is really rotten... you can't escape from social media."

"Sure, sure," Chet said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Is there no way for me to recover my memories? I miss... home," I said, my voice trailing off with a hint of desperation. Once, my past had been my everything. “It sucked, you know?”

"Ah, you were a runaway, right?" Chet recalled. “I almost forgot. Well, personally, I don’t care. I am an orphan, so that’s that.”

The background story I had crafted for myself was that I was a runaway from the south. The South was a lawless land, overrun by villainy, warlords, and criminals. It was a chaotic place where stories were hard to verify, which made my fabricated past all the more believable.

Chet leaned in with a serious expression replacing his usual smirk. "I have a suggestion."

"Sure, blow me away," I replied, bracing myself for whatever crazy idea he had this time.

"How about a specialized psychiatrist? A super-abled psychiatrist with hypnosis-related powers. They’re your best bet if you're looking for effectiveness. I can hook you up with one."

I hesitated. "I..."

I didn’t want to go to a telepath. They were a shady bunch. Telepaths were the type of superhumans whose abilities revolved around mind reading, mind control, and telepathy in general. They either had a variation of the ability, something specific to an individual aspect, or something somewhat of an all-rounder. The thought of letting someone like that mess with my mind was terrifying.

"I’d rather not," I finally said.

Moreover, I couldn’t let my past life be discovered by others. It was a secret I had to take to my grave. The idea of a telepath poking around in my brain was too risky, and the potential consequences were too severe to even consider.

"Do you know any pharmacy that would let me buy what I want without questions asked?" I asked, hoping Chet would have a solution that didn't involve telepaths or hypnosis.

Chet leaned back, considering for a moment. "I could hook you up with a doctor who would give you a prescription for a price."

I frowned. "Won’t they lose their license?"

"You’d be surprised how many quacks out there have to do something like this. They have their reasons—some are just plain quacks looking to fatten their wallet, some are victims of loan sharks, and some are doctors who got kicked out because of malpractice."

"Malpractice? They’d have already lost their licenses by then, right?"

Chet chuckled. "The world is a flexible place, Tom. Heck, I could have one if I managed to bribe the right person. And then there’s abroad—they’d be able to acquire a new license once they change their names. The City-States are flexible like that."

His words hung in the air, a demonstration of the world’s murky underbelly. It seemed every solution was fraught with risk, but I was desperate. Chet’s offer wasn’t perfect, but it was a start, and right now, a start was better than nothing.

I left the café without getting what I wanted. The disappointment weighed on me, but I tried to tell myself to be satisfied with the lead Chet had given me. I muttered under my breath, "That jerk, Chet… he charged me a thousand credits for hooking me up with this… Doctor Melinda?"

This kind of information should be around eight hundred to five hundred credits, right?

Dr. Melinda better be worth it.

Resigned, I flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address. The city blurred past the windows as we drove, a haze of neon lights and concrete. Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a small, nondescript building.

I took a deep breath and headed inside. Doctor Melinda’s office was on the second floor, the third room from the right after the elevator. The hallways smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, a peculiar mix of cleanliness and age.

Finally, I stood in front of a door with a brass plaque that read "Dr. Melinda Fonda." I hesitated for a moment, then knocked. A voice from inside told me to enter.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Dr. Melinda Fonda was seated behind a cluttered desk, her eyes sharp behind a pair of thin-framed glasses. She looked up as I walked in, sizing me up quickly.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to a worn leather chair across from her. I sat down, receiving her scrutiny in its raw form. "So, Chet sent you?" she began, her tone professional but curious.

"Yes," I replied. "I need help with... memory loss. It's not your usual kind, though."

It looked like she’d heard word from Chet that I was coming.

Dr. Melinda Fonda was an intriguing figure. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. Her thin-framed glasses rested delicately on the bridge of her nose, adding to her air of meticulous professionalism. She had dark hair, streaked with silver, pulled back into a neat bun, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lighting. She wore a white lab coat over a simple blouse and slacks, the attire of someone who valued practicality over style. The lines on her face hinted at a life of experience and perhaps a touch of weariness, but her posture and demeanor conveyed a relentless focus and determination. The clutter on her desk—medical journals, patient files, and various instruments—suggested a mind constantly at work.

I mentally sighed at my increasing analytical abilities… I’ve come to a habit of reading people, and it was transforming into a mechanical fashion perhaps influenced by my power subverting my subconscious— it has come to a point where I could mentally flick a switch in my head and turn off my emotions, thus aiding my analysis,

Dr. Melinda wasted no time. Her eyes were sharp as she addressed me with professional detachment evident in her tone. "I won’t tarry any longer, since you should know what it is you came for. The price varies for different medicines. On average, I charge three thousand credits for every hundred milliliters of a certain medicine. If it is a tablet or capsule medicine, then a dozen of them is also three thousand credits. So, what do you want?"

I was taken aback by the cost. It was more expensive than I had anticipated. Not only did I have to buy the actual medicine, but the prescription itself came at a hefty price. I mentally calculated the costs; a check-up would have added even more to the bill.

“Three different types of medicines that could help with forgetfulness,” I requested, trying to keep my voice steady despite the financial strain.

Dr. Melinda nodded and swiftly began writing out a prescription. "Donepezil, Galantamine, and Memantine."

I watched as she scribbled down the names. My mind raced with worry over potential side effects. Dr. Melinda handed me the prescription with a professional nod.

She continued, “The possible side effects of Donepezil and Galantamine are the following: nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, upset stomach, lack of hunger, weight loss, or low heart rate. Other less common problems include feeling tired, having trouble sleeping, vivid dreams, or muscle cramps.”

I took a deep breath, trying to absorb the information. “Okay?”

Dr. Melinda glanced at me, then added, “Memantine is best consumed with either Donepezil or Galantamine. The possible side effects are headache, dizziness, confusion, or constipation.”

I leaned forward, trying to mask my impatience. "How much dosage should I consume and when?"

Dr. Melinda looked at me with a hint of annoyance. "How would I know? It isn't like you had a check-up."

I hesitated, unsure how to proceed.

Dr. Melinda sighed and rubbed her temples. "Whatever... How severe is it?"

"Assume it's Alzheimer's," I said, hoping to get some concrete advice. “Or something that just outright wipes the memory.”

Dr. Melinda nodded, her professional demeanor kicking into high gear. "Okay, listen carefully, because I won’t say this twice—"

She began listing the details with clinical precision.

"Donepezil: Typically, start with 5 mg once daily. After 4-6 weeks, if well-tolerated, the dosage can be increased to 10 mg once daily. Take it once a day, usually at bedtime. It can be taken with or without food."

She continued, "Galantamine: Start with 4 mg twice daily, in the morning and evening. After at least 4 weeks, the dose can be increased to 8 mg twice daily, and eventually to 12 mg twice daily if tolerated. Take it twice a day, with meals—breakfast and dinner. Extended-release capsules are taken once a day in the morning, with food."

Finally, she said, "Memantine: Start with 5 mg once daily. Increase the dose by 5 mg each week to reach 10 mg twice daily after 3 weeks. It can be taken with or without food. Regular tablets or oral solution can be taken once or twice daily."

As she finished, I felt a wave of relief mixed with anxiety. Dr. Melinda seemed to know her stuff. Chet had mentioned that Dr. Melinda was a genuine medical practitioner, though her clientele mostly revolved around criminals. Despite her unconventional background, she provided the information I needed.

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my nerves. "Thanks, how much is it?"

Dr. Melinda didn't hesitate. "Nine thousand credits total."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out the necessary amount. There was no point in haggling with her. Her clientele was dangerous enough, and I had no desire to cross her. After paying her in full, I turned and left the office.

I went for the bus this time.

When it came to transportation, I would always pay by phone, flashing my QR code on the scanner. The government had been advocating for digital payment systems for some time already, thus the discounts and vouchers that came with them.

The bus ride was uneventful. My thoughts kept drifting back to the stack of credits I’d just handed over. I mentally reviewed the instructions Dr. Melinda had given me. If I followed them carefully, maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to recover my lost memories.

Once I reached the area near the cheap motel where I was staying, I skipped lunch. I was too frustrated and anxious to eat. I headed straight for the alley where I had left my cart.

When I turned the corner, my heart sank. My bicycle, which I had carefully parked and secured, was nowhere to be seen. It had been stolen. I couldn’t believe it. A surge of anger and helplessness flooded through me. There was no use in wasting time or energy on futile outrage, though.

“No… Think positively, Thomas… At least they didn’t manage to take away your cart…”

The reason they couldn’t move the cart was because like usual, I would disassemble its wheels. I attached the wheels back, and I swore, if I caught who stole my bicycle, they would be dead meat. I swore I’d left a rather solid lock on my bicycle, but it was still stolen!

I dragged my cart to the park, grumbling under my breath. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, and I needed to make the most of the daylight. Setting up my hotdog stand, I tried to push aside the frustration and focus on the task at hand. I needed to make money, and the park was a decent spot for business.

I managed to sell plenty of hotdogs that day. The buzz around Ivory's recent appearance seemed to have attracted more customers to my stand. It looked like yesterday's incident had actually worked in my favor. By six o’clock in the evening, I decided it was time to pack up. I dragged my cart to a different hidden alley, carefully removing the wheels and bringing them with me to the motel as usual. It was a precaution I couldn't afford to skip, especially after the bike theft.

After securing my cart, I headed to the nearest pharmacy to fill my prescription. The pharmacist barely glanced at me as he processed the order. I paid via my QR code, completing the digital transaction with a soft beep.

BANG!

Suddenly, the door to the pharmacy burst open, and a group of thugs rushed inside. The leader, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, barked out orders.

"This is a robbery! Hands off anything! Hands in the air!"

Mentally, I was like… Fuuuuuuck!

I raised my hands slowly, trying to remain calm. My heart pounded in my chest as I glanced around the small pharmacy, looking for any possible escape routes. The thugs were armed and dangerous, and I knew any sudden moves could end badly.

The pharmacist's face went pale as he shakily raised his hands. "P-Please, take whatever you want. Just don't hurt anyone."

The leader sneered, waving his assault rifle menacingly. "Yeah, that's the plan. Now, open the register and hand over the cash."

As the pharmacist fumbled with the register, I inched backward, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. My mind raced, weighing my options. I needed to get out of here without drawing attention to myself.

Another thug, a lanky guy with a tattoo snaking up his neck, noticed my movement. "Hey, you! Stay where you are!"

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. "Okay, okay, I'm not moving," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The tattooed thug kept his eyes on me while the leader grabbed the cash from the register and stuffed it into a bag. The atmosphere was tense, every second dragging on like an eternity. They sure were taking their time sweetly.

This was the second time in a week I got caught in an incident.

Such rotten luck.