Fiddleford sighed wearily. Tonight was just another night leading the Blind Eye—Another night of salvagin' people from their horrific memories. He thought, to steel himself—to remind himself of the importance of his mission.

The society members chanted "It is unsee" in a circle, waiting for their founder to arrive and erase the memories of the person chained to the metallic armchair. With a practiced hand, he withdrew the memory gun from a box held by a cult member, monitoring the screen attached to the weapon.

"Who are you, and what is it that you have seen?" he asked, turning to the captive—He had posed that question more times than he could remember.