Note-this is a continuation of a story I wrote awhile ago for a different but similar prompt. This will be stand alone, but it will make more sense if you look up the original in my profile

Melissa stroked the grey hair of the elderly woman shivering in the bed in front of her. “I don’t remember…” she muttered as her eyes blinked twice and closed.

“Get some rest, Hellen,” Melissa cooed as the woman fell asleep.

Standing up, Melissa sighed and shuffled across a cramped, bare room with 3 beds full of sleeping patients into a kitchen. Sitting down at a small crooked wooden table, she pulled a cracked wooden bowl and small notebook across the table. She took a bite of stew made from small red, green, and blue fruit, which she ate every day for all 3 meals over the last two years.

Two small children slept in a large mattress on the floor of a room with no door at the other end of the walkthrough kitchen. Melissa looked at them and sighed before turning back to the bowl. Taking a few bites, she noted again that the texture was almost exactly like chilli made with real meat and beans, but without the flavor and spices that they could not afford.

Flipping through the pages of the notebook, she scratched her head when she reached the final page: it was full of notes from yesterday. Another sigh escaped her lips as she flipped the notebook over to start taking notes on the back of all the pages, and began to write.

“It’s been nearly two years since Thomas traded his mind for these this never ending supply of food,” Melissa wrote. “It’s kept us alive, but has done nothing else for us. I couldn’t even convince him to stay with us for a free bed and hot meal… but he isn’t far.”

The apartment rattled as a space shuttle sped past and Melissa looked up as dust fell from the ceiling where a large crack had formed. Rain dropped through the crack as it steadily tapped on the roof, but Melissa returned to her notebook.

“A fortune teller and cat-like drug dealer called a Khezal have informed me that the answer I’m looking for is closer than it appears and that the Fyuqlage fruit the Quixat traders gave me has unique ‘medicinal’ qualities, respectively. I can’t afford many more ingredients, but I’m hoping that adding some of the blue and green Fyuqlage fruits to the concoction that the herbalist recommended yesterday will have some effect. I”

Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning, crash of thunder and loud creak as Hellen sat up in her bed. “Manny!” Helen shouted. “Where is manny?”

Jumping from the table, Melissa rushed across the room as the other two patients began to stir. The elderly woman’s silvery hair flew about as she looked from side to side in a panic. Her eyes locked with Melissa’s and widened.

“Hellen,” Melissa called out nervously. “What’s wrong?”

“Manny,” Hellen mumbled. “Manny is gone!”

“Who is manny?”

Hellen paused and narrowed her eyes at Melissa before responding, “I don’t know…”

“Do you know who I am?” Melissa asked, clutching one of Hellen’s frail and cold hands in both of her own.

“Yes, Melissa, I could never forget you,” Hellen said with a smile spreading across her face.

“Why don’t you remember who Manny is?”

“I…” the smile faded from Hellen’s face. “Manny isn’t here…”

“No, he isn’t,” Melissa confirmed as confusion and fear spread across Hellen’s face. “I don’t know Manny. Can you tell me about him?”

“Manny is…” Hellen started, before her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed back into bed.

“Hellen?” Melissa cried, rushing to check for a pulse on the frail woman’s wrist.

As soon as she felt Hellens pulse, the man in the second bed complained, “I don’t care who Manny is, as long as her insufferable racket stops so I can sleep.”

“Charles, there is no need to be unkind when Hellen is clearly unwell,” Melissa snapped.

“Clearly she is! My daughter would never carry on like that at an hour such as this,” Charles scoffed.

“Your daughter?” Melissa questioned, her face softening as she leaned forward towards the tall skinny old man with a white mustache. “Do you remember your daughter Charles?”

“Remember my daughter? What kind of father would I be if I forgot my own daughter! I’ve told you about Sylvia before though.”

“I don’t believe you have… but please do tell me more about her!” Melissa scrambled to Charles’ bed and pulled a wooden stool out from the wall to sit next to the grumpy man.

“Sylvia was a brilliant child! She…” Charles’ voice trailed off. “She was…”

Suddenly, Charles doubled over, as if dead. Melissa swiftly checked that he also had a pulse and scratched her head. Looking from Hellen to Charles, a deep frown spread across her face. Soft snores reassured her that Charles was alive, but she shook her head anyway.

“That just leaves you, Annalise, do you remember anything?” Hellen asked the plump woman in the bed closest to the kitchen. However, Annalise was fast asleep.

Thinking for a moment, Melissa bounded back into the kitchen and snatched up her notebook. Frantically, she wrote about her encounter with Charles, Hellen and their new memories. She also copied the recipe for the last meal each ate, as if it might have disappeared from her notes the day before, and made a list of questions she wanted to ask her patients when then awoke.

“Finally, I’ve found a way to help you, Thomas,” Melissa whispered to herself as she prepared for bed. Laying down with her children, she sat up all night in anticipation of the morning when she could talk to Hellen and Charles more.

“What do you want?” Thomas muttered at the tall vaguely familiar women who stood over him as he came to in an alley between two bars. He rolled over from one rancid smelling trash bag to another that was softer and smelled slightly less rotten then swatted a few flies away from his ear.

Thomas peered up at the woman and narrowed his eyes in frustration. Something about her was familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. She occasionally would give him food, which was bland, but much better than the half eaten take out meals he ate out of dumpsters. It was difficult for him to hold a job, on account of the pain in his head that flaired up when he tried to remember his past.

The condition affected more than just Thomas. This part of town had more beggars with missing memories than actual residents. Alleys like the one Thomas lived it looked like they were filled with trash that moved on its own, but it was actually just people like him who were indistinguishable from the dump they were squatting in.

“Did you bring anything to eat?” Thomas croaked

“Yes!” Melissa squealed while quickly pulling a bowl of stew from a bag she carried on her arm.

As her trembling hands offered the bowl to Thomas, his eyes narrowed. “What is in this?” he questioned at the jittery woman with a grin plastered on her face.

“It’s just stew,” Melissa assured him as he smile wavered and whole body shook.

Scratching his head, Thomas studied the woman. She looked tired but excited and quite beautiful. Her eyes were sparkling and locked with his, sparking the feeling that she was somehow familiar once again. As a splitting pain made his head pound, he pushed away all of his thoughts and accepted the warm stew.

Pouring the entire bowl into his hungry mouth, Thomas realized that the stew quickly extinguished the pounding in his head. With a sigh of relief, Thomas exclaimed, “Thank you, Melissa, I feel much better!”

“Thomas,” Melissa cried, “Do you remember me?”

Thomas stared at her, with the pain in his head gone his eyes studied her again. Then, before he could say anything, Thomas collapsed in the alley and blacked out.

“Kenedi come see this, hurry. You’re going to love it!” “Ok, here I come. What is it?” As Kenedi arrives to Traci's room, she sees Traci standing in the middle of the room with something in her hand. Traci lifts the soft cap shaped object made of silicone gel to eye level for both of them. She states in a normal tone, “I place this on my head when nobody is around so I can relax. I close my eyes, take deep, even breaths and begin a meditation. . . Kenedi immediately ducks her head as if someone could see or hear her and says, "That’s illegal! You know what’ll happen for meditating! I don’t want to know. I do not love it!!”

She turns to leave but Traci grabs her shoulder in protest, “Stop. Just hear me out. Nobody comes around here and I even have a hidden spot even you don’t know about.” Traci let’s go and questions, “You ok?”

Kenedi crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes, “Yes, I’m ok. For now. But, this better be worth the risk.”

Traci smiles, “Ok. So once I found this little cap, I carried it around because it was different. And it’s cool to the touch. So one day while I was in my secret room preparing to meditate, I put it on my head because I was hot. During this meditation session I remembered the day mom took us to the pool and you beat me in a 100m butterfly race. I was mad and wanted to try again but we had to leave. We went to get ice cream and stopped by Aunt K’s house to watch a movie and have gourmet popcorn. Do you remember that day?” Kenedi shook her head “No, but what’s the point?” Traci paces back and forth, fidgeting , “The point is I didn’t remember before I meditated with the cap. It’s not just a one off, I’ve been doing this for weeks now. I’ve been remembering all kinds of things. But the thing is, they’re mostly good memories.” Kenedi stands still, shock holding her hostage. “Who have you told?” “Just you” “That's why you've been so perky lately. Why are you just now telling me? How do you know this isn’t some kind of trick and GovAMS isn’t tracking you?” “Because I’ve been a ghost this long and I’ve been doing this for awhile. Nobody knows.” “Well, where did you get it?”, arms still crossed against her chest. Traci approaches Kenedi, arms extended, “Here, hold this for me”, as she attempts to place the cap in Kenedi's arms, an old sales tactic she learned as a little girl. Kenedi jerks away but noticed the cap falling to the ground, so she caught it by instinct, “ASSHOLE!!”, she shouts, “take it back!” Traci looks around, “follow me”, as she leads Kenedi to her private room. “Trust me, this is so valuable, we could buy the entire family a seat on the shuttle to Mitsuna and start a new life. A good one!” “A wealthy one” chimes Kenedi. They reach the hidden room, it’s a small hole in the wall between Traci's room and the kitchen. Kenedi fell through during a scuffle with Traci when they were younger. It’s pretty much hidden by Traci's bed. Their parents couldn’t afford to fix it so it’s been forgotten.

Traci instructed Kenedi to climb through the hole and guided her through a meditation practice, during which she told her when to put the cap on and they continued quietly meditating together.

Kenedi complained “You’re wasting my time, I can meditate on my own. Nothing’s happening.” Traci calmly finishes an inhale and exhales before responding, “You’re not relaxed, so YOU'RE wasting your time. Meditate as you will. Feel the coolness of the cap? Fall into that.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes until Kenedi softly gasps, “Oh my. . . Wow. OK” and climbs out of the whole, “Remember that time mom and dad took all of us to the Lake to go camping for the weekend and it rained so much we could only swim in the first day? So instead of sandcastles, we built mud huts?”

“Absolutely. Best time ever! We should definitely do it agai. . .”

Kenedi cuts Traci off mid-sentence. “Wait. Do you know what this means?” “Of course I do.” They speak simultaneously: Kenedi: “We can recover more happy memories, so can mom, dad, and Jon and. . . “ Traci: “People will pay us to recover their good memories. . . “

They both stop and look at one another. Kenedi side eyes Traci, Traci looks confused. Kenedi speaks immediately, “You can't help being selfish." Traci spits, "Its the opposite but that’s hard to see when youre so self absorbed!" Traci storms out of the room but immediately returns, "Give it back. And its my room, YOU get out."

Kenedi cups her hands over the cap still on her head, "Gladly." She pushes past Traci while shoving her shoulder into Traci's shoulder. Traci spins and quickly grabs the collar of Kenedi's shirt, yanking her to the ground. She sits on Kenedi's stomach and starts choking her just enough to get Kenedi to let go of the cap and grab her arms. Traci managed to free one hand and grab the cap from Kenedi's head.

Traci stood up, cap in hand. “Like I said, I'm selling memories. Nobody is going to tell bc they're going to pay a lot of money for good memories. Once i have enough mkney, we're leaving.”

“It’s easy,” Rayn says as she pulls off her coat, breathless and glowing with excitement. “I can show you!” I sigh and sink into the sofa. I don’t have time for this. It’s already hard enough to get by, selling memories just to provide today’s dinner. Rayn’s fleeting moments of whimsy don’t make it easier, as I watch her get let down each time. Each time, she has to sell it. She doesn’t learn from her mistakes. We don’t have that kind of luxury. “Rayn… We’ve been through this before. I know you don’t remember very well.. but it never works.” “No, you don’t understand! This time is different! I actually remember!” She sits next to me and grabs my hand. In a quiet tone, she says: “I remember when you got down on one knee, Amell. I remember it in detail.” Now this grabs my attention. Even I don’t remember this, we’ve both had to sell it. We agreed to each keep a small part of our wedding memory; us dancing to a crazy song, laughing our heads off. “Describe it to me.” “Oh Amell! It was so romantic! We went to the movies and then to our favorite diner, and after that we walked and frolicked in a meadow full of flowers. I was picking the flowers and when I turned around, you were on your knee, and the second we made eye contact you started bawling your eyes out. It was so funny!” I don’t have anything to say. How will I know it’s true? I don’t have a recollection of this. “What if.. What if it’s just your imagination? How am I supposed to believe you?” “Amell, you have to! Don’t you trust me? It’s so easy, let me show you, just come outside!” She bursts through the door without a coat, and I have no choice but to follow her. It’s freezing outside, but I don’t mind. Suddenly, I’m gaining hope. And this hope is warming me up, making me feel less cold then I should. I have Rayn to thank for this hope. I can feel it coursing through her hand to mine. And though I don’t remember a lot from our time together, I know I made the right choice in marrying her. She leads us through a low doorway, into an abandoned shack. I’m a practical guy; I don’t get scared when it doesn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense now, but for some reason this shack had an eerie feeling to it. “To remember something you first have to know what memories are. Remember when we went to that booksale yesterday and there was a pile of free books?” She says in a rush, and I sit us down before she gets too excited that she’ll fall down on me or something. “Yes,” I say, not seeing where she was getting at. We had only taken a few; a cookbook, a beat up copy of Jane Eyre, a picture book. I couldn’t see how any of those had helped her figure anything out.
“And why do you remember that? Because you didn’t sell the memory yet, right?” “Yes..” “But if you were to try and sell it, it wouldn’t work. Because it’s too fresh.” “How do you know? Have you tried?” “Yes, after I read the letter.” “What letter? Rayn, just tell me what’s going on already!” She takes the small volume of Jane Eyre out of her pocket, and opens the book halfway, right to the crack in the spine. She pulls a thickly folded piece of paper out of the book, and begins to unfold it. I can’t see it completely, but I can tell the handwriting is incredibly small. "Memories are fragile things," She begins to read, "so, Jonathan, you may ask, how must one retrieve a memory that has been sold through mutual agreement? If the selling of the memory was consensual by the seller, then how would it be possible to get it back? Everybody knows that if a memory was taken without agreement, then one would simply have to call it back, and would at once remember everything. Taking back sold ones, however, is not so easy." She looks up, widens her eyes, and grins like a lunatic, signaling that next is coming the part where we find out. "Read carefully, Jonathan, because I have cracked the code. It is not as hard as it may seem. Before you can call back a memory, however, you must first understand what memories are. Consider a memory like an orange; if you grew it on a tree, it belongs to you. You have the rights to it, and you can decide to keep and cherish it, or to sell it. "As you know, Jonathan, I despise the selling of memories. It is a cruel tool, created only to benefit the rich. But that is beside the point! As a memory grows old, it becomes stale, like an orange. For fruit, you must sell it while it is fresh. But for memories it is the exact opposite! If a memory is too fresh or vivid, it refuses to separate from its original owner. Once it becomes older, it becomes easier to sell. "So what must you do to retrieve a sold memory? Make it fresh! In truth, you can never truly rid of a memory. It is always there, lingering. To remember something you sold, simply find an object, or sound or smell, to jog your memory. If you think 'but how will I know what was in that memory if I don't remember it?' It will come instinctually! Your heart yearns to remember. Just be near that object, and concentrate, and it will come back." Rayn pulls off her engagement ring, and places it in my palm. "Concentrate. Call it back." So I close my eyes and I call. I pull with my soul. And nothing happens. "It didn't work," I tell her quietly. "No Amell! Describe to me the night you proposed." I think for a minute, and then.. "I remember... I was down on one knee.. And when your beautiful eyes met mine, I couldn't help but cry." And now, I am crying.

Memories. The twisted currency of our world.

I was born in the slums of the earth. Both Mum and Pop owed money to multiple gangs through gambling, so the rival gangs teamed up just to rob them of everything. All of their memories, leaving them as shells, husks of who they were.

I wish they had taken me too.

At the age of six, I realized something was very wrong.

Having been taken into an orphanage owned the government after my parents’ “death”, I grew up there. It was spectacular! We got to eat as much as we wanted, play games whenever we wanted. Even the nannies were smiling.

But then I saw a boy, sixteen, follow a nanny out a back door. I didn’t follow them; I didn’t want to get in trouble and it was nap time anyway. So I just closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I searched for the boy the next day. I couldn’t find him anywhere. Almost like he disappeared.

I didn’t question it again for a few years, but something around me just…shifted. I knew that everything wasn’t as it seemed.

Now when I turned 10, we had a new transfer join us. Her name was Edith, bright eyes and pale skin, age 15, and she became my best friend within seconds of meeting.

After a few weeks, when I knew that I could trust her, I told her what I had seen. We were in our dorms at the time.

Edith stared at me for a moment, then her eyes went flat. “I suspected it was something like that.”

“What do you mean,” I asked, not knowing what I was getting myself into.

Edith scooted closer to me. “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded. “Well,” she continued, “You know how you get these amazing things.”

“Yes.”

“Memories, in the world outside of here, are used as currency.”

“Money.”

Edith nodded. “Yes, the rich are rich with memories, and the poor have to sell their memories just to get food for themselves. There are many problems in our society, but the main one is: where do the rich get so many memories?”

I blinked. Then realized. “Oh, oh no.” My breathing came into gasps. “That can’t be it!”

Edith leaned back away from me, prodding her lip, unfazed but instead with a thoughtful expression on her face. “The Underground didn’t think so as well, but just to make sure they sent me here to check. And what you said just clarified our—Nemo, are you alright?”

They give us all these good things so we have all happy moments in our head, then they suck it all away? That had to be it. I was utterly terrified! Was I going to end up like my parents? Was I going to DIE?!

“Nemo, calm down. The Underground is going to stop this, alright?” Edith failed at reassurance and I started crying. “Oh, man, uhh—“

“Edith Haver…Nemo Carperter….”

Edith and I froze, but my tears continued to flow.

Behind us was a nanny. “Your conversation was very, troubling. The Head Nanny wishes to see you.”

A single tear fell from my shaking cheek. Death never seemed so close.

But that wasn’t the end. No, it was only my beginning.

——

_(Listening to “Remains of the Day” and “Shia LaBeouf” very good for the mood. Anyways, my hands hurt. I’ll finsh it later. Thanks for reading and have a great day!) _

All you have to do Is sit and think Really go back And remember The good The bad The Old The sad Let you thoughts flow It’s the opposite of meditation It’s Intentional Thinking Try it You may be Amazed

I run a company. I sell goods. These goods are really quite useless. I charge a memory to make a new one. But people are stupid, and have given away all their memories of me scamming them in the past, so they keep coming back. My business is simple. I take their memory, briefly enjoy it, and file it away in the register. Then, I send them over to my one employee (though I don’t remember his name) for a fake memory-making production. It’s sort of like a movie, where the customer is immersed enough that they’ll think for a moment it’s real in their memories (doctored by imagination as they often are), even though their conscious brain knows better. I’ve worked this business for so long that my hippocampus is in a general state of nothingness. Everything is too repetitive and plain to be memorable, and even if it was, it would be gone in return for a slice of stale bread at the bakery down the road. The memories I get from customers are like little trailers of their lives, entertaining for a moment, but fleeting and unsatisfying. One thing I do remember, that I’ve worked so hard to keep a grasp of, is something I really shouldn’t know. Many think the memories we trade are just floating around from person to person like dandelion seeds blown into the wind. They would be right. But every memory prostituted for goods also goes straight into the government databases. It’s part of a project that they call “The Retention Reserve.” The purpose of this? The same as always. Control. Control over people. Control over their minds. Knowledge too. Knowledge of where people are at any given time. Knowledge of what makes people tick. Blackmail. That’s why I run my business. Fake memories don’t tell them anything. It dilutes their real data. But maybe if there was a way I could hack their system… Maybe I could do more.

In light of critical environmental concerns, the U.S.  government is implementing a new economic system where memories are utilized as currency. This innovative approach aims to reduce resource consumption and waste by shifting value from material goods to personal experiences. Citizens will now trade, store, and utilize memories in transactions, promoting a sustainable and conscious lifestyle. This system encourages deeper connections and a shared sense of community, ensuring our planet's future while preserving the richness of human experiences. Together, we can create a prosperous, environmentally friendly society.

_“Bullshit,” _I muttered under my breath. We didn’t trade memories with other people, we relinquished them to the government to do God knows what with. Probably download them onto microchips or use them to inspire the latest blockbusters instead of just adequately paying writers. The ads were making the switch sound deceptively Utopian, and as if it were done in the name of saving Mother Earth versus making citizens dumb and emotionless, less human than neanderthals.

There’s a memory bank on every street corner now. Sterile, gleaming white, liminal. Smooth walls like an uncorticalized brain. You get strapped down and project what you’re willing to forfeit upon the screens of your fluttering eyelids. The cozier, more Hallmark-esque memories are pretty lucrative, but the sick fucks that pull the puppet strings have have an aquired taste for anything traumatic. They find such memories “inspiring.”

As much as it’s enticing to wipe away my demons like an Etch-a-Sketch, a stubborn thread in my moral fabric finds that to be the coward’s way out. Playing God in a sense. All the stimuli I’ve been subjected to, it was to teach me something. To chemically alter me, so I don’t stagnate. Stagnation is a fate worse than death.

At first, I refused to part with any memory no matter how seemingly inane. Not my grocery list, not the two second conversation I had with my landlord about the weather. Not a single increment of time, a single breath or heartbeat. 

My friend, Lylah, did not understand my obstinance. “You’re not going to be able to pay your rent if you keep this strange superiority act up.” 

My apartment complex had been one of the last to accept traditional cash. That had been overturned once they stopped manufacturing physical currency, and what remained was turned over to the government or sent to museums. Ah, museums, such a futile attraction now that the bourgeois who could afford such a luxury were increasingly lobotomized and unable to interpret the knowledge before them.

I knew Lylah had a practical point despite my resentment toward her perception of my intentions. I didn’t have a superiority complex. I didn’t feel like a heroic martyr. I was fucking terrified, in a position where I was going to slowly starve unless I hollowed out my brain cavities and gave away my most precious commodity.

Still, I couldn’t hold out forever, so I highlighted a distinction: short term memory, long term memory, and the unconscious mind. Unable to trust the memory bank workers to not take more than I was willing to give, I made sure to repress my most precious memories before each session by redirecting my consciousness toward an alternative memory. Each alternative memory was something I could regain easily. For example, I would read a novel before each session. I would write a concise, spoiler-free review and write it in my notebook so I could remember why I liked or disliked each book. Then I could reread it later if the review recommended. This was actually decently nifty, as I could wipe my memory of my favorite books and experience them again, entirely fresh.

I soon realized my experience wasn’t typical. Most people don’t get to choose which memories are taken. They are at the mercy of wherever their fight or flight steers them. Often, their most significant memories surface during the emotional distress of the operation, sometimes the memories they fear losing the most. My frequent mediations and repression sessions were somewhat anomalous, but they truly helped protect my most coveted data in my cognitive cache. I would recommend this strategy to others if I could get away with it.

One day, I experimented. I let a slightly more significant childhood memory surface as I was strapped down at the operating table. I tried to use sensory input to trigger the memory in the aftermath; the scent of my childhood blanket. I inhaled the nostalgic musk, felt an inexplicable pang in my chest, and that was it. I couldn’t remember what I intended to. I was very frustrated, until later I realized I had written it in my notebook just in case of this very outcome. I grinned to myself, of course I’d planned ahead.

My notebook was the greatest loophole. Of course it wasn’t as all-consumingly evocative as a traditional memory, but with adequate imagery and metaphor, it was like redownloading a slightly shittier recording of an old familiar song. 

But what would happen after my loophole was confiscated?

(this is underdeveloped bc i’m too tired to keep writing rn before times up but i wanted to incorporated more psychology shit into this as it’s a very cool concept i can continue this if anyone cares to read n just generally flesh out the rushed half-ideas)

Is it love? Are you lying? Do you love me? Ah…now I’m crying. Where’d you go? Did you lie, When you said “I love you” Or did you just stop. Do you still love me? Do you think of me? Am I still in your mind Like you are in mind? Why did you leave? You lied Lied Lied Lied Lied Lied Lied

And I thought Thought thought.

It was love.

“In a world where memories are currency,” Desperation said in its best movie voiceover voice.

Dropping his arms, Pemberley rolled his eyes. The weight of the retro-style barber chair shifted. Shai groaned. She pushed the end of the chair she was carrying hard smacking her partner in crime in the chest.

“Where the wealthy live in blissful ignorance,” Desperation said adding more bravado to its voice. “Gorging on their pick of exciting memories, manipulating minds to hide their crimes.”

On the floor of the van, the chair is nestled next to the memory squidset and their hiking backpacks. Desperation, downloaded to a flexi drive, was plugged into the rental van’s dashboard. The AI was playing dramatic background music when Pemberley slammed the van’s rear door.

Shai whispered, “is it always so…”

“Annoying, obnoxious, and general around pain in my assery,” Pemberley said loudly. “Don’t bother whispering Des has infected all of your devices with spyware. It can hear us from our laptops speakers, your burner phone, my smart glasses, hell it got in my electric toothbrush and keeps telling me to floss. Floss my Aunt Frances lower my insurance deductible, you bucket of bolts.”

Pemberley loaded a box of go go meals and water purifiers. Shai passed him the first aid kit. The tent and other camping gear took up most of the van’s interior. Desperation continued his compelling voiceover. Shaking her head Shai thought how all she had asked the AI memory extractor was hey how you doing?

“While the destitute pawn their happiest moments just to survive, two rogue agents set out to right the score.”

Desperation added a funky seventies rift to its personal soundtrack.

“Wait can’t you reprogram the AI to be a bit more…”

“Sane. Naww, I work for Desperation. I catalog the clients’ memories, clear up any corruptive thoughts. But Des would never let me tamper with zeros and ones,” Pemberley said tucking a battered axe behind his driver’s seat.

He locked and scrambled the keypad on the pawnshop’s rear exit. The surprisingly resourceful Shai had set up a gasoline paraffin booby trap inside if anyone tried to break in to the building to trace their movements. Pemberley watched her check her rifle’s magazine before climbing into the passenger side. Holy Mole I really should spend more time around librarians, Pemberley thought. He climbed in behind the wheel.

“You take calling shotgun—“

“One day a renegade programmer finds a way to find stolen memories,” Desperation continued.

Shai bapped Pemberley on his nose.

“Stop interrupting and listen. Who runs Desperation Pawn & Loan?” Shai demanded.

“Ow! Bronwyn ‘Brownie’ Wisel. She’s the wizard behind the curtain. Desperatin has evolved under the weight of extracting memories. But Brownie can figure out how the brotherhood is memory mining and how to stop them. By hook or by crook, Brownie is where we’re headed. “

Off key Desperation sang The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The van’s tires squealed into the setting sun.

“Yes! I finally figured it out.” “What?” He asked. “Isn’t it obvious,” she replied. “No Ali. You are a thief. You could have picked a lock or found a solution to our currency.” She smiled. “The latter.” He face whipped up from the book he had been reading. Shock painted his expression. “How?!” “I found out we can retrieve them. When they are taken out, they aren’t truly gone. There is still a small piece that can be recovered.” “You, Ali, are the retriever of the lost.”