"We're losing the patient!"
"Is that such a bad thing?"
"You have an oath!"
Those are the voices you hear as you slip into the clouds swimming over your vision.
You're trapped within the clouds now, a horde of angry, voluminous beasts that run and churn, circling around you in a maelstrom that leads down (or up?) to a singular patch of light. As you fall (or rise?) toward the eye of the storm, a high-pitched whine joins the voices. The whine reaches a crescendo, one voice shouts... "CLEAR!"
Lightning strikes... everywhere... weaving a brilliant lattice across the clouds. Luminous fingers caress you, electric claws rake you. It burns. So much burning. And light. So much light.
And a sense of uncertainty. You don't know which way to go. Or, maybe, which way you went.
6th place (out of 38) in the 17th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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Preachy and moralistic afterlife piece.