How Amnesia Was Pulled Into the Spy Life — Part I
There are shadows in The Sprawl that don’t belong to anything, not to buildings, not to people. There was a time when Purple Amnesia knew where all of them lived. She went looking for the places that lived in the dark, the corners where young women were never supposed to stay for long.
Her name wasn’t Amnesia then.
That name would come later. Back then, she was still someone else, and one night at the Limonene Lounge is when that ended.
The lounge was packed that night, the music loud and heavy, everyone’s mid-conversation and two hits past awareness. Amnesia was in the middle of a sesh when someone slipped a note into her hand. The paper had no logo or symbols, just a short message typed in faint gray text:
“You were supposed to sit by the window.
It’s fine.
Stay where you are. We’re listening.”
Amnesia looked around, unsure what to do next. No one was looking at her. No one reacted. Her friends were still laughing, still getting high, lost in their own stories. No one seemed to notice the note, and when she asked, one seemed to know where it came from.
I’m so high, I’ll have to figure this out later. Amnesia tried to laugh it off. Dumb jokes, some weirdo flirting, she folded the paper and tucked it in her palm. She said goodbye to her friends and walked home.
The next morning is when her life shifted off its axis. A voice was already there when she woke, low and close enough to feel like it was breathing with her.
“We don’t want to scare you.”
Her pulse spiked and Amnesia jumped up in bed. She pressed her fingers to her ear, expecting to feel a wire, a chip — anything. There was nothing, no adhesive, no sensation except skin, but she could hear it.
At first, she thought she was losing her mind.
Then the voice spoke again, steady and confident, like it already knew what she was thinking.
“You’re not crazy.”
And that was the moment she remembered: This was whoever left the note at the Limonene Lounge.
“What do you want?”
“Amnesia,” it said, “we have noticed you. You move well between people. You listen. You don’t interrupt the room. That’s rare.”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Her throat was dry.
The voice continued slowly, measured, coated in the confidence of someone who has never once needed to explain themselves.
“We work inside your world, same dispensaries, same tables at the same lounges, but we need your help.”
“With what?” She asked.
The voice softened — almost enticing.
“Keep smoking with your friends. Keep showing up where you already belong. Just… notice more. Sometimes we need to know things, and we need people to find things out.”
When Amnesia didn’t respond, the voice said.
“We’re asking if you’re ready to begin something small. No risk, no contact, just pay attention to who sits where… and who talks when the weed gets passed around.”
“What do you need to know?” Amnesia asked.
“It could be anything. One week we may need to know about what’s happening at a grow, or maybe a new company plans on moving into the city. Information can be very helpful.”
Amnesia was about to ask what was in it for her, but before she could get that out, the voice said.
“We’re offering you something most people in The Sprawl never get,
purpose. And of course, stability, and you’ll make a decent amount of money. “
No urgency. No pressure.