Chapter Text
It starts, as many things in MJ's life do, with Ned Leeds. They’re in the undergraduate student lounge, snacks spread across the table, heads occasionally down working. MJ can feel Ned growing more frustrated by the second with whatever code he’s working on, and it’s incredibly unnerving. Under any other circumstances, she’d leave—but as it is, her essay on Hobbes’ State of Nature is grating on her, and she welcomes the distraction.
MJ taps her pen against the table. “What’s the problem?”
Clearly relieved by the chance to vent, Ned throws his hands up. “The same as before.”
She frowns. “The memory thing?”
“The memory thing,” Ned confirms. He’s talking about the AI he’s building, a project whose details mostly go over her head. She knows enough to get the basics: it's designed to simulate human companionship, except the memory processing isn’t working as planned. Beyond that, MJ avoids asking too many questions—given the current state of the world, she's concerned about what the technology might one day be used for, if it isn’t already. “I just don’t get what’s wrong.”
“Probably something stupid,” MJ says, trying to be comforting. “Like a misplaced comma.”
Ned grumbles. “Yeah, probably. But I just... I don’t get it. What does it matter if it can’t remember everything? It’s not like human memory is perfect.”
She hums. “Our memories are notoriously bad.”
“Exactly! I mean, I can barely remember how we became friends, but I don’t have a critical error over it, do I?” He glares at his computer like it’s personally offended him—which, MJ supposes, it kind of has. “No. I move on. The same as when I forget what I had for dinner two nights ago.” He glances at her indignantly. “Right?”
“Right,” MJ agrees slowly. “But you had pasta two nights ago, Ned.”
His mouth purses. “Fine. But I still forget loads of other stuff. And you know why?” He pokes a finger near the screen, not quite touching it. “Because memories are stupid. So, you should just get over it, and work.”
MJ thinks it's good advice. Good, solid advice—better than most of the nonsense her best friend spews daily. Unfortunately, it's utterly wasted on both the AI... and on her.
Because while human memory might be unpredictable and unreliable, MJ nonetheless feels like she should remember something—anything—about how her relationship with Ned evolved. He is, after all, her first and only friend.
But apparently, she doesn’t. And it’s not barely there—it's not there at all.
Honestly, MJ doesn’t understand how she’s never noticed it before. The only reason she can think of is that she’s never tried to recall those moments until now—or maybe, whatever this is, it happened recently.
Neither explanation changes the fact that now, aware of the absence, she won't be able to stop thinking about it. Nor does it change that those memories are just... blank.
Empty. Gone. Nada.
Missing.
Everything else spirals from there.
It’s all fairly innocuous at first.
MJ goes through the photos on her phone from high school, trying to jog her memory of her friendship with Ned. When that doesn’t work—merely raising more questions, like why she took so many rooftop photos alone her senior year—she pulls out her old sketchbooks. She notes the random blank pages between drawings of Flash Thompson and Mr Harrington, but can’t make heads or tails of them. She asks her parents for their photo albums and yearbooks from Midtown High, only to find more oddities—a picnic she supposedly attended by herself, and one less student photo in the line of last names starting with 'P'.
Despite her efforts, the gaps in MJ’s memory remain—worse, they grow. She returns to Midtown in person, not correcting the reception staff's assumption that she's from the district, and takes the opportunity to cross-reference their records. She checks Decathlon awards, and watches broadcasted copies of their tournaments whenever possible—if she can find the footage and it works. Most of it doesn’t: the tapes are either corrupted or misplaced themselves. She spends hours scouring the local library's newspaper clippings, even the borrowing records of popular books—anything and everything she can get her hands on.
Weeks pass, her grades slip, but MJ doesn’t care. This is more important than college or scholarships. Her name might as well be Alice, except she didn’t jump down the rabbit hole—she tripped and fell. And she’s 100% sure this isn’t a dream. There are literal holes in her memory, God dammit, and she can’t remember how she became friends with Ned after being alone for so long. Her mind is a sieve, but she doesn’t know what’s being kept and what’s slipping through, what can be trusted at face value and what’s lacking vital context.
She can’t fucking trust herself, so how the hell can she focus on anything else?
Gradually, people start to notice something’s wrong—Ned first, then her roommate, then her parents. Even the regulars at the bakery, where she picks up the occasional weekend shift, look at her with concern. Peter Parker asks if she’s okay four times in one conversation, and MJ doesn’t know how to answer. How do you explain that you’re losing your grip on reality, one forgotten moment at a time?
She has a theory, of course, but it’s too insane to write down on the evidence board rapidly taking over her desk—or even in the less publicly visible files on her computer. It's based on a thin web of correlations surrounding her missing memories, involving SHIELD or some other secret government organization, and the potential erasure of identities—possibly of enhanced individuals.
But that sounds crazy; it is crazy. Or maybe she’s crazy, or going crazy. She genuinely can’t tell anymore—has she swum in a sea of her tears? Met the Cheshire Cat? Drunk tea with the Mad Hatter? It’s a blur, and the rest of the world appears impossibly far away.
It all comes to a head the week before exams, when Ned corners her in the corridor after a World History class. There's people everywhere, loud and obnoxious, but Ned isn't deterred.
He nods toward the classroom. “What was that about?”
MJ shrugs; she has no idea what he’s referring to. Besides, there’s a wall between them now, one that’s been there ever since she realized something about their friendship doesn’t fit—doesn’t make sense.
“Reading week for exams,” she says.
He frowns and falls into step beside her, which feels like a bad sign. Sure enough, they don’t even make it two steps before he says the magic words. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
It’s unconvincing, and Ned doesn’t buy it. MJ’s never been good at lying to him—not that she thinks she’s ever needed to before. There's too much missing to be certain, though.
Ned hesitates, then halts them both with a careful hand on MJ’s arm. “I’m worried about you.”
She struggles not to roll her eyes. “What is this, an intervention?”
He stares at her, scrutinizing. “Yeah. Kind of. I know something’s wrong. Everyone knows something’s wrong.” His brow furrows. “Are you having problems in class, or with your roommate—”
MJ shakes her head firmly. She needs to placate him before they reach the dormitories: her shrine-like desk is something of a give-away. “What? No. Everything’s fine, Ned. Seriously, I’m okay.”
His expression is one of pure disbelief. “Right. Except you’re not. I can tell you’re not. You’re distracted, and distant, and I’m pretty sure that class you just walked out of—”
“I’m fine!” MJ can feel him wrenching her back to the surface and fights it. “There’s just... I have a lot going on right now. More than exams.”
He pulls again. “Like what?”
“Like... like...”
She can’t think of anything. The truth is all-consuming, occupying her mind every second of every day, and now she can’t even come up with a single convincing lie.
Missing, missing, missing.
By the time MJ realizes she’s saying it out loud, it’s too late.
“What's missing?” Ned asks, shaking her gently, ignoring the bemused glances from other students. “MJ, what are you missing?”
MJ looks at him—at the desperation on his face—and her resistance crumbles. He’s hauling her, one tug after another, until she has no choice but to follow.
“My memories.” The admission tumbles out in a rush. “Parts of my memories are missing, Ned. Big, significant parts. Entire days; weekends... they’re just gone. And I don't... I can't... I have to figure it out. I have to.”
Ned’s expression goes slack, his voice dropping to a croaked whisper. And when he asks his next question, MJ can’t tell if she’s being yanked upwards or if Ned is falling with her.
“You too?”