Oh look it's his suitemate. 

"Hi!" Wave. "You look a bit off, everything alright?"

"I don't... know..." he says slowly.

"Don't think I've ever heard that one before."

Pause.

"...which... is odd? It seems like people might sometimes..."

"Oh are you feeling it too? That looks like you're feeling it too."

"Yes, something very odd is going on. Speaking of odd, were you going to put clothes on, I'm not actually complaining but I feel as if I should."

"You've seen every inch of me from very up close, I see no reason to put any clothes on."

Edmund laughs genially, then abruptly stops laughing. 

"Um. I... do remember that. Hey, do you have any, ah, thoughts about me. Like, my prior behavior. And how it aligns with how people are supposed to behave, as human beings."

"...uh. I'm. Wait." Pause. "Maybe?" Okay this is a situation that requires him to sit, there's a couch over there for that exact purpose. "...my memories feel very fuzzy right now."

"As are mine, but I have the - distinct is entirely the wrong word - I have the extremely foggy recollection of you walking into our suite, meeting me, and having me flat on my back inside of two hours. And - I don't - I quite like you but that's frankly insane? I don't think I'm opposed to casual sex but you're my roommate, there should've been practical considerations and checking personality compatibility and there definitely wasn't, I think we talked about - butterflies?"

"My dick game must be real strong," he says in a light tone, but there's a wobble to his voice.

"I assure you it is."

Peter laughs a bit weakly. "I. Um. Share your opinion on the appropriateness of conversations about butterflies as it comes to convincing someone to have sex with you."

"I'm not - I doubt very much that if something nefarious is going on you are in the pilot seat, you seem not at all nefarious. And I don't blame you for - somehow seducing me. But you understand how this is concerning even if it's not cause for blame per se. - I'm trying to think of how to investigate this and my brain keeps coming back to call my brother and make him fix all the problems, Peter's always been good at that."

"Hey, have I ever told you the names of, uh. My siblings. Or my parents. Or literally any family."

"No. I've - you know my siblings, you've met them enough times - but. You've told me that you have siblings."

"Yeah, except I'm. Not. Sure I do. I don't remember them? Or, no, I remember the vague notion of having siblings but I have absolutely no... memories of their names or faces or any, any facts about them."

Okay this is starting to become less intriguing and more terrifying. He grabs his phone from his inventory and starts paging through his list of contacts.

"Fuck."

Edmund checks his own phone and breathes a muted sigh of relief.

Peter reaches the end of his contact list and then returns to the top and starts over more slowly but also more panicky.

"Your siblings are here," he says as he does that, eyes glued to the screen. "But not... mine. Or my parents. There's no one here I recognise as family."

Simbook, how about his Simbook page, surely he'd have his family there? Anyone with his last name? Anyone he even vaguely thinks might be related to him?

Edmund gets up and hugs Peter tightly.

Peter—leans into the hug, a bit, but starts hyperventilating anyway and eventually drops his phone and just hugs, not really able to do anything else as his brain starts going "what? what? what? what? what!" about everything and he's not sure what to think or feel or—where is he from, he doesn't remember, who raised him, where did he live before coming to Britechester, who is he—

Edmund gets out his phone and dials a number from muscle memory. "Peter, can you come over? Pete's having a bit of a breakdown, um - we're neither of us feeling great actually - and you're much better with squishy feelings."

The response is slightly garbled but affirmative. Edmund clicks his phone shut. "It'll be okay," he attempts. "- I'm not sure I'm literally going to adopt you into the greater Pevensie clan if it turns out your family doesn't exist but I'm strongly considering it, I like you."

Peter nods a bit into Edmund's skin. "I'm not—the family part—it's just—I don't remember anything. Anyone. From before I came here."

"I want to help but I'm not sure what I could possibly do."

Headshake. "Don't, don't think there's anything. Just. Gotta take a sec. To think. Probably."

This is the point at which the door opens, admitting Peter Pevensie.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, ignoring the ambient nudity.

Edmund startles. "Not - not really, we're having kind of a day of it. Pete, um... realized that our memories feel really off. And also his family might not exist."

"I'm sorry. Would you like a hug?"

"...I mean I wouldn't object to an extra element to this hugpile but I'm actually kind of surprised you're okay with," gesture at ambient nudity.

"It's your room, not mine. You can wear what you want."

Hug.

"...very enlightened. Um, do you have any thoughts on the more pressing matter of Tarleton coming to be ex nihilo?"

"It's a disturbing thought," Peter pronounces. 

"Okay let's not jump to conclusions, here. Something like, like amnesia and... a weird computer hacker... is more likely than that."

Hug, tho. Hug is good.

"The amnesia and the weird hacker would have to be coordinated. And nothing yet explains you seducing me with butterfly trivia."

"You did always like butterflies."

"Okay, maybe, but. Surely it's more likely than me coming to existence the moment I moved into this room, right?"

"I'm not sure it is. It's closer to comporting with our view of reality, maybe, but something is incredibly wrong and I'm not sure we can rely on what we think we know!"

"Cogito ergo cogito..."

"Please stop riffing, Peter, no one else is having fun."

"Sorry."

Mildly sullen is a new look on Peter Pevensie.

"I mean—Peter, are you feeling okay? Any changes in memory, any revelations about your origins...?"

"No need to worry about me," he says cheerfully.

"...so, what you're saying is that you have consistent memories since childhood and the fog of weirdness is isolated to us, or..."

"Edmund, you're my brother. I've got just about all the memories you do."

"That doesn't-"

Edmund twitches violently.

"Peter," he says in a rapid, panicked staccato, "what do you think of butterflies?"

"Never liked them as much as you did, I'm afraid." He chuckles. 

"How did you get the scar on your lip?"

"Old Mr. Solomon's dog attacked me," he says sadly. "Had to be put down."

"Fuck."

"Is everything alright?"

"You know what, I don't want to come up with any hypotheses here because I feel like I already have my own shit to deal with, Edmund please tell me how this makes perfect sense and Peter is not in any way acting abnormally."

"I - can't produce any concrete memory of him acting differently," Edmund says wretchedly. "I don't remember having the impression of my brother as a, a - stimulus-response machine with no intermediate states - but why would I, I fucked you because we both liked butterflies."

"I'm sure our conversation had more subjects than just butterflies," Peter protests weakly. "Like, okay, come on, this makes no sense, right? Me emerging fully formed from the void at your door, us acting like, like—like video game NPCs or something, until just twenty minutes ago?"

"When all that remains is the impossible..."

Edmund makes a deeply unhappy noise.

"When all that remains is the impossible you probably made some mistake in your impossibility proofs," Peter grumbles.

"Well, did you? Clearly one of us is wrong about what's possible. But - do you have any clear evidence, memories of learning the things you know, or just a sourceless conviction they're true? Because I've just had a very salient example of the fact that I can't trust my own preconceptions."

"No, and it's giving me existential anxiety! Why do I even have the phrase 'existential anxiety' in my expressive vocabulary! Anyway I just have the very strong impression that I should be holding onto stuff like, like Camoc's Razor, and evolution, and, and, and like I could rederive the principles here and they'd still make sense, and people appearing fully formed and then acting like video-game NPCs for however long before suddenly acquiring consciousness has a ton of unexplained complexity!"

He's hyperventilating again.

Edmund strokes his back. "I just - I'm scared too."

"I'm not sure—Peter is the best option to help with this," is how he decides to phrase what he's thinking, which is closer to "aaaaaahhhh it is very creepy to have a zombie here right noooooow".

"I will readily admit that his hugs are less comforting than I would otherwise have expected. You can go, brother mine."

"Love you," Peter says, disentangling himself and heading for the door. 

Once he's gone Peter grabs a nearby pillow and screams into it.

"I want," when he's done, "to stop thinking about this. For - at least ten minutes. Is that possible."

"Absolutely," he replies immediately, and tells his brain to shut up about how giving Edmund a blowjob would be a great way to get him to not think about anything, come on, why is he getting horny now of all times oh it's because he's naked and Edmund isn't that's an interesting kink to have.

Edmund observes the physical correlate to these thoughts.

"You really can turn on a simoleon, huh."

"My brain has found very circuitous routes to thinking I ought to give you a blowjob but it is probably not the time."