On the screen, the file name at the top of his vision changed. 39017.mp4 began to delete itself, character by character. In its place, a new file was being written directly into his neural memory drive. It was titled: 39018.mp4.
The file didn't open with a loading bar. It hit his visual cortex like a physical blow.
The video quality was poor, full of horizontal tracking lines and digital artifacting. It was a handheld shot, looking out through the reinforced plexiglass of a research dome. Outside, a blizzard was raging, a white wall of screaming wind.
The video feed began to tear. The audio dissolved into a harsh, digital screech that made Silas winch and grab his temples. Lines of code began to bleed down over the video image, green text overriding the visual of the dying research station.
Silas tried to scream, but his jaw just locked into a wide, frozen smile. The low hum began in the back of his throat, and the world went white.
Silas froze. She had said his name. He checked the file properties. The creation date was listed as half a century before he was born. He felt a cold sweat break across his neck. He rewound the file a few seconds.