The underground markets of New York are more than a place to shop. New York's poorest residents also call this place home; an underground ghetto the denizens of which sometimes grow up without ever seeing real sunlight.
New York was weird. Like, really weird. It was like stepping into a neon fever dream directed by a tech-obsessed toddler. Everywhere Hopper looked there was some bright, holographic display or a pack drones whipping around the corner to deliver goods as quickly as possible. The buildings, if they could still be called that, drifted into the sky like glass noodles, the tips of them shimmering under what meager sunlight managed to penetrate the haze of hovering ads.
The crossing light turned green. Hopper stepped out onto the road, then veered back, stumbling as a man on a hoverboard blew past him at sixty miles an hour, wheels grinding on pavement. Lyra was forced to push against his back to stop him from falling over.
“Watch where you’re going!” the man on the hoverboard shouted back as he passed them.
“Hey, no!” Hopper shouted back. “Light was green, asshole! Can’t you see I’m walking here?!” Lyra snickered. Hopper turned to her. “What?!”
“Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “Just, you’re already starting to sound like a New Yorker.”
“Great,” he grumbled to himself, running his hands along his blazer to ease out any wrinkles.
“I know,” Lyra said. “You’d think that with flying cars, the streets would be more pedestrian-friendly. Nope, not here. Instead of land-based cars, everyone’s got hoverboards or rideshare scooters.”
The pair crossed the street, continuing onto the next block.
“Shouldn’t those fly too?” Hopper asked. “Especially the hoverboards. I mean, they’re literally called hoverboards. Why do they have wheels? Isn’t that like... twenty first century level tech? It’s archaic.”
Lyra shrugged. “The humans never figured out how to make them actually float, I guess. Somehow a car is easier than a board? I don’t know.”
Hopper grunted. “Let’s just get to the memory markets, I guess. Sooner this is over with the sooner I can go back to torturing idiots.”
“Oh!” Lyra exclaimed, all but skipping next to him as they walked. “Who’s the most interesting soul you’ve tortured since taking over the department?”
Hopper considered. “Hm, to be honest they all blend together after a while. Mostly just different faces screaming the same curses day in day out.”
Lyra pouted. “Come on! There has to be someone.”
Hopper slowed his walk, genuinely contemplating the question. He’d certainly enjoyed torturing the church snobs who’d tried Galileo. Henry Ford had been an interesting one. Hopper had trapped him in a simulated earth where Japanese cars had kicked off sooner and Ford was constantly losing to Toyota and Hyundai. A favorite though?
“Tom Hooper, maybe,” Hopper said.
“Who?”
“Some twenty first century film director.”
“Oh,” Lyra said. “What he’d do?”
“Directed Cats.”
“Ah. Stands to reason.” She drew closer, causing Hopper’s personal space to become filled with the scent of her perfume. It was nicer than he’d expected for an angel, subtle. “Okay, but there must be someone more than that,” she insisted. “Any celebrities? A politician, maybe?”
“Oh!” Hopper exclaimed. “There was Bjorn Trump.”
“The Senator?”
“Yeah! Crazy motherfucker. That dude tried to start his own country on a man-made island. That’s not what landed him in Hell, but it’s still nuts. These days he’s trying to build a wall in Hell to keep demons away. Spoiler: it doesn’t work.”
“How’d you torture him?” Lyra asked.
“I brought it back to basics,” Hopper explained. “Went with the ancestral package. Trapped him in an endless loop of Celebrity Apprentice, one where he loses every challenge. Anytime he gets fired, he respawns in a worse version with grosser challenges.”
“Yikes,” Lyra said.
Hopper nodded surreptitiously. “Yeah, pretty rough.”
They rounded the corner onto a more deserted street, the intersection of which was home to a tall, narrow black box with a phone inside.
Hopper scowled. “I thought New York got rid of their phone booths?”
“Oh, that’s not a phone booth,” Lyra explained. “It’s an elevator.”
“I-what?” Hopper asked. “An elevator?”
Lyra motioned for him to get in. He joined her inside the small box, finding himself all but pressed up against her. Again the scent of her perfume tickled his nose. She was fairly attractive, he had to admit, at least for an angel. She didn’t have any of that suit-up professionalism that many demons tended to, but she was cute in that alt-girl kind of way. The purple hair, the tattoos, and even the goggles came together to give her a rather unique look.
“So uh... how does this work?” Hopper asked, painfully aware of how close Lyra was.
Lyra picked up the phone and began dialing, then put the phone to her ear. Hopper heard it ring once before someone picked up.
“Memory market entrance, please,” Lyra said.
The phonebooth shuddered violently, hurling the unprepared Hopper against Lyra and slamming both of them into the wall.
“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Mind your balance, dude!”
“I-uh! Sorry!” Hopper exclaimed, extricating himself from on top of her. Her skin was warm, and he found himself almost reluctant to move away from feeling the beating of her heart in her chest. Just forget it, Hopper. The sexual tension isn’t real, you’re just two stereotypically attractive people on a movie adventure.
The phonebooth descended beneath the earth, then rocketed through a long, underground tunnel that seemed to serve as some sort of pathway. Hopper cried out, gripping the walls to stabilize himself as he and Lyra shot through the underground as if they were on a roller coaster.
Ding! The door opened as they arrived, ushering them onto a subterranean floor packed with kiosks and merchant booths. Hopper stepped out, wobbly at first, then seized a seat at a nearby bench in an effort to steady himself. Lyra stepped out a moment later, apparently unphased.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re... not good with moving fast, are you?”
Hopper resisted the urge to vomit in the nearby trash can. “I’m fine when I have proper warning,” he retorted.
“I told you it’s an elevator.”
He gestured at the box, which was beginning to pull away and return the way it had come. “That’s a phonebooth!” he exclaimed.
Lyra snickered, then grabbed his arm and yanked him off the bench. “Come on! No time to lose.” She dragged Hopper through the bustling underground market. The air was thick with a cocktail of aromas–most of them unpleasant: trash bags along the street, the rank odor of sewage, sawdust from nearby construction–that classic, New York smell. The vendors’ stalls were a chaotic mix of neon signs vying for attention in the crowded space.
The first stall they passed was run by a woman with a cybernetic eye that whirred and clicked as it focused on different patrons. Her stall displayed memories in luminescent orbs, each swirling with colors and scenes. A sign above her read, "Astrological Memories – Experience The Balanced Life of a Libra, The Chaotic Life of a Scorpio, or the Adventures of an Aries!
The next vendor was a tall, lanky man in a fur coat, standing behind a kiosk that glowed a dim red. A holographic billboard above the kiosk displayed a woman in a corset with white, feathery wings and text above her that read: “Meet an angel!” The tall vendor called out in a sing-song voice, "Experience Heaven here!"
Hopper leaned in, his curiosity piqued, but Lyra tugged him along. "Not what we're looking for," she said, her eyes scanning the market with purpose.
“But he said-”
“It’s not what you think,” Lyra interrupted.
“Oh,” Hopper said, crestfallen.
Finally, they reached a more secluded vendor, tucked away in a quieter corner of the market. The stall was less flashy, with a simple sign reading, "Rare and Authentic Memories." The vendor was an old woman with moon white hair and eyes that seemed to glow. She perked up as they approached.
“Lyra!” the old woman exclaimed. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hey Barb,” Lyra said.
The old woman, Barb apparently, nodded toward Hopper. “Who’s this?”
“Just a friend,” Lyra replied.
Barb nodded. “How can I help you today, dear? Need more extreme sports memories?”
Hopper raised an eyebrow at Lyra, one she pointedly ignored. “Actually,” she said. “We’re going to need something a little more unconventional today. Do you have any memories of... let’s say divine encounters?”
The woman's smile widened. “I may have just the thing.” She reached under the counter, pulling out a small, opaque box. She opened the box to reveal a single, shimmering orb. Inside, faint images danced – a coffee shop, a figure in white, a conversation.
Hopper's eyes widened. "Is that...?"
The vendor nodded. "A memory from a soul who claimed to have spoken with the divine. But remember, memories are subjective. What you see and feel may differ."
Hopper filched the orb from the old woman’s hand while Lyra paid. He held it up to his face, peering into the orb. “How’s this work, any-WHOAAA!” Suddenly he was pulled into the orb.
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