[spoiler]This is a short story based on a dream I recently had. For the sake of storytelling, some elements are fabricated, but for the most part this was what I experienced[/spoiler]“Welcome to the Middle Ground, my condolences. My name is Gene, I’ll be getting you settled in and situated for your stay. If you have any questions feel free to ask.” Gene looked tired. He wore a faded 3 piece suit that might’ve looked quite elegant 30 years ago. His clipboard was nearly bursting with hundreds of mysterious notes, forms and photographs. He had greeted me from behind the front desk, a tiny workspace cluttered with garbage, stained coffee mugs, and an ancient terminal coated in a thick layer of dust. I would’ve been more put-off by his appearance and lack of organization if only I knew where I was and how I’d arrived there. “Your name is no longer any good here, I’m afraid you’ll have to be assigned a new one. Would you kindly sign this to confirm this is who you used to be?” He shoved his clipboard and a plastic pen at me. I briefly read over my profile. All of it was correct of course. I signed and Gene swung open the blue doors. “After you.” Through the doors was a very strange place. Two yellow walls formed a rather long and winding alleyway. Looking up, there was no skies, the walls seemed to go on forever. Lining the walls were what I assumed to be the residents homes. They were little and cramped, but mostly charming. It appeared they had been made by hand, and inexperienced hands at that. The mismatched bricks were laid unevenly, the roofs were little more than painted planks of wood (though I assumed it wouldn’t have mattered given the lack of weather) the windows were cracked or altogether missing. Looking around some more, I noticed that every house was remarkably unique. They differed in stages of completion and variety of materials used. Some were practically tents, some were elegant two-storied cottages lined with fake plants. Some of the houses were empty and dark, and had been foraged of any useful material. Then there was the residents. Most of them were older and looked quite sickly, but they moved and talked like they were healthy and full of life. It was the younger people who appeared slow and distant, they had clearly put less effort into their houses, they didn’t smile or talk. I assume it was in mourning for having died young. I understood, dying young was a bit disappointing, but my case was different, I deserved it. Gene walked me down the narrow streets. Residents waved and greeted me as I walked. Some of the older women expressed sorrow at my arrival so early in life. “Here you are.” Said Gene. We had stopped at an empty patch of fake grass between a tiny log cabin and a blinding white dome. Gene flipped to a script within his clipboard and began to read. “All the materials necessary to keep you comfortable and occupied can be found in the bank, ask your neighbors where to find it. An agent who looks like me will arrive in a few hours to rename you. Like every resident, your trial does not have a set date. We do not know how long you will be staying with us, or where you will go after judgement. Keep that in mind as you settle in. Lastly, to maintain a peaceful atmosphere amongst you and your neighbors, all violent actions, words, or thoughts have muted until you are collected for trial. You cannot inflict or receive bodily harm. Your closest neighbors are-“ Gene flipped to another page. “-Souserene and Jesner.” “Those aren’t real names” “Ah, you finally speak.” Gene lowered the script. “These names have been selected for their owner, they are very much real here. You will receive one shortly.” “I don’t want a new name. I don’t want to build a house. If I’m going to hell just send me there now.” “I’m afraid that’s not how we do things around here. You’ll have to wait for your trial, whenever that may be, just like everyone else; you will go by your new name because as of right now you no longer know your old one, and you’re under no obligation to build yourself a temporary home, but you might find there isn’t much entertainment here. Now, are there any more questions before I leave you to it?” “Yeah just one. If there’s any hope of seeing someone I knew back home? If they live here can I visit them?” “I do believe I know to whom you’re referring to, and I’m afraid not. For the sake of everyone’s happiness, we space out those that knew each other prior to their arrival, both in time and position in the neighborhood. She’s quite far away, and given your past relationship and altercations, I don’t believe she would like to see you again.” I was silent for a moment, I suppose I already knew the answer but I hated hearing it. “Does she have a new name?” “Not one I am at liberty to divulge. I hope you enjoy your stay.” Gene left rather abruptly. I don’t blame him, it’s an unpleasant business talking to the dead. I don’t remember her old name, nor my own. I suppose this is that “fresh start” she talked about so often, but I never thought it’d happen the way it did. I hope my trial is soon. This place seems too pleasant, I deserve whatever’s coming to me.