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Slow, sonorous melodies filled the space of the concert hall. Some were moved to tears by their beauty. Others found that the music brought them into a trance-like state, full of goosebumps and ethereal sounds that worldly ears were never meant to hear. It enthralled even those critics and scholars who would not be caught dead enjoying music. The music left nobody untouched.

Except for one.

It was only natural—after all, he knew every single note by heart. This was not the symptom of an addiction to the piece; rather, he knew them because he had manually placed each one with the care and attention of a masterful composer. He could appreciate the technical skills of the musicians seated in front of him, of course, but the noise they made held no surprises. It sucked all of the fun out of listening.

Others had assured him that he wrote exceptional music. He was never so sure. After listening to the same chords hundreds of times, even the most dramatic of buildups devolved into a mundane set of notes and rhythms. It was not just his own music that he had ruined for himself; the works of others had also been spoiled by his profession. Instead of hearing magnificent soundscapes and creative instrumentation, he found himself locked in the automatic analysis of their works. Like the musicians, he could respect their ability, but only objectively; he could not experience their music in the same way everybody in the concert hall experienced his.

The music ceased, and there was a tentative silence that was quickly replaced by a standing ovation. The conductor turned around and beckoned him to come to the stage. The applause swelled into a crescendo as he rose to his feet and climbed the stairs, taking his place in front of the orchestra. There was a time when this ritual would set his heart racing; he would bow, and this immense satisfaction would well up inside of his chest. In that moment, he would know that his work was not in vain. Nowadays, that euphoria had been worn down to a stub of apathy, and he would carry out the actions as a mindless automaton. This ritual was all for the sake of publicity; it ensured that he would always be able to write more music, only to repeat the ritual once more. Such was the endless cycle that had defined his life for the past decade.

The applause slowly died down, the low rumble of post-performance chatter taking its place. The first time he had one of his pieces performed, he tried to exit through the front doors. It had seemed reasonable to leave the same way he had entered, except his status as the composer had then been publicly revealed. After the subsequent hours of small talk with the more passionate members of the audience, he learned to use the stage exit. All of his networking was done outside of such venues, anyways.

Billowing snow greeted him as he opened the doors. He coughed, the cold air biting into his lungs with each breath. The silver slush managed to find a way into his socks, numbing his ankles and wicking down to his toes. His dress shoes were of little help—what they offered in insulation, they offered even less of in traction. The stumbles came as a surprise, even though he expected them. Before long, the brutalist design of the concert hall behind him had faded away into the snowstorm.

When he reached the vehicle, he found it covered in a thick blanket of snow that was too thick for even the brightest of headlights to properly penetrate. He opened the car door, grabbing the metal snow scraper that lay on the passenger seat. The handle was a knurled, metal grip that had seemed robust when he purchased it; now, it was like sharp ice. He cursed, realizing that he left his gloves at home. The sleeves of his suit jacket would have to do.

The car was more of a pampered pet than a proper vehicle. He preferred the older models, the ones that were more lenient with their sensors. These ones chirped with each chip of ice that fell from the lens enclosures. As if that was encouragement—the thing would refuse to move until he cleared enough of them. He wouldn't use them, anyways. Not in this weather.

The cabin lit up as he brushed off the last of the beady, black eyes, and he was finally rewarded by the warmth of the car's interior. He waited for his hands to thaw, and then began the nighttime drive back home.

It was a blizzard on the way back. The snow was like a fog, each individual snowflake too mixed up with the others to be distinguished. He passed accident after accident of those who had forgotten how to drive in this weather. He had heard stories of the week-long traffic backups caused by automated systems trying to parse a snowstorm, but perhaps these inexperienced drivers were better off with the safety, as opposed to the speed.

With no visibility, there was no way of telling exactly how far along the road he had traveled. Only by the subtle glow of his car's clock was he able to tell that he was halfway through his six-hour trip. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, only to taste warm paper. Groaning, he tossed the empty cup behind him. He would have to stop and get more.

He came across a bridge. By the time he had noticed the silver bike in the middle of his lane, he was upon it. Instinctively, his hands swerved the wheel to the right, narrowly missing it. The frozen road then took control of his vehicle, slamming it into the guardrails that stood between him and the pitch-black river below.

They did not hold.

The car shattered the glass-like surface of the water. His head collided with the airbag as the vehicle sank beneath the surface, the motor gurgling to a halt. The lights then went out, leaving him in absolute darkness. The trickling sound of the water taunted him as it leaked into the cabin, serving as a reminder that the car sunk deeper with each passing moment. The door was no good—he was physically unable of opening it before the pressure equalized. It would be too late by then, anyways. Even if he could—by some miracle—escape the car and swim to the edge of the river bank, surely hypothermia would finish him off. His clothes would be wet, and the road above would get very little traffic at this hour.

His train of thought was cut short by the water that had pooled at his feet. Its touch was electric; his legs involuntarily ripped themselves away from it, only for his arm to hit the window where the water flowed from and do the same. There was no escaping reality—he would die if he waited any longer. He fumbled for the snow-scraper from the seat beside him and pressed it into the window.

It exploded, water rushing to fill the gap. The frigid liquid engulfed him, and everything went numb. He tried to swim, but was unable to tell if his limbs were moving, or even which way was up. The numbness was quickly forgotten as a sharp pain in his chest forced him to double over. He reached at it, only to be horrified as his hand grasped the shaft of the snow scraper protruding from just above his navel. Everything became sluggish—was there even water around him? He seemed to fly. Perhaps it was all a dream, and he would wake up now. Of course it was; he would never be so careless as to crash, even in this weather! In any event, the guardrails would have saved him; that was their purpose. Surely he would wake up.

He was consumed in a kiln of amber light.

He awoke to find himself lying in a white room. At least, it appeared to be a room—acoustically, it felt like a closed space. Light emanated from the walls, floor, and ceiling, but it was too uniform to make out the boundaries between them. Patterns started to surface in his vision, echoes of the dust and bacteria that had found a home on the surface of his eyes. He blinked and shook his head, and the patterns vanished. To his left were a pair of small, plastic discs connected to wires that fed into the floor. They had no shadow—such things were not possible, not in this light.

He went to stand up, but collapsed onto the floor instead. It was at this time when he noticed the scaled appendages affixed to himself. Four of them protruded from each corner of his body, terminating in similarly scaled feet with claws attached. A tail extended from his rear end, easily the length of his body. It tapered to an infinitesimal point that gleamed even in the bleak light of the room. And the wings! These massive structures were affixed to the center of his body on either side. Save the veined membranes of these wings, silver scales covered his entire body. Each one was flawlessly polished, hosting their own reflective copies of the world around him.

It was moderately disturbing, to be sure—and yet, the body did not feel terribly foreign. He could move all of the parts with ease, and he had a general sense of his own size and strength. He tried standing up once more; his legs wobbled, but with a concentrated effort he was able to stand.

A square portion of the wall slid down to reveal a doorway before him, allowing a scaled figure to walk through the newly-created opening. Its claws clinked upon the hard surface of the floor as it walked towards him, the cadence of its steps alien. The scales had no color—or too many? He wasn't sure. They certainly had some hue, but no color seemed to match it. Perhaps it was red? Of course not, it was more of a brown color—or was it a faded yellow? This puzzle was interrupted by the voice of the new creature.

“Ah, good! You're awake." It smiled. “So, how was it? Refreshing? Invigorating?" Its gray eyes peered into his own, as if expecting to find the answer within them. “Not so much?"

“Where am I?" he asked, his voice frantic.

Its eyes narrowed to slits. “It's alright, you're just disoriented. Now, think clearly: do you remember anything?"

“I…I was driving. There was a bike—at least, I think it was a bike—and the bridge, it must have been icy. I swerved, and—" His voice trailed off as the conclusion struck him. “Am I dead?"

“You look very alive to me, Speculus."

His name was not Speculus. This was not his body. “No, no." None of this could be real. It had to be a dream, some false setting cooked up by his imagination to save him from reality. He panicked, looking around as if to find some alternative exit. Only the cold light presented itself. The action set himself off-balance, and he crashed to the ground.

The creature smiled, opening its mouth as if to laugh before thinking better of it. “It would be best if you take it slow. You've been lying down for the better part of a day now. Stay here—I'll go get Azura, we'll see if we can't jog that memory of yours." It turned away and left the way it came.

Was this indeed a dream? He had never had a lucid dream before—now was an odd time to start having them. If it was, there was not much he could do about it; he could possibly shock himself awake by dying, but that was not readily accessible. And even if he could wake up, it might be detrimental to his health: The car accident was serious; surely he would need rest to properly recover. And in the event in which this was not a fiction, and was instead some sort of afterlife, he most certainly would not wish to injure himself in an attempt to wake up from a non-existent dream. In any case, he decided, it would be best for him to remain there and see what he could make of it.

The colorless creature then appeared through the doorway once more, this time with another in tow. As they grew closer, their likeness to him only became more apparent. Had it not been for the new creature's blue scales, the two would have been indistinguishable. They stopped in front of him.

“You don't remember who either of us are?"

Speculus shook his head.

“Well then, it seems introductions are in order. I'm the Counselor, and—"

“And I am Azura," said the blue one. “I hope the Counselor did not interrupt you like he did me." Noting the confused expression on Speculus' face, she turned her head to meet the Counselor's gaze. “What did you do to him?"

“Nothing!" The retort was instinctive and had no meaning. The Counselor looked around the room, as if trying to find some distraction or escape route. Seeing only the blank, white walls, he sighed. “Very well. I suppose you don't recall this, Speculus, but you paid me a visit yesterday, asking for a change of scenery. You had been acting rather strangely as of late, so I figured you needed more than a quick chat. So, I hooked you up—" He nodded towards Azura. “—with his permission, of course—to what I have dubbed, 'The Experience Machine'."

Azura stifled a laugh.

Ignoring her, he pointed his tail at the plastic discs on the floor. “A gift from a dear friend who is no longer with us. Place these upon your head, and it will pour an entire lifetime of experience directly into your brain." He sighed. “That part obviously worked just fine, but the decoupling process seems to have been a bit messy. Your original memories are supposed to lay dormant during the process; when it finishes, the false memories fade away and are replaced by the original ones."

“My memories are not fake." Certainly, he had experienced many years of life. He had been many places, interacted with many people. There was too much complexity in his life to be fabricated by some machine.

“I'm sure it seems that way to you, but this does not take place inside a vacuum. The memories seem real to you because they were designed to."

Azura hummed in annoyance. “So just fix it—or is that no longer your job?"

Ignoring her once more, he turned to Speculus and spoke softly: “Now, I can repair it, in a sense. These memories you currently have, they will likely be a bit of a hindrance. If we get rid of them, you will most certainly have an easier time. A clean, impressionable slate. Your original memories would likely resurface, and everything should go back to normal."

Azura snorted. “ 'Likely'? You can't just carpet bomb his head and expect everything to turn out fine."

“It is the same chemical used in the machine, just at a higher dosage." He tilted his head towards the ground. “I don't believe there is much else that can be done, other than to wait and hope that your memories return. This method is all there is."

Speculus' legs stopped shaking. “No," he said. “You might as well scoop out my brain and dump a new one in. These memories are all I have left."

“The efficacy of the drug drops significantly the longer you wait." The Counselor shuffled uncomfortably, casting a set of shimmering caustics upon the floor and ceiling. “If you change your mind, do not hesitate to return. In the meantime, Azura, I'm tasking you with getting Speculus up to speed on everything. You are partners, after all."

“Partners?" The panic was visible in Speculus' face.

“Oh, don't worry, it just means you two live in the same house, along with some other logistical conveniences."

Azura smirked. “Among other things."

“Well, I'll leave you to it," he said, and then turned and left the room.

Azura waited for the door to close behind him. “Follow me." She turned around, and Speculus had a moment to better examine the color of her scales. They lacked the puzzling quality of the Counselor's scales, but their deep, mature shade of blue was reminiscent of the deep ocean.

“I take it you and the Counselor don't get along very well?" he asked.

“We tolerate each other quite well, usually—it's just that he interrupted me while I was in the middle of something."

“In the middle of what?" he asked, immediately regretting the question.

“Jade."

He paused. “As in carving jade?"

“No."

With that, the two exited the room and walked into the sunlight.