Merchants all over the nearly empty alley chant to me, holding out syringes and patches for various memory loss techniques. Normally I would've been stopping at Number Twelve, fifth on the right, but tonight I needed something better.
A full restart.
I've heard that some people can't remember a thing about their past selves. Some even forget long-term memories, even the good ones. My heart pounds with excitement as I pass my usual stand. The dealer, Derek, calls out to me. "Watcha doin' Mam? Missin' your usual dose!" I turn back to him, and shake my head. "I'm going out for a full restart! I'll come back if I need anything!" He salutes and I head on through the ever-growing crowd.
Normally people would've already been lining up at the stands, but most offices let out late on Fridays like this. I work in a pharmacy, so I have my own hours planned out by my manager. Usually she lets me out a bit early most days, when I work hard enough. I'm not sure she knows where I go, but I'm not sure she cares wither. I'm not sure anyone cares anymore.
After the Neuro-Decree, the value of life went down. Except for a few rich aristocrats, and government officials, humans became a work force, and only a work force. Lower-class citizens were crammed into tiny apartments and given small rations of food every day. Then the memory wars began. People would find shops, markets, even small cities filled with ways to forget the bad in their lives. Some were cheaper than others, doing a messier job, maybe clipping off a few average memories, not totally erasing the evil. This was long before I was born.
I come to the end of the alley, and look for the supposedly "secret" door to the merchant's stall. A rusting chain-link fence swings in the wind, and I slip through, undetected. Full Restarts are never quite as popular as the less intense remedies, and my only company are the rats that scurry in the garbage. I've always found the dark alleyways of the city thrilling, even enjoyable. Mother took me to a park once, but I was terrified by the wide-open area, not used to being without the cover of dumpsters and buildings.
"You don't have to do this," says a man's voice. I twist around, ready to fight whoever in this shadowy side-street. A man, really only twenty or so with a younger face, emerges from the dark. He doesn't look like he has a weapon, but just in case I feel in my jacket for my knife. Still there, as usual. "I suggest you go home, rich-boy." He shiny leather jacket gleams in the streetlight, and everything about him is clean. He's probably some charity kid from the upper levels.
"No- just listen! Stop! You don't need to become a totally-" he stammers. I shoot him an icy glare, and walk through the now apparent doorway, a rotting wooden door that sticks to the ground. The place smells like metal and medications, a younger woman sitting at a front desk. The rich kid follows behind me, stammering out something. "Hi, we will serve you in just a moment. I'll get the doctors." Immediately two men come into the room. They hold syringes of anesthetic, ready to put me to sleep. I go first, only feeling a sharp pain in my shoulder before slumping into the doctor's arms.
Soon I can have peace.