DEJA VOODOO

Someone’s controlling the loop. But who? & how do we stop them?

PSYCHOLOGICAL SCIENCE FICTION | MYSTERY | SUSPENSE

The smooth, glossy indigo glides on like silk.

“Just one more coat,” I think, steadying my hand as I swipe the brush across my nail.

Just as I do, a sudden banging at the door makes me jump. The polish tumbles across the table. I catch it just before it falls, muttering a curse as I twist the cap back on.

Another bang, louder this time, rattles the door.

“Baby, open up.” A familiar voice calls out.

Irritation flares as I try to keep my fingernails out of harm’s way. I slip getting off the couch, like a total klutz. Panic arrives before I know why.

“Jax,” I call in my sweetest voice, staring at my still-wet nails. “Use your key, honey!”

His voice fires back, frantic, “I would if I could, Lex.”

I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you have your key?” I shout, bumping the lock with the backs of my hands.

The pounding continues. “Not now, Lex. Please, just open the door.”

I finally pop the latch with a few more bumps. I cheer quietly, reaching for the handle, holding my nails up like fragile treasure. I can feel the wet polish sticking in places it shouldn't, but I can’t stop now. I twist my whole body with the turn until it clicks.

Voilà.

“Okay, honey, it’s open,” I sing, prancing back to the couch. He slings the door open, crashing it into the wall.

“Careful!” I scoff, waving a hand.

He’s home early, which, alone, is a bad sign. He rolls in like a storm cloud. Full of tension. Calm for a moment, then the bottom falls out. I see his face. His lip is split. Fresh. A colorful bruise and a thin crust of dried blood. A violent patch of red and purple against his otherwise neat appearance.

My gaze narrows to the jagged line. It looks anything but accidental. It’s the kind of mark that tells its own story if you stare long enough. I listen to his story, keeping my face composed, mirroring his grin.

He explains his injuries and reenacts the events in major detail. During a presentation at work this morning, he said he'd lifted his coffee canteen too quickly and hit his lip. He said everyone was polite and offered to help, but he'd excused himself to the bathroom from embarrassment.

I nod like a supportive girlfriend.

“That must have been so embarrassing,” I say, though I’m analyzing every word he’s saying. My attention falls on his fidgety fingers, the way his laughter sounds forced, and how his eyes don’t quite meet mine.

A lip doesn't sport an injury like his just from a simple canteen mishandling. But still, he insists, practically reliving the moment. His eyes hold a playful muse and his smile is genuine.

"Yeah," he laughs. A little too lively to match the pain he’s describing. "You know me, always doing something clumsy."

I smile to keep up the pretense, but I sense my doubt is slipping through.

The question isn’t, if Jax is lying. The question is, why is he lying?

I head to the medicine cabinet, thankful for the push-and-release design of the door. I grab the first-aid-kit and toss the question casually, “Is this why you’re home early, sweetie?”

He twitches, about to answer, but pretends not to hear. He just keeps poking his lip in front of the mirror, like it’s some mysterious anomaly.

“Jax?” I ask, irritated.

Still no response. His shoulders slump and he looks down, sulking. I rush to him, setting the kit on the coffee table.

“Jax, sweetie, what’s the matter?” I place a hand on his shoulder. His eyes close and he breathes a heavy sigh. “It’s not that bad." I lie. "Sit down,” I persuade, turning him towards the couch, “let me clean that up.”

He follows, then freezes, planting his feet to the spot. My heart sinks and my palms go slick with sweat.

He looks up. “Listen, Lex,” he begins, stammering, like he’s afraid of the words he’s about to say.

I hold my breath, “What is it, honey?”

His eyes well up with tears, and his face scrunches. Not like he's sad. Or like he's guilty and asking for forgiveness, but like he's terrified.

“Jax, you’re freaking me out. What is it?”

He only says, “I’m sorry, Lex.”

“Sorry for what?” I whine.

Another knock at the door.

“Police. Open up.”

My gaze snaps back and forth from Jax to the door.

“Police! Open up!” They holler again.

Jax grunts, fists clenched. He won’t look at me. He takes a step back muttering through his teeth, “I’m so sorry, Lex.”

I burst into tears and grab him, “Dear God, Jax, what did you do?”

He holds me tight.

“It got... out of control," I feel his breath in my hair.

He lets me go and jumps back in defense when they knock again.

He continues, "A guy from work. We argued, and I…” His voice falters.

The door shakes me into panic.

“Open up, or we’re coming in!”

I groan, "Jax, sweetheart. What are we going to do?"

He holds my hand up to the light and smiles at the indigo. It's his favorite.

His jaw tenses. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” He glances toward the door. “He… he didn’t get up, Lex. I left, and he… he didn’t get up.”

Before I have time to process his words, the door crashes open. Two officers storm in, guns drawn, shouting commands. Jax raises his hands in surrender, casting me one last look over his shoulder as they push him against the wall.

"I love you, Alexis."

The cuffs latch around his wrists. Time moves in slow motion. Sounds muffle.

The L word hits me harder than I ever thought it could. I'd always imagined the moment when he'd say this to me. How I’d react. How it'd make me feel. But, after so long, I'd assumed he didn't know that word. Or if he did, that he might just be a non-believer.

I never envisioned it like this. Though, somehow, deep down, I knew he meant it. There was a twinkle in his eye when he said it. The same one that'd charmed me when we first met three years ago.

One of the officers escorts Jax out of view. The other turns to face me.

"You alright, miss?" He asks, panting, "You hurt?"

I don't respond right away. I just stand, staring into space, trying to remember how to move again.

Eventually I tell the officer that I am fine, just a little shook up from the commotion. Satisfied, he hands me his card and tells me to give them a call in the morning, then follows the other officer out the door.

The silence that follows hurts my ears. I curl onto the couch, desperate to preserve what little I can of Jax’s presence. His words, his touch, his scent... but it’s already gone.

He’s already gone.

My thoughts race like they have something to prove, and I let them. Sleep isn't an option. At least not until I can find some answers.

The silence becomes my portal for focus. I close my eyes and rewatch what just happened. I replay his words. Study his face. I notice now that when the police showed up, he didn't seem surprised. He didn't resist. He didn't even ask what was going on. Like he already knew they were coming...

I sit on the floor where Jax had stood. There’s a mark on the wall from the door flying open. I want to be upset, to complain about how he should be more careful, or how soon it needs to be repaired.

But I don't feel any of that...

Instead, I keep thinking about the story he told. The coffee canteen. The busted lip. All of it was so... elaborate. So many details. But why? If he knew the police were coming, then why’d he spend his last few moments just to tell me some silly story?

I start pacing, arms crossed, eyes down. I stop in front of the mirror where he stood, poking at his lip, almost like it wasn't even his. He was so fixated on it. Was he trying to get me to notice something? I can't be sure. I just want clarity. Context. Something that tells me I'm not wrong for trusting him.

I walk over to his backpack. The one he never lets anyone touch. The one he takes with him everywhere he goes. He's never left home without it.

Never.

Well, except for today, maybe. I don't remember seeing him with it when he came home. Maybe he'd left it here on purpose? Maybe it was just a coincidence? An accident?

I stare at it and wonder for the first time what might be in there. I've never invaded his personal spaces. I've always respected his boundaries. I think if I do it just this once, it can be justified that it was for good reason.

I unzip the backpack.

A few USB drives, a rubber banded stack of folded notes, and an invoice. Paid in cash... for 68 thousand dollars?

My eyes sweep back and forth across the page. Looks like some kind of receipt for tech devices or other electronic equipment... Dated 2 days ago. I don't see seller information, or business names. Just a long list of item descriptions:

"INFARED_CAM_LENSES."

"SIGNAL_JAMMER."

Something called, "DEJA_VOODOO_microSD_PILOT_PK."

There's handwriting on the back. Looks like Jax's. Dates and times, streams of numbers, and abbreviations I don't recognize. Some are marked with 'X's,' others with ✓ checkmarks. One’s circled twice with today's date on it, written with such force, the ink bled through the page. Says, "DVMS_PP_A" and, “8:00 P.M." off to the side.

I check the time. It’s 6:47 P.M.

I sit down with the USB drives and plug them in. Only one loads, the rest don't respond. I start to open folders. Most of them are nonsense. Encrypted text documents. Video files that won’t play. Audio files full of static.

I open one labeled, “LEX_LOGIC_FNL_RND” It tries to open, loads a "maximum security alert" then crashes.

Another, “MIRRORBACK_DUMP,” shows what looks like a spreadsheet, then flashes red and disappears.

But one folder is different.

Nothing is encrypted. It's just a single file: LEXICON_SETUP_URGENT.txt

I click it.

"...Lex,

If you’re reading this, it's not too late.

Listen carefully.

Take the following actions immediately, in this order, and then do NOT touch your phone:

▪︎Turn off WiFi.

▪︎Disconnect Bluetooth.

▪︎Do NOT put on airplane mode.

▪︎Do NOT power down.

They’re scanning the house. They have been for a long time. They'll be alerted if they notice any odd behaviors.

If I'm not around, then that means they got me first. Which means that you’re online and the chip's about to be fully active now.

If you haven’t felt it yet, you will. At the top of your spine. You might blame stress or grief, but it's not. It’s them.

You’re the real package and they know exactly where you are. You’re the only one who can put an end to this loop. You’re the key. That’s all I know.

I tried to gain access to the information that would set us free, but they sabotaged me. I used you as collateral in a bet, but only because of how confident I was that I wouldn't lose!

They never expected me to win.

But I did.

I don't know exactly what they plan on doing, but they’ll make it look like I did it. I've seen them do it to others before.

You have to trust me.

They called them "targets." They would plant a human decoy to trigger a protocol. Then, BAM, instant death. Then they’d put the blame on their target.

I've seen how they've manipulated video footage to rewrite events and frame others, like me, who they thought to be threats.

Maybe I'm freaking myself out? I don’t know…

If I’m not, and if they do end up doing that to me, well… I guess I deserve it.

What's important is you.

You’re not safe now. And you won’t be, unless you complete the Pilot Pack Deactivation Sequence. "PP_DS" Which, as far as I am aware, is a default injection that follows the time switch, so long as they haven’t fully activated your chip.

"DVMS_PP_A" = "Deja Voodoo MicroSD Pilot Pack Activation" It’s the current path and it’s broadcasting from your implant. The timer isn’t for a meeting. It’s the time switch. The point of your irreversible activation.

Don’t let anyone near you before 8 P.M. Not even if they say they knew me.

Grab ONLY your absolute essentials and leave. Drive away from here and don't stop until AFTER 8 P.M.

REMEMBER :

DON'T TOUCH YOUR PHONE

LEAVE IT BEHIND

***

I look at the clock. 6:58 P.M. Eleven minutes just vanished.

I run to the bathroom and twist in front of the mirror. There’s a discolored patch of skin, like a healing bruise, at the base of my neck.

I touch it. My vision warps. Light fades almost to black, then returns to maximum exposure.

I settle on the floor.

How could he have allowed them to put something like this inside me? Broadcasting my location and who knows what else to people I don't even know? People he apparently hadn't known very well either?

There’s a knock at the door. Soft this time, then silence.

My muscles lock. My curiosity burns. I reach for my phone, but remember Jax’s warning.

Another knock.

"Alexis, I’d like to speak with you regarding the arrest of Mr. Jackson. Is it alright if I come in?"

I inch toward the door as quietly as I can and peep through the peephole.

“I understand this is a lot. But I believe your life may be in danger,” he continues, “Jackson was involved in a criminal espionage ring. You may have been compromised.”

I still don’t respond.

“Are you aware of the DVMS protocol?”

My throat goes dry.

“I can explain it to you if you'd just let me in. You weren’t supposed to be part of this. But there’s a way to remove it. Quick and painless. We have the tools to deactivate the chip before it transmits its full payload.”

Payload?

I step back. My phone buzzes. A blocked number.

I leave it and grab my keys. Essentials. No phone. I do exactly what Jax said and head for the back door.

I leave behind the USBs. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m scared of what else it’ll show me. Or what else it'll do to me.

I drive until I don’t recognize the streets anymore, pull off the highway and into a hotel parking lot.

I check into the room, close the blinds, and sit on the bed.

7:58 P.M.

I watch the clock tick.

7:59 P.M.

My vision jumps. One frame ahead of where I think it should be. Like I blinked through a second. A soft pulsing vibration emits from the base of my neck. Just a disruption. Like the present moment glitched and skipped ahead.

Something about it felt familiar. Almost like I remembered something that I never actually lived through.

It passes.

I sit, waiting for something else, but nothing happens.

I get up, walk to the bathroom, and turn on the light. I twist to check the back of my neck in the mirror.

I stare. The bruise is gone.

I go to the table and realize I don't remember what I was checking for.

On the table is a small glass bottle of nail polish. Indigo. I pick it and unscrew the cap.

The smooth, glossy indigo glides on like silk.

“Just one more coat,” I think, steadying my hand as I swipe the brush across my nail.

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