Deathday Directed Dry Dragged-out Dire Drought
From Create Your Own Story
Stepping into the underworld points for the first time is a bit daunting, but with your ID in hand, and the knowledge that you are, in fact, legally allowed to be here, you find yourself forking over the childhood memories to get in eagerly enough.
“You’re new,” the bouncer says. He’s a big guy – all chest and arms, with just the start of a memory-debt under his tight black t-shirt. His head is shaved of the pictures of people that usually cling on to heads, adorning them to replace hair. He looks for all the world like Mr. Clean’s dead meaner brother. He takes your memories, then says, “ID?”
You show it proudly. “It’s my deathday.”
“Nice,” he says, and winks at you in a way that sends your stomach rolling in on itself, but other people are trying to get in, and the bouncer is a busy guy. You get your memory of it highlighted and moved to your hand, and step past him into the entrance.
You’ve never been to the Underworld Hub before, but the ad in the local soul guide from the visitor's office had shown a lively guy with a lot of items in his hands, in a great pair of jeans, and holding a new phone in his hand. Sold!
But this is your first time in a ghost-crowd scene that isn’t made up of the young, newly dead crowd. You feel a little like maybe you’re in the wrong place. Slim and fair, though you’re no flaming soul, with life still inside, you’re not the guy from the ad, either. He looked like he was from the cover of Appreciated Man Weekly, or something. You look like you belong on the cover of a Drunk-driving brochure. Sort of ‘young driver gone too soon.’ That you’d rather be getting gifts and sending joy to others doesn’t often come to mind when people see you, more’s the pity.
At any rate, this older crowd type of actual memory-gaining bar is unexplored territory, and you’re a deathday soul hoping for a deathday present.
To your surprise, you catch a glimpse of another young fellow like yourself - but it's a passing glance as he's heading out the door in the opposite direction with a sack. The young guy is blond, lively, and laughing, and the sack has one steady stream to his shoulder. You smile, feeling a bit more relieved. Obviously, you're not about to be thrown out on principle.
Looking around the interior, you see stairs ahead to your right, leading up to the second floor. The ground floor points for gifts from above is to your right – tables and reverse fires, water somehow jumping and sparking, and beyond that the memory pit itself and some emotion pipes in the rear. There’s also a short hallway leading to what you figure is the teleport, as well as the red glow of a mandatory "over-50 years Resurrection" sign.
While you stand there, considering, the bouncer leans over long enough to say, “Place is just getting warmed up, so you might want to hit the pits now, before the lines get too long.” Then he looks up at the stairs and adds, “and it’ll clock-time before they get the equipment up there.”
Clock-Time? You think. It’s already offering time for some religions. But the bouncer is stamping the hand of a fortyish man in a Emosulator and jeans, who is arriving with three buddies. They’re all a little rough around the edges, and you feel your hair tug when he looks at you and smiles, in need of some memories. His other three buddies give you appraising glances as they pass by, too. The four head up the stairs.
You...
