《The Silver Wheel Game 2: The Wolf's Gambit》 Prologue ¡°...holy fuck, you¡¯d think a guy that was 90% hot air would weigh less. What¡¯d you have for breakfast, a bowling ball?¡± Of course, that wasn¡¯t why Charlie¡¯s corpse was so heavy. In truth, his body weighed the same as it always had (sans a few kilos from the missing chunks of flesh, bone, and blood) but living bodies had a tenseness to them that allowed them to carry their weight better: a dead body, slack and inert, had no way to redistribute gravity¡¯s pull on it, so it merely felt heavier. It also didn¡¯t help that Ture had never, in his long life as a bartender, had to pick up anything heavier than the thick glass bottles of alcohol he served the guests of the Silver Wheel. And extremely muscular adult men tended to weigh more than that. Charlie was halfway through the door into the bar. Ture was leaning against it, resting, and staring at the body as if he was expecting it to actually answer. Ture sneered, grabbing a bottle of Jack from behind the wooden countertop and giving it a swig. ¡°Hotel California¡±, sung properly by The Eagles, started playing on the radio. ¡°Alright. Here we go.¡± He sighed, and resumed his chore. More grunts of exhaustion and immense irritation filled the Silver Wheel, drowning out the soft rock melody from the radio. A stool was knocked down as Ture accidentally pulled Charlie into it. Ever-larger bloodstains smeared across the floor as he bled freely into the carpet, making Ture wonder just how much fluid one body could actually hold. And of course, by the time Ture had managed to drag him into the middle of the bar, some of those red stains were starting to look a little bit¡­ brown. ¡°Oh- oh you¡¯re shitting me.¡± Ture repressed a hurl -- that would only make things worse -- and redoubled his efforts. He pushed down the front door, revealing the void, and kicked Charlie in the legs until his corpse limply tumbled off the side. Ture watched him fall, growing smaller and smaller, until he simply¡­ vanished. ¡°And good riddance. Asshole.¡± Ture spat out the door, the glob of saliva spiraling into the darkness after Charlie. Ture watched it until it vanished. ¡°Whew. Fuck, that smell. Juan, you-¡± He turned around. There was nobody there. He was alone. ...when was the last time he was alone? ...he couldn¡¯t remember. He walked back to the bar to take another few swallows of Jack. Bobbing his head to the music on the radio. He glanced around. He was still alone. Neither Juan nor Teresa were anywhere to be seen. It was kind of fucked up, he thought, that being alone was somehow the most surreal thing he could imagine right now. No bodies to share this space with. Just him, a fully-stocked bar, and a guitar in the capable hands of Don Felder. ¡°...on a dark desert highway¡­ cool wind in my hair¡­¡± He mumbled to himself before finishing off his drink in two more long swallows. ¡°...Up ahead in the distance,¡± he continued, off-key but earnest, ¡°...I saw a shimmering light¡­¡± The door to the void was still open. He hurled the bottle into the darkness.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°My head grew heavy, my sight grew dim¡­ had t¡¯ stop for the night.¡± He grabbed another bottle. He didn¡¯t know what was in it, and he didn''t really care. He yanked it open with his teeth and suckled it like a starved baby pushed against a red swollen nipple. When it was empty, the neck still slick with his sticky saliva, he chucked it into the void as well. ¡°-could be heaven or could be hell¡­¡± he hiccuped, reaching around the corner for another bottle. He yanked it up, took one look at the lid, and cringed. ¡°Then she lit up a candle¡­¡± he threw it into the void, grabbing another bottle. ¡°...and showed me the way¡­¡± ¡°There were voices in the cooridooor¡­¡± he yanked out another bottle, and threw it into the void without another look. ¡°I thought I heard them ssaaaaaaayyy~¡± He grabbed some drinking glasses, three in each hand, clasped between his fingers. He took a step forward, like a pitcher in the final inning, and threw them out the void. He missed with two of them, which shattered against the wall. ¡°Welcome to the Hotel Calllifornia!¡± He belted, ¡°Such a looovely fac- fuck place! Such a lovely face!¡± ¡°Plenty a¡¯ room at the Ho-tel California!¡± He continued, knocking over the stools in front of the bar trying to reach new bottles and glasses, ¡°Any time of year¡­ you can find it heeeeerreeeee!¡± He staggered over to the void, popping open the bottle of gin, allowing it to dribble onto the carpet before pouring the clear liquid into the darkness. ¡°How ya doin¡¯ out there Juan?!¡± He chortled as he leaned over the void. ¡°Still smilin¡¯ big guy? Still makin¡¯ friends with everyone, eh?!¡± He dropped the bottle. ¡°And all those voices are calling from faaar away- sing it with me Juan! Sing it!¡± The void did not answer. There wasn¡¯t even an echo. He leaned further out. ¡°Wake you up in the middle of the night - take it away Juan!¡± The void did not answer. The lyric was finished dutifully by Don Henley. ¡°Welcome to the Ho-tel Cal-i-for-niaaa!¡± Ture re-joined for the chorus, staggering backwards and picking up the stool he had dropped earlier. He started swinging it around. ¡°Livin¡¯ it up in the Hotel California!¡± He let go, and the stool went spinning into the darkness. ¡°Any- What a nice surprise¡­ for your alibis!¡± He started to stumble as momentum swept him off his feet, but instead of correcting himself, he embraced the fall, and slammed into the ground with a weightless thud. He hiccuped, and laughed, and stretched out his limbs, vaguely aware he was laying in some bloody, shitty stain. He didn¡¯t care, though. For reasons he wasn¡¯t really sure he understood, nor especially cared to. ¡°And she said¡­ we¡¯re all just prisoners here¡­ of our own device¡­¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°In the master¡¯s chambers¡­ they gathered for the feast.¡± He clenched his hands into white balls. ¡°Stab ¡®em with their steely knives, but they just can¡¯t kill the beast!¡± He sat up. His eyes were open now. He dragged himself, crawling like a child, towards the door. Dragging his body against the slick, blood-soaked carpet. Past the broken glasses and the spilled alcohol. Until he was back at the open door, and the empty wall of absolute darkness that it lead into. He reached into his pockets, and pulled out three solid-gold chips, which lay in his open palm, extended into the darkness. ¡°You can check out anytime you like,¡± he said, eyes turned down, down onto the chips and past them, to where he had last seen Juan reaching up, plummeting into non-existence. His hand twitched. ¡°...but you can never¡­¡± Ture paused. He slowly pocketed the chips, leaned away from the void, and started to cry. A loud, violent, ugly sobbing. And he cried for a long, long time. Round One: Slots ¡°Ture, I got a few questions.¡± ¡°...that¡¯s weird.¡± Teresa was busy in the parlor at the moment. Some TV producer had come here, a proper ¡®intruder¡¯, looking to talk with Teresa¡­ something about doing a show with her? Teresa agreed to consider it if he played a game with her first, which he found reasonable enough. He was screaming now, although it was more-or-less muted by the thick walls and door. More of an undertone, really, to ¡°Six Shooter¡±, as sung by Coyote Kisses. Ratna sipped on a frothy micro-brewed beer. ¡°Why¡¯s it weird?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not weird. For you I mean. Weird for me.¡± Ture scratched his chin. ¡°I used to be the baby here. Asking the questions. I guess that was a long time ago, but I never thought I¡¯d get to play the role of senior.¡± ¡°Oh. Right. So is this¡­ awkward¡­? Painful¡­?¡± ¡°Nah. Go for it.¡± There was a pounding on the parlor door. They both glanced at it for a moment, before locking eyes again. It stopped before long. ¡°Well let¡¯s kick this off, then. Where are my genitals?¡± ¡°Pfft. Yeah. That was my first question too,¡± he recalled nostalgically. ¡°But I dunno. Teresa just told me that if I ever got out of here they¡¯d come back. I guess they didn¡¯t want to install a bathroom or anything so they just¡­ take ''em off.¡± Ratna furrowed her brow. Her next drink was way longer. ¡°...you get kind of used to it.¡± ¡°Right¡­ well¡­ okay, question two. Where do all these drinks come from?¡± ¡°The Boss.¡± ¡°...and who¡¯s the Boss?¡± ¡°Fuck if I know. Teresa just told me it¡¯s not my business.¡± ¡°What, does he just¡­ deliver drinks to the door?¡± ¡°Oh. No, the whole bar just refills after a bit. Always when you¡¯re not looking. Look away for a second, turn back around¡­¡± he popped his lips, ¡°...full.¡± ¡°Sounds nice.¡± ¡°It helps, yeah.¡± ¡°So you can drink as much as you want.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°But you don¡¯t pee it out.¡± ¡°...no.¡± He was trying really hard to be nice here. ¡°So where does it go?¡± ¡°Look, if we¡¯re going to get along, you¡¯re gonna have to accept that I don¡¯t know a lot of shit and I don¡¯t care to either. And this is one of those things I really, really don¡¯t care about. I¡¯m perfectly happy not thinking about it.¡± She took another sip. ¡°...wanna hear my theory?¡± ¡°We¡¯re not going to get along, are we?¡± ¡°So, obviously we¡¯re not exactly in human bodies anymore, it¡¯s not exactly like you can just snap off a vagina. And since I assume you¡¯ve never been eviscerated, it means our insides are one big mystery. Could be anything in there.¡± Ture, looking her dead in the eye, stole her drink and started chugging it. ¡°So we¡¯re just big alcohol tankers. Every time we drink something it goes into the appropriate tank, and when it¡¯s time to refill the bottle, your boss just turns a valve and drains it right out of your asshole.¡± Ture had finished her drink, and was in the process of refilling it. Their eyes were still locked. ¡°I notice we have saliva. That¡¯s probably also alcohol. And our tears. I bet all the clear alcohol we drink can double as tears. I¡¯m going to, uh¡­ I¡¯m gonna need you to cry again so I can test this theory.¡± His eye twitched, then he leaned forward. So much for being nice. ¡°The only thing I¡¯d let you sample is my cock, and I don¡¯t have one anymore.¡± ¡°Lucky for you they took your dick before I got the chance to rip it off myself.¡± He started drinking. Again. She smiled sweetly, until he finished it. Again. ¡°First of all, bitch, I doubt your sphincter has that kind of muscle. Second of all-¡± He wouldn¡¯t get the chance to finish. A door opened, but not the one to the parlor, where the screams of pain had transformed into a now-familiar whimpering. It was the door to the void, and standing in front of it, blank-faced and confused, was a later-leaning middle-aged man with a large gut and a huge, shiny tan where hair was supposed to be. Ratna was at his side in a moment, both hands clutching his thick, sweaty fingers. ¡°Are you okay, sir?¡± Her voice raised by about three octaves. Ture¡¯s eyebrow was raised by roughly the same proportions. ¡°Where¡­ where am ah¡­?¡± ¡°Come with me. Take a seat.¡± Her voice was cooing and gentle and, to Ture, completely false. ¡°Are you feeling well? What¡¯s the last thing you remember?¡± ¡°Ah was takin¡¯ a wee kip out back, s¡¯ all. Who¡¯re yeh?¡± ¡°My name is Ratna. I¡¯m your guide here.¡± ¡°My wot?¡± ¡°Yeah, his what?¡± Ture added, but Ratna snapped her head back and offered him her most legible ¡®don¡¯t fuck with me right now¡¯ glare before she turned back to the guest, all sweetness, all smiles. ¡°Your guide. You¡¯re at the Silver Wheel, a place of dreams and nightmares. You¡¯re here to be tested.¡± ¡°Ah dinnae know what this cunt¡¯s on about, do yeh?¡± The man leaned past Ratna to Ture, who could only offer an impartial shrug, apparently. ¡°Aye, you gonna start making sense or ¡®ave yeh gone full skyrocket?¡± ¡°I promise it will all make sense soon. Do you want a drink? We have everything you could possibly want. And it¡¯s free. Just for you,¡± she winked. ¡°...Ah think ahm fucked enough now, thanks, dinnae need tae be pissed on top of it.¡± ¡°Trust me, pal, this will be a lot easier with at least a little booze in ya.¡± Ture interjected, ¡°I can make you anything at all. It¡¯s my whole thing. My purpose¡­ I guess.¡± ¡°Fine, ah wee nip, but then yeh have to tell me what th¡¯ fuck¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°...a nip of what.¡± ¡°Whiskey.¡± ¡°Oh, whiskey, that¡¯s a real...¡± He stopped himself, and took a long chew of his lower lip. ¡°...that¡¯s a real classy drink. Coming up.¡± ¡°Cheers. Now what the hell¡¯s a Silver Wheel and why am ah getting tested in one.¡± Ratna was behind him now, and she had placed both hands on his shoulders, digging her fingers into the malleable, rubbery fat that surrounded his multi-layered neck. There was no two ways about it, he was a huge fellow, who spilled off the stool from every side, whose face was even a bit too big for the skull it was supposed to be attached to. For lack of a better word, he looked soft. Soft enough that Ratna couldn¡¯t so much massage his muscles as she could reshape them entirely, as if she were kneading the world¡¯s sweatiest dough. If she was bothered by this, she didn¡¯t show it. ¡°The Silver Wheel¡­ how do I put this, it¡¯s like a gambling house. It¡¯s a place where chosen people, special people like you, are whisked away to compete with one another in games of skill and chance. Haven¡¯t you always felt like your life was missing something? That you were born to do something, be someone more than what you are?¡± ¡°Suppose ah ¡®ave. Who ¡®asn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Well. This is your moment. This is it. The reason you were born. To borrow my co-worker¡¯s phrase: your purpose. Just beyond that door¡­¡± she gestured to the door to the parlor. Things were silent now. Well-timed, that. ¡°...you¡¯re going to face off against a stranger in a game, where you can wager almost anything you have against them: money, power, looks. If you win, you¡¯ll get what they wagered, and you¡¯ll take your next step towards your ultimate destiny. Lose¡­ and you¡¯ll wake up, lose whatever you bet, and your life will continue as it always had. You¡¯ll be a nobody until you die, and are forgotten by history and even your own family.¡± The whiskey shot was put in front of him. It didn¡¯t last long. ¡°That so.¡± He muttered, his stool only now creaking under the weight. ¡°And what makes yeh so sure?¡± And Ratna¡¯s smile, demure and sweet, seemed to grow a bit¡­ wolfish. ¡°Let¡¯s do some math.¡± She sat down on the stool next to him, leaning against the bar. She crossed her legs, playfully, teasing seduction, while she started to count on her fingers. ¡°How many people are alive today? Something like¡­ nine billion? Nine billion, four-hundred million, something around that? Lots of people. Well. Thomson-Gale''s New Biography Resource Center, last I checked, had biographies of over 2,095,000 noteworthy people throughout history. ¡®Noteworthy¡¯ doesn¡¯t exactly mean ¡®accomplished¡¯, though. So that list includes small-time politicians, YouTube celebrities, old kings whose names and little else were written down in some book somewhere¡­ that kind of thing.¡± ¡°Now my math isn¡¯t great, but¡­ top of my head, that means that all those famous people make up about .02% of the entire population. Which is bad, but hey: it¡¯s more likely you¡¯ll be remembered than you¡¯ll win the lottery.¡± ¡°But I know what you¡¯re thinking: that¡¯s not really fair, now is it? Because all two million of those famous people were spread across history. So comparing it with just today¡¯s population isn¡¯t quite right. Let¡¯s do those numbers again: 2,095,000 noteworthy people, remembered by history. Compared to the over 113 billion people who, experts estimate, have lived on the planet since humanity came to be. Let¡¯s do that math again. We¡¯ll even round down to a flat 113 billion.¡± She pretended to count on her fingers. As if she had the fingers and the patience to figure it out on one hand. ¡°That means the people worth remembering make up about .001% of all the humans that ever existed. Not impossible odds¡­ right? Oh, but let¡¯s not forget, Harvard scientists Michel and Lieberman Aiden published a study in 2011 that showed that your odds of being famous and remembered drop dramatically after you¡¯ve passed your third decade¡­ and since you¡¯ve wasted at least two decades more than that, your chances are even worse. If we were incredibly generous and assumed that one-third of the famous people we listed above were your age or older when they made their mark on history¡­ your odds of doing something worth remembering are .0006%. Rounding up.¡± She stood back up, putting her hand on his shoulder again, but this time she leaned into his ear, and let her hungry breath wash over his quickly reddening face. ¡°I could list numbers and stats all day, of course. I could prove with all the data and statistics in the world that you¡¯re an insignificant nothing whose every effort has been meaningless and pointless. But I don¡¯t have to, because you know it all already don¡¯t you? Deep in your soul. You see how big and beautiful the world is and you know you contribute nothing to it. You just take up space, eat some food, breathe some air, and eventually you¡¯ll die. Not even worth the dirt your body will displace when you¡¯re buried.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why, instead of asking me ¡®why¡¯, you should be saying ¡®thank you, with all my little cholesterol-bloated heart, for giving me the chance to be better¡¯. Go on, piggy. Say it.¡± The man took the glass of whiskey Ture had poured for him and took another drink. ¡°...yer a right damn evil cunt, ain¡¯t yeh.¡± ¡°Maybe. But I¡¯m also right.¡± She patted his cheek before taking a step back. ¡°After all, I¡¯m the supernatural spirit guide. It¡¯s my job to be right, and I am good at my job. But enough about me. I think¡­ your game is going to start soon.¡± ¡°You are correct.¡± Teresa was suddenly standing next to the man, who, as most guests did, gasped in shock. ¡°We are ready for you in the parlor, sir. May I know your name?¡± ¡°Name a feck where¡¯d¡­ Ronald.¡± ¡°Ronald. A wonderful name for a Champion. My name is Teresa, and I will be your waitress this evening. I see you have already met Ture, our bartender, and Ratna, your guide.¡± ¡°Ah dinnae suppose ah could get a new-¡± ¡°-I will ask you to save your questions until after our explanation. Follow me, please.¡± The stool moaned with relief as Ronald eased off it, and followed Teresa to the door. It seemed all traces of their earlier guest were gone -- there wasn¡¯t even any blood in sight, although the smell of the stuff was impossible to get rid of these days. And instead of a mutilated corpse, there was another, presumably invited man sitting in the middle of the room, right next to a large, sleek, silver-plated slot machine. ¡°Min-Seok, this is your opponent today, Ronald.¡± Min-Seok didn¡¯t stand to greet his opponent, but he did nod. Min-Seok wasn¡¯t quite as big as Ronald was, but he was definitely big enough to make an impression. ¡°Ah didn¡¯t know they made yer kind in that size, lad. Ya got chebs like my aunt Ruth, down to her knees. ¡± He looked away bashfully. ¡°Yeh some kinda sumo wrestler?¡± ¡°That¡¯s Japanese. I¡¯m Korean.¡± He replied in artificially good English. ¡°Tomayto tomahto.¡± He lumbered forward and took the other stool. Ratna situated herself next to the machine itself, and leaned against it haughtily. ¡°Alright, well, before we can get this show on the road, first you guys have to agree on what you want to wager. Now, this here is a magical place, where you can wager anything at all as long as you own it, and it¡¯s a fair deal. Skills? Bet ¡®em. Your mom¡¯s love? Bet it. Good looks? Like I said, you have to own it first, so in this case¡­¡± Min-Seok tried to shrink away. Ratna noticed, and smirked. ¡°Once you agree, I¡¯ll explain how the game works, and we¡¯ll be on our merry way. Just so you know, though, all our games are played for keeps: so the only way to leave once you start is to win, or to give up everything.¡± ¡°So when yeh say we can wager anythin¡¯,¡± Ronald readjusted his stool, ¡°Do yeh mean ¡®anythin¡¯ anythin¡¯?¡± ¡°Yep. Like I said, as long as you own it.¡± ¡°And what does this ¡®ave tae do with this ¡®Champion¡¯ business?¡± ¡°You can worry about that once you win.¡± ¡°Gold Lime¡±, by Glass Animals, pumped from the radio. ¡°Alright, well¡­ ahm told ah got a belter throwin¡¯ arm ah ain¡¯t using. Whad¡¯ya think, lad, wanna throw ball like a champ?¡± He didn¡¯t answer. ¡°...means no, ah take it. Alright, well, ah got eyes like a hawk, spot a mayfly on a horse¡¯s arse half a mile away. How¡¯s that grab ya?¡± Still no answer. Min-Seok looked like he was sucking lemons. ¡°...seems yeh need a wee more confidence, lad, ya feart like a rabbit in the hawkhouse. What¡¯d you wager for some of mine?¡± Min-Seok didn¡¯t answer again, but this time it seemed as if the cause of his silence was consideration, not shyness. ¡°...I¡¯m an ok cook¡­¡± ¡°Ah won¡¯t be riskin¡¯ confidence for ok cooking. It¡¯s taken enough of a beating today that it deserves a mite better.¡± ¡°I¡¯m good at repairing bikes¡­¡± ¡°Does it look like ah spend much time on a bike to yeh? Yeh makin¡¯ fun of me?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Well then stop fecking around.¡± Min-Seok retreated back into the recesses of his mind, to plan, and to think. And when he returned from his withdrawal, he came back strong. ¡°...I¡­ I¡¯m thirteen-inches.¡± Ronald looked at Min-Seok. Min-Seok looked at Ronald. ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...really?¡± ¡°...yes.¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...fer real?¡± He looked to Ratna, pleadingly, as if she could do something about it. She sighed. ¡°If he was lying he couldn¡¯t wager it.¡± ¡°...huh. Well ah dun need the whole thirteen inches, anyhow. Ah¡¯d settle for an extra four.¡± ¡°Ok¡­¡± Ratna clapped her hands together, beaming from ear to ear. ¡°What an absolutely delightful wager, befitting of Champions of your caliber: Ronald will wager some of his confidence for four inches of Min-Seok¡¯s cockmeat. Truly, this kind of innovative wager is proof that without our intervention, you two would have neither the imagination nor ambition to become anything greater than forgotten corpses under an untended tomb.¡± Both men shifted a little bit. Ronald considered saying something in his defense, but before he could, he was alarmed to notice a table and a whiteboard had appeared next to him: and on the table were thirty refreshingly bold red chips. A similar table and whiteboard had appeared next to Min-Seok, whose chips were... for lack of a better term, a pinky, flesh colored. And while he tried to wrap his mind around this, Ratna took the floor again. ¡°Tonight¡¯s game, as you could probably guess, is slots -- puggy for Ronald here.¡± The first ¡°slot machine¡± was built in 1891 by Sittman and Pitt, which had five drums that had card values painted on them for playing poker. Typically, this machine cost a nickel, and while it wouldn¡¯t offer any kind of direct payout, oftentimes the establishments that hosted them would offer things like beer or cigars depending on the hand you spun. However, the first slot machine as we know it was built by San Francisco mechanic Charlies Fey, who used five symbols on three rotating drums, which offered payouts ranging from two nickels to ten, depending on the value of the three matching symbols. The machine got its name from it¡¯s highest-value symbol, ¡°Liberty Bell¡±, and very quickly became a success. Since then, while the technology and possible payout of each slot machine have changed, jumping from electric in 1963 to video in 1976, the mechanics have remained largely the same: you put in some money and hope (for really that is all there is to do in slots) that you get three or five matching symbols, depending on the number of drums. Some of the more unusual machines have windows large enough to show nine symbols, three across three drums, and will allow both horizontal and diagonal matches, while wheel-based slots just have one winning window (for example, the always-popular Wheel of Fortune, based off the show of the same name) with the payout written clearly on the front. The odds of getting matching symbols can be adjusted in the machine¡¯s inner workings, and some machines, it¡¯s said, are programed to automatically pay out after a certain number of plays. That may or may not be true, but one thing that¡¯s known for certain is that, on average, slot players win about 90 cents for every dollar they spend in the game. ¡°But games of pure chance aren¡¯t a great way to test if you¡¯re Champion material. Which is why the Silver Wheel twists the rules a bit. For strategy. ¡°Here¡¯s how it¡¯s gonna work. At the start of your turn, you slide two chips into the machine and give the lever a pull. Most modern slot machines have twenty symbols, but here at the Silver Wheel we have a much more reasonable six, so your odds of getting a matching pair are a lot better. ¡°...that said, your odds still aren¡¯t good. So after you pull the lever, you can choose to spend chips to ¡®buy¡¯ a symbol you got on that pull. That symbol will be marked on your whiteboard. During or after a pull, you can choose to replace any symbol with a symbol you bought. You can do this up to two times per pull. You can buy as many symbols as you want, but their cost goes up exponentially the more you currently have on your board. If you have no symbols, your first one is just two chips. A second symbol will cost you four, third is eight, fourth is sixteen, and so on. Once a symbol is used, it¡¯s removed from your board, and it won¡¯t factor into the cost of your next symbol. Buy two, use one, the next symbol you buy will just be four chips.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°So yeah. You win if you get 100 chips before your opponent. You lose if you run out or can¡¯t play. Really simple stuff, right? Any questions?¡± ¡°I have two, actually.¡± Teresa interjected, appearing quite suddenly next to Ratna. ¡°For one¡­ you said there are six symbols, but you only explained five. Could you tell us about the sixth symbol?¡± ¡°Oh! Oh, crap, right, sorry.¡± Ratna sheepishly grinned. ¡°I forgot. It¡¯s my face. Unlike the other symbols, where you¡¯ll have a minute to decide if you want to replace or buy anything once the barrels stop, the moment three of my face come up, you lose the game. Pretty important you remember that.¡± ¡°...and for my second question, would the gentlemen care for anything to drink?¡± Ture was watching from the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as the men tried to process both the mechanics of the game and what they wanted to drink. The odds of getting a match just by pulling the lever were about 1 in 216: it was obvious they¡¯d have to save symbols immediately in order to win. The question was the cost: there were five desirable symbols, and even having just one of each on-hand would cost a grand total of sixty-two chips, more than double what they started with. And since they could only replace a symbol up to two times per spin, it meant that even if you bought two jackpots, you¡¯d still only have a one in six chance of winning¡­ in theory. But in practice... ...well, it didn¡¯t matter. Neither of them seemed especially clever, that was probably going to be their plan. But even at a glance, Ture could tell that was not the most optimal way to play¡­ ¡°Ture.¡± Teresa¡¯s voice snapped him back to reality. ¡°One bottle of Bailey¡¯s and a Coke, please.¡± ¡°The whole bottle?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what he said, yes.¡± ¡°...should we make it a diet Coke?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Ture.¡± ¡°Alright, alright, sorry.¡± Ronald had first spin, as decided by a coin toss when Ture was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Incidentally, Ronald was also lost in thought even as he fingered two of his chips, thinking less about the game and more about his own circumstances. Here he was, having just gotten over a midlife crisis that had netted him a broken boat worth two thousand pounds and a failed diet that nearly doubled his size, and now he was being told that this was his last chance to make something of himself. There was something about the choking scented air and the grittiness of the place that made it seem too grounded to just be a midday dream. But he didn¡¯t want to believe it was real, either. He didn¡¯t like being given this chance if it really was his last one. He would have been happier, at least in the short term, not knowing he was out of opportunities and believing he still had time. Pushing things off by weeks and months as he focused on fixing that damn boat or working in the yard or saving up for that trip to Disneyland Paris. Those little busy distractions that seemed more productive than they actually were. The placebos of purpose. But if this really was his last chance to make something of himself¡­ what was he supposed to do? Win? This game just seemed like regular puggy to him, with extra rules tacked on. Didn¡¯t seem like much of a test, unless they were testing luck. In which case¡­ well¡­ he¡¯d already lost. Can¡¯t get much luckier than being born with a thirteen-inch pecker. ...he was old enough and fat enough that an extra four inches below the belt wouldn¡¯t really do him much good. But even if he didn¡¯t need it, and even if this ¡®chosen one¡¯ business left a bad taste in his mouth, and even if he didn¡¯t seem to stand a chance in the luck department¡­ he still had to try, didn¡¯t he? Just to say that he did, at least once in his life. He pushed the chips in, and gave the onyx-tipped lever a pull. The machine sang as it sprang to life, rattling mechanically as the barrels spun into a blur of indistinguishable colors and shapes. Ronald had been to a casino once or twice in his time: avoided the slots, though, as they seemed a bit¡­ what¡¯s the word¡­ scammy. He had to admit he had made bets that he was more anxious about than this one, but he could still feel his stomach looping into a knot. A knot that tightened when the first barrel stopped at a cartoon of Ratna¡¯s face, winking cheekily. What a joke that would be, if he lost on the very first spin. Fortunately, the second barrel was nicer: the seven symbol. He wouldn¡¯t win this round, but he wouldn¡¯t lose, either. And finally, the last barrel settled on the bell symbol. No jackpots, but he needed at least one symbol to keep him safe if he ever got two Ratna¡¯s, so¡­ ¡°Ah¡¯ll buy that bell off yeh, lass.¡± He handed her two chips, and she, in turn, drew a bell on his whiteboard with a black felt-tipped marker. ¡°Anything else?¡± ¡°Nae.¡± ¡°Then Min-Seok, you¡¯re up. And winning, by the way. Congratulations.¡± Min-Seok wasn¡¯t much of a strategist, and he¡¯d never even stepped foot in a casino before this very moment, but all the same he¡¯d been trying to figure out this game ever since the rules had been laid out. From what he could tell, the only way to be sure to win was to be able to buy lots and lots of symbols. But to buy the symbols, you needed capital. So he needed small wins now to finance his big wins later¡­ at least, the way he figured. He didn¡¯t like this, though. The entire premise just stressed him out. Becoming a, what was it, Champion? Who said he ever wanted to be a Champion for anything? Teresa told him it was of the ¡°utmost importance¡± that they find a Champion, but he had enough shit going on in his life right now. School was overwhelming, he barely had time to study because his job wouldn¡¯t stop giving him shifts, his parents won¡¯t stop giving him shit for his stress-eating (which only made the eating worse) and worst of all the boy he¡¯d been crushing on for the last three years just got a new girlfriend and every time he saw him or her his heart just got so fluttery and painful that he sometimes felt like he couldn¡¯t breathe and didn¡¯t want to. So yeah, sure. Test if he¡¯s the chosen one, throw one more thing on the list of stuff he had to worry about. He¡¯d have given up right away if confidence wasn¡¯t on the line. Even just a little more would help him deal with his problems. Stand up to his parents, and his boss, and maybe even just tell Jae-Beom how he felt so he could get it off his chest and out of his life. Still. He wouldn¡¯t be heartbroken if he lost. At least he could go to the beach again. Two coins into the slot, and the barrels spun. The first barrel popped up with lucky sevens. Second barrel was a big black pot exploding with coins -- the jackpot. Third was Ratna¡¯s cruel little face. Well. This was an easy choice, then. He handed Ratna two coins and pointed to the jackpot, and Ratna smiled, drawing a little pot on his board. ¡°And it¡¯s a draw.¡± She announced as she wiggled the marker in front of her. ¡°Draw? Get it? Because I was drawing stuff?¡± Two drinks were set down, one in front of each man. Ronald chugged, Min-Seok sipped. Neither of them laughed. ¡°Ya¡¯ll suck. Ronald, your spin.¡± Ture was back to watching, and he had to admit, he found this first round extremely illuminating to just how careless both men were being right now. Min-Seok¡¯s logic was understandable enough, but what Ronald failed to realize was that if he bought a symbol, he¡¯d need to spend it sooner or later: otherwise the price of future, more desirable symbols will just keep going up until he had no way to pay for it. But both men had made mistakes¡­ he was curious just who would realize that sooner. ¡°What I¡¯ve got¡±, by Sublime, bobbed out of the radio. Ronald, lacking anything else to do, simply slid two coins into the machine, confident, at the least, he wouldn¡¯t lose immediately if he saw too many faces. Fortunately, he didn¡¯t need it this pull: a seven, a jackpot, then another bell. While the idea of grabbing the jackpot was tempting, Ronald forced himself to show restraint: if he just bought symbols carelessly, he¡¯d be out of chips before long. Three bells wouldn¡¯t win him the game¡­ but they¡¯d get him awfully close. ¡°The bell, lass.¡± ¡°Four chips this time.¡± ¡°Aright.¡± He dropped the chips in her hand. There was a moment when there was nothing to really fill the air, except the squeal of the marker on his whiteboard. Min-Seok took another baby sip of his coke. ¡°...what¡¯s yehr story, then?¡± Ronald asked, spur of the moment. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°Yehr story. Everyone¡¯s got one, aye? So what¡¯s yehrs.¡± Min-Seok looked completely and utterly defeated by the question the second he registered what it was. He looked to the left and right, as if either searching for an answer in his peripheral vision, or a window to jump out of. But Ronald, and the question, remained. And Min-Seok lashed at his mind to think of words faster as he slid the first chip into the slot. ¡°Well¡­ I don¡¯t have one? Or, no, that¡¯s not right¡­ it¡¯s boring. It¡¯s exactly what you¡¯d imagine. A¡­ trope. I got picked on, I live with my parents, I work part-time, I¡¯m not doing well at university, so¡­ it was only a matter of time before I became a chosen one, right? Like in the comics.¡± Ronald¡¯s eyes sparkled with the dullest of recognition. ¡°Ah see.¡± ¡°I mean, it¡¯s not a bad life,¡± he put the second chip in, hand resting on the lever, ¡°it¡¯s got ups and downs it¡¯s just¡­ pedestrian.¡± He pulled on the lever, and the machine sang once again. A bell, Ratna¡¯s face, and a bar. Min-Seok sighed. ¡°Buying anything?¡± Ratna asked. ¡°No¡­ not this time.¡± ¡°Then that means you¡¯re up to pull, Ronald.¡± Ture grunted. This kid was making him angrier with every round. Min-Seok didn¡¯t say anything while Ronald took the spot, lost in thought or perhaps socially paralyzed from a traumatic ten seconds of conversation. Ronald slid his two chips in, pulled the lever, and¡­ Bell, bell, and lucky seven. Despite himself, the Scotsman beamed, showing off a less-than-perfect set of teeth as the thrill of the game gripped him. ¡°Ah real jammy pull! Ah¡¯d like tae swap that seven for a bell.¡± ¡°Of course. And that gets you forty-eight chips! Ding ding ding!¡± The machine mirrored her jubilation, chiming musically as it belted plastic chips from its stomach out into the metal bin, which Ronald was able to snatch out in big, disorganized handfuls. It didn¡¯t take long for him to shovel his winnings onto the table, his face glowing the whole time -- while Min-Seok tried his best to be a good sport about his first major loss of the evening with a small and forced smile. ¡°Now if ah understand this right, ah can still buy a thing, right?¡± ¡°I take it you¡¯d like another bell.¡± ¡°Please.¡± ¡°That¡¯ll be four of your hard-earned chips, then.¡± The chips exchanged hands, and Ronald was left with a clear and indisputable lead: one more bell would be all he needed to claim victory. Unless, Ture thought bitterly, Min-Seok managed to come to his senses. ¡°Gotta admit, ah was a wee bit spotty on this whole proposition, but now that ahm winnin¡¯ it¡¯s growin¡¯ on me!¡± Min-Seok tried to fake a laugh but then decided just a little too late not to. It came out like a series of jumpy breaths and lip twitches. It lasted only for a second, maybe a second and a half, but the awkwardness it created dragged on considerably longer. ¡°...sorry.¡± ¡°Scuse yah, ah guess.¡± ¡°Congratulations. That¡¯s what I meant.¡± ¡°Oh. Well ah ain¡¯t won yet ¡®ave aye?¡± At this, Min-Seok actually snorted, but the sound and his ensuing smile were bitter. ¡°You basically have.¡± Ronald leaned forward, a glint in his deep-set eyes. ¡°Ere¡¯s a spot of ol¡¯ family wisdom fer ya, lad, free as me¡¯ gran¡¯s teets. Confidence is 50% trickin¡¯ folk into thinkin¡¯ yeh know what yehr about, and 50% believin¡¯ yer own damn fibs. Yeh could ¡®ave every reason tae think yeh don¡¯t know shite, but no one else will know unless ye go out and tell ¡®em.¡± ¡°...okay.¡± ¡°So why not practice now, lad? Pretend yeh got a plan tae take meh down a peg or three, aye? ¡®S better ¡®n just givin¡¯ up when your situation reeks more ¡®n bull piss.¡± Min-Seok sighed. ¡°It¡¯s not that simple.¡± ¡°S¡¯ the thin¡¯, innit? It really is. Yeh just don¡¯ like hearin¡¯ it.¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if it were the best advice in the world in any case,¡± Ratna interjected, ¡°Neither of you will be remembering this when the game is over and you wake up.¡± ¡°Maybe so, but it ain¡¯t ever pooched work to try ¡®n improve yehrself, even for a tad. Proves yeh can do it at all. Good f¡¯ the soul.¡± ¡°...but I mean,¡± Ratna pressed, ¡°If you can¡¯t remember that you proved you can be better it literally doesn¡¯t matter.¡± ¡°Matters for th¡¯ time yehr doin¡¯ it.¡± ¡°Except no it doesn¡¯t because you can¡¯t learn anything or improve yourself from this. This experience will just vanish for both of you and neither of you will care.¡± ¡°Even ¡®f ¡®e becomes Champion?¡± Ratna looked as if she¡¯d just remembered something she had forgotten, and glowered. She opened her mouth to speak, but caught Teresa glaring from the other side of the room, and painfully swallowed her own indignation. ¡°Well¡­ no, I guess he¡¯d remember then.¡± ¡°There yeh go.¡± Min-Seok had been shuffling two chips between his fingers during this entire exchange, eye cast down to avoid looking at either his dealer or his opponent. He didn¡¯t understand why Ronald was trying to help. Getting more confidence was the point of the game, right? Why hand out advice as if they were anything other than strangers being coerced into playing this stupid game? And what good would confidence do him anyway in a game like this? A card game, sure, bluffing was important as far as he knew, but what good would positive thinking do him when all he had to do was put chips in a slot and pull a lever? It was endearing and annoying at the same time. Although Min-Seok was leaning towards the former, nudged along by ¡°Three Little Birds¡± by Bob Marley playing on the radio. It wasn¡¯t much, but it did give him the strength he needed to take one deep breath, and slip the chips into the slot with something resembling optimism. After all, if Ronald could get two bells, there¡¯s no reason he couldn¡¯t get two jackpots, right? So he pulled the lever. ¡°Oh, we¡¯re startin¡¯?¡± The barrels spun, and both Ronald and Min-Seok leaned in with baited breath. But whatever lucky stars were looking over Ronald found no such favor with Min-Seok, because the very first barrel would stop on the not-so-lucky seven. Still, there were two more barrels left: and two was all he needed. He leaned in even further and, perhaps signaling it was a bit too close, the second barrel stopped almost immediately afterwards: on the face, depressingly enough. Min-Seok was, at this point, severely crestfallen. But if even that last barrel could land on the jackpot, then he could buy it and- wait, nope, it landed on a cherry. ¡°Fat lot of good confidence did me there¡­¡± he sighed, ¡°that¡¯s probably game¡­¡± ¡°Before you lie down like a bitch, would you like to buy any symbols?¡± He was about to refuse and go back to his coke, but then he paused for a moment, staring at the barrels. If Ronald had gotten this spin, he would have been able to win, and Min-Seok couldn¡¯t have done anything to stop it. It seemed so strange that Ratna would talk about ¡°strategy¡± at the start of this when there wasn¡¯t really anything to strategize about: the symbols were random. Even the symbols you could buy were random. What was he missing, exactly¡­? ¡°...well?¡± He had an idea¡­ he didn¡¯t want to look stupid trying it, but¡­ it was better than losing¡­ right? ¡°...actually¡­ yeah. I¡¯ll¡­ buy the cherry.¡± ¡°Four chips, pal. You sure?¡± He answered by handing her four chips. She smirked, shrugged, and drew a cherry on his whiteboard. ¡°Your funeral. Ronald, you¡¯re up.¡± ¡°Aye.¡± Ronald gave his younger opponent a smile, wondering what exactly he was planning, before settling in front of the slot machine. With 62 chips, and the ability to win forty-eight with three bells, all he needed was to get one more bell -- and he had five more pulls to get it, before his winnings wouldn¡¯t be enough to break 100 chips. Pretty good odds. Better than Min-Seok getting his two jackpots, in any case. He felt as if he had firm control over the game, such as it was, and with the calmness of control came a bit of clarity. With no strategy or plotting to occupy his mind, he could muse on other subjects¡­ including his sweaty, anxious opponent who clearly wanted another coke but was too shy to say so. He took a chug of Bailey¡¯s, fed the machine his chips, then pulled the lever. He stayed relaxed, slouched back, watching the barrels spin and the back of Min-Seok¡¯s head as he leaned forward fearfully. The first barrel, funny enough, landed on the jackpot, and Ronald could barely stifle a laugh as he saw Min-Seok stiffen up. The second barrel was Ratna¡¯s face. Min-Seok relaxed, although he had an aura of bitterness that Ronald could taste even without seeing his face. And finally, the third barrel landed on a bell. ¡°Welp, ah guess-¡± ¡°...wait. I¡­ can I replace the bell with my cherry?¡± Ratna nodded. ¡°Okay well I want to do that.¡± Ronald blinked the shock from his face as Ratna erased the cherry from Min-Seok¡¯s board, but then let out a little laugh. Not a boastful one, or an arrogant one either: it was almost paternal. ¡°That¡¯s pure class, lad.¡± ¡°...uh¡­¡± ¡°Sorry. Good.¡± ¡°Oh. Thank you.¡± But of course, now Ronald found himself needing to actually think again. Min-Seok could, in theory, pull this trick every time Ronald got the bell, which would disrupt his chance of winning within five rounds. But Min-Seok was also running out of chips. Assuming he did everything he could to avoid using his jackpot, he¡¯d bleed six chips every round, two to spin, and four to get a bell-blocking symbol -- with the wild assumption, of course, that Ronald got a bell on every spin. Eyeballing his pile, he could probably only do that two or three times before he ran out of chips... He shook his head. ¡°Les¡¯ put down for that jackpot symbol.¡± ¡°Third buy. That¡¯s eight chips.¡± ¡°Fine by me.¡± The chips were exchanged, the symbol drawn, and Min-Seok took his place in front of the machine: heart pounding both out of fear for the next spin and because of a light social adrenaline rush from having pulled off his last-ditch strategy. He had managed to stave off defeat for now, but¡­ with so few chips, his options were quickly dwindling. He couldn¡¯t help but worry and stress about it. And waiting wouldn¡¯t make it any better. So he forced the chips into the slot, and gave the lever a pull. ¡°By th¡¯ way, meant tae ask -- what¡¯re yeh studyin¡¯ at university?¡± Min-Seok stole a sideways glance, but mostly kept his eyes on the barrel. First slot landed on a bar. His hiss bled into his answer. ¡°shhh- e-entomology. Bugs.¡± ¡°Why?¡± The second barrel landed on a jackpot. Now, Min-Seok didn¡¯t bother answering. He just leaned forward more, licking his lips. Ronald, for a moment, forgot his own question as well as the last barrel continued to spin, taunting both of them with its mystery. ...before landing on another bar. Min-Seok¡¯s joy at seeing that jackpot was undercut immediately when he reached for his chip pile to buy it: he only had sixteen chips left. He¡¯d need four for the jackpot, and if he was going to buy another symbol to continue blocking Ronald, he¡¯d need to dish out another eight. He¡¯d only have four chips left. Which, ironically enough, would mean he wouldn¡¯t win even if he got three jackpots in a row on his next spin. And of course, there was the fact Ronald could block him, too. But then, to do that, he¡¯d need to use his bells, which would be something like a win for Min-Seok¡­ but without a third symbol, if Ronald were to get another bell¡­ ...he had no choice, though. He¡¯d just have to hope. ¡°...just the jackpot symbol.¡± He gave Ratna four chips, who shot a sly grin to Ronald. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re in trouble, big guy.¡± ¡°Aye, aye.¡± ¡°...o-oh. Right. You¡­ asked me a question, right. Right?¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t important.¡± ¡°Sorry.¡± Ronald shrugged it off, and positioned himself in front of the machine the fifth time that night. ¡°Alright ya ol¡¯ cunt, be good ta me now.¡± He addressed it before sliding his two chips into the slot and giving the lever a bold yank. And the very first symbol was a bell. ¡°Aha, that¡¯s m¡¯ girl!¡± Min-Seok, however, paled. It seemed all the fates were just against him this evening. That, or the machine was rigged, a possibility he churlishly considered more and more plausible. He had no choice but to use one of his jackpots, but if there was one bright side to this, it was that after this round, Ronald couldn¡¯t win with just bells anymore: he¡¯d be just shy of the one-hundred he needed. Still. He couldn¡¯t use it yet. He¡¯d have to wait until the second and third symbol were revealed before he made his move: just in case one of them was another jackpot. The second barrel stopped. A cherry. Min-Seok sighed deeply, and completely ignored the fact Ture put another coke in front of him. ¡°Let¡¯s replace that cherry with ah bell, shall we?¡± Oh, crap, that was his cue! ¡°And replace the first bell with a, a jackpot!¡± He wasn¡¯t used to speaking without warming himself up first. He felt a little¡­ raw. ¡°S¡¯ a real mess yeh put me in, Min.¡± Ronald noted. ¡°But don¡¯tcha think yeh shoulda waited till the third barrel stopped? Ah can replace two symbols, y¡¯know, including the bell ah just used. So if that third barrel is a jackpot...¡± Min-Seok froze. What a stupid mistake. What a stupid, stupid mistake. He wanted to kick himself in the face for his own rashness, but there was no point in that now: all he could do was stare at the last barrel and hope that Ronald¡¯s lucky streak came to an end. ¡°Please¡­¡± he found himself whispering, ¡°...please¡­!¡± The barrel stopped with a metallic ¡°chink¡±. Ratna¡¯s face. Min-Seok exhaled loudly, resting his forehead on the machine, but Ronald -- Ronald didn¡¯t look too concerned. ¡°Aye, Ratna -- ah can buy the jackpot Min ¡®ere so kindly put on th¡¯ first barrel, aye?¡± ¡°Aye indeed.¡± Her wolfish grin returned, although her starved smile was aimed directly at Min-Seok as she savored over his newfound misery. ¡°Eight chips again.¡± ¡°No problem at all, lass!¡± Ronald laughed, and the exchange was made. Now, he was sitting at one bell and two jackpots on his whiteboard, as well as having forty-two chips at his disposal. Min-Seok, meanwhile, only had a single jackpot saved, and 12 chips to his name. His odds of winning were practically zero. When that realization hit, he tried to shrug it off. He didn¡¯t really need that confidence. Those four lost inches would still mean he had an impressive size. And he certainly didn¡¯t need the extra stress of being a ¡®Champion¡¯, he reminded himself. But all the same¡­ a win would have been nice. A return for the investment of energy he put into the game. And¡­ well, it would have been a shot to his self-esteem of sorts, right? Besides¡­ he was kind of curious about what was going on with this chosen one business. But it didn¡¯t matter. There was always a gap between what he wanted and what he was given. So he just pulled up his big boy pants, went up to the machine, and put two of his remaining chips into the slot. He might have no real chance at winning, but there was no real point in just giving up either. He pulled the lever, and tried really hard not to lean forward. ...Ratna¡¯s face¡­ a lucky seven¡­ and a bell. What was this machine and bells. ¡°Well, I guess that¡¯s that¡­¡± Min-Seok turned to Ronald, but the older Scottish gentleman had a gleam in his colorful eyes. ¡°Hold up. Ratna, be a dear ¡®n replace yerh face and the seven with jackpots.¡± Ratna¡¯s wolfish smile vanished. ¡°...wait, why? Why?¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t yerh job to ask. Just do it.¡± She had no choice but to acquiesce, and while she erased the two symbols from Ronald¡¯s board, Min-Seok¡¯s sadness turned to surprise. ¡°...but really, why? You¡¯re just¡­ throwing your symbols away.¡± ¡°Rules said we could each only change two, lad. Yeh can still replace two y¡¯self, if yeh want.¡± ¡°...but¡­ why?¡± ¡°Seems yeh need the confidence more ¡®n ah need four extra inches. ¡®Sides, yeh can probably use ¡®em better than this old sag.¡± Ronald had wanted to win, that much was true. But, as he had examined the situation from his lofty, comfortable lead, he realized that all he really wanted was to make a difference. That was the whole premise of his playing this game, after all. And he figured -- what easier way to make a difference in the world than to give a talented young student the confidence he needed? It wouldn¡¯t get him into any history books, and it wouldn¡¯t help him be ¡®remembered¡¯. But at least it would mean his life had mattered. For one person, and all the other people that person would affect, with his newly-won confidence. And that was enough to put a smile back on his weather-beaten face. Ratna noticed the complacency on Ronald¡¯s face, and with a roll of the eyes, added ¡°Also, this place can pull some monkey-paw shit, so you probably won¡¯t like how we¡¯d chop those four inches off. The man¡¯s giving you an out, take it.¡± Min-Seok was overwhelmed, so much so he could barely think of something to say, let alone do. But when he had finally caught up with himself, he settled on a grateful, wordless nod towards Ronald and a rather sheepish request. ¡°Um¡­ can I replace-¡± ¡°-Yeah yeah yeah Min-Seok wins woo.¡± Ratna couldn¡¯t even pretend to add fake enthusiasm to her cheer. ¡°Congratulations. Now finish your drinks and get out.¡± Both men did a double take at this rather¡­ abrupt request. ¡°Please forgive my associate¡¯s rudeness.¡± Teresa bowed her head, stepping forward. ¡°...but she¡¯s not wrong. We¡¯re very busy these days so I cordially request you do not dawdle. We¡¯ll reach out to you again if we should discover you were the Champion we were hunting for.¡± The two men exchanged a look, exchanged a smile, then exchanged a laugh. ¡°Guess there¡¯s a lot of chosen ones out there, aye?¡± ¡°Guess so. And, uh, Ronald -- thank you. Thank you so much.¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ lad. Keep that chin up. Remember what ah told you.¡± ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure I won¡¯t, but I¡¯ll try.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the spirit.¡± And they started to chug. ~*~ When Ronald woke up, he¡¯d gotten a sunburn. He¡¯d also gotten fired. Turns out he had taken just one too many naps in the back of the distillery, and his new supervisor had about enough of it. His old boss, a friend of many years, had always tolerated it, and at this point Ronald considered his position to be secure, no matter who was calling the shots. But as it turned out, he was wrong, and discovering you¡¯re not as indispensable as you may have first assumed never felt good. Crestfallen, he wandered from pub to pub, drowning his sorrows, before staggering home. He spent several days following begging for his job back -- after all, he was old, and he was local, and there wasn¡¯t much else for him to do around town. But he was refused, time and time again, and even his wife was losing respect for him. He sulked, for a time, and for an older man like himself, sulking was dangerous: with age, people have less energy to pull themselves up when they find themselves down. Still, a lack of comfort and confidence can be good for a man. Paired with free time, he decided to pass his days working on his broken boat, which had been collecting dust and dirt in his backyard. Fearful of making a mistake, he spent a considerable amount of time making sure everything he did was by-the-books, and by the time he was done, he had managed to patch it into reasonable shape. He considered hosting loch tours for tourists, but shied away from the idea, ultimately deciding to just rent the boat itself out to them. It wasn¡¯t as much as he used to make, but it was enough to get by. And to, eventually, get him to Disneyland Paris. ~*~ Min-Seok woke up to a message from the boy he was crushing on. A long message. Once he¡¯d gotten over his initial wave of panic and actually read it, he saw it was, indeed, a heartfelt confession: but not of love. Of concern. For his weight. It wrapped up with a genuine desire for him to take better care of himself, expressed by all his friends and even his ex-boyfriend. He was touched, but initially, dismissive: after all, he had way too much stuff to do, he couldn¡¯t possibly devote time to dieting and going to the gym. But apparently, his crush had roped everyone in his life in on this, because his boss started giving him fewer hours, and his parents started stocking the house with heathly foods. Everyone wanted him to be healthier, and told him as much, and he realized that if he had this kind of support, then maybe he could pull this off. So he applied himself. He ate less. He walked more. He eventually got a gym membership, and did homework on the treadmill. He reached out to friends when he felt like giving up, and they helped motivate him to keep trying. And slowly, surely, he started to lose weight, and feel better. Both physically, and mentally: because if he could do this, then what couldn¡¯t he do? Nothing, as long as he had his friends and family with him. ~*~ ¡°What a lame way to end a game, fuck.¡± Ture couldn¡¯t help but smile at Ratna¡¯s bluntness. They didn¡¯t have any time to relax: they had no idea when the next guest was coming, so they had to clean while they spoke. The frantic pace was exhausting, but none of them showed it. ¡°But do you think either of them are fit to be our ¡®Champion¡¯?¡± Teresa asked, cutting to the point in her usual manner. ¡°Of course not,¡± Ture answered instinctively, ¡°they both played that game terribly.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± Teresa yielded the floor -- and not just for him to sweep. ¡°Ronald may have won with dumb luck and a bit of smarts, but if either of them were actually clever, they would have realized that Ratna¡¯s face was the actual key to victory. Six or twenty faces, slots are designed to show their lowest-ranking symbols more often. And since three of Ratna¡¯s face means an instant loss the moment it shows up, it made more sense to use her face aggressively than to try and deny the other player¡¯s match while hoping you get one yourself. If Min had played that way, he would have won by the third round.¡± Ratna scoffed. ¡°Yeah, what he said.¡± ¡°Understandable. Then we shall not invite them back to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°Speaking of ¡®invites¡¯, T, who was the guy you killed earlier?¡± Teresa paused. And that momentary lull in cleaning was perhaps the only indication she had any feelings at all on the subject, as neither her face nor eyes betrayed any emotion. ¡°Another unwelcome invader. A TV producer who wanted to film here. And a known associate of Mister Kondrashin. They will not be bothering us again.¡± ¡°Funny you keep saying that, but we keep being bothered. He won¡¯t stop sending us people. That was¡­ what, our tenth ¡®invader¡¯ since that Charlie guy you were telling me about?¡± ¡°Our ninth.¡± ¡°Okay¡­ so?¡± ¡°I warned them what would happen. My intentions were clear. It seems Mister Kondrashin labors under the belief he can beat us. He is wrong.¡± Mister Kondrashin was a name that kept coming up among the most recent wave of ¡®invaders¡¯. It seemed whatever method Marie Walker had used to bring people to the Silver Wheel had either been reproduced by or sold to him, and if possible, his callous disregard for human life was more blatant than Marie herself. ¡°Okay, that¡¯s true, but¡­ I¡¯m just wondering if there¡¯s anything else we can do while we wait for our, uh, ¡®Champion¡¯. Like, maybe I could-¡± ¡°-no.¡± ¡°You could at least hear my-¡± ¡°-I¡¯m not losing anyone else Ratna.¡± Everyone stopped working for that brief, sacred moment. Not even the radio dared defile it, and the echo of her words was all that filled that space. Ratna looked down. ¡°I will do this myself. I will take the risk and bloody my hands alone,¡± she continued somberly. ¡°Do you understand?¡± ¡°...I get it.¡± ¡°And do you ¡®get it¡¯, Ture?¡± He didn¡¯t answer. At first. But his eyes glanced up towards the door, cracked open, where he could see the infinite darkness outside. ¡°...yeah...¡± He got back to work. ¡°...I get it.¡± Round Two: Hangman ¡°(Don¡¯t Fear) the Reaper¡±, by Blue Oyster Cult, soothed her eyes open. Claudia tried to cough, but something was wedged against her throat. It was just tight enough to squeeze her airway from all sides, claustrophobically, but not quite enough to close it entirely. She bucked her head against it, but the irritation wouldn¡¯t go away. In fact, it seemed to tighten just that little bit more, which triggered a primal, animal fear in her. But when she tried to use her hands to yank at whatever was around her neck, she found they wouldn¡¯t move. They were bound behind her back, and struggling only caused the bindings to tense, cutting off the circulation to her recently manicured fingernails. The claustrophobia, like a worm of ice, burrowed through her mind, but even in raw panic her legs didn¡¯t thrash out: they could feel her toes were balancing on a very unstable stool, providing just enough upward force to keep whatever was wrapped around her throat from closing in around her entirely. ¡°Welcome to the Silver Wheel.¡± A voice. Chilling and evil but grounding. The sound seeped into her ear and allowed her to take a few necessary but shallow breaths. The rest of the room was finally visible now that her veiling panic had vanished: it was dimly lit. Smokey, almost choking with floral scents accented with cigar smoke and dried blood. The music was muffled and unobtrusive, yet omnipresently filling the silence that would have otherwise choked the room. The floor was a poker green, while the light illuminating her was a hideous piss yellow. And the woman standing in front of her had the most pale, inhumanly flawless skin and impossibly blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. ¡°W-what¡­¡± Claudia tried to ask -- her brain and everything in it were muddy and fuzzy right now. Maybe¡­ maybe when she fell asleep, she bumped into something funny? She was having a hard time thinking straight. She didn¡¯t get the time to organize her thoughts. ¡°My name is Teresa, and you and I are going to play a game,¡± the woman bowed her head, ¡°If you win, I will welcome you as a guest here. If you lose¡­¡± ¡°...you die.¡± She delivered those words with extra emphasis but no joy or revelry. ¡°W-wait, what¡­?¡± Claudia squeaked. Her head hadn¡¯t straightened out enough to register exactly what was going on. But her discombobulation was quickly fixing itself: she found her body adjusting automatically, following all the steps one needs to take when they find themselves in a crisis situation. It was her training kicking in. She had been trained for this. Her breathing steadied. Her pulse slowed. And with a little help from the shockingly mellow scent that soothed the fire in her instincts, she accepted the premise of her current situation: she was in a noose, arms bound behind her back, and a flimsy, four-legged stool was the only thing keeping her from choking to death right now. And the person responsible was most likely the woman in the professional suit in front of her, right at the edge of the piss-yellow halo that surrounded Claudia. A woman named Teresa. A woman who, it seemed, was also standing next to a chalkboard with four dashes on it. ¡°Tonight¡¯s game will be hangman.¡± Hangman is a popular children¡¯s game, especially useful as an educative tool to encourage creativity, logical thinking, and of course, spelling and vocabulary. The game¡¯s history is less than clear, however: there are some that claim it has its roots back in the 17th and 18th century as a rite condemned criminals could demand as an opportunity to escape death. This rite, called the ¡°Rite of Words and Life¡±, would give the criminal five chances to guess a word the executioner was thinking of. If they were right at any point, they walked away: proof, perhaps, of divine providence. Otherwise, they would be executed as planned. An interesting tale to say the least, but with no historical or documented backing, the real history behind this gruesome game may forever remain a mystery. ¡°The rules are simple and largely unchanged from the version you likely know well,¡± Teresa looked at Claudia with half-lit eyes. ¡°You have to guess the letters that make up the four-letter English word in my head. If you guess the letters and the word correctly, you win. If you guess wrong too many times, you will lose. I trust there are no questions.¡± ¡°Hey. I do have questions actually.¡± Claudia gasped -- she still wasn¡¯t quite used to the noose, but she was composed now, at the very least. ¡°You said this was the Silver Wheel, right?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Claudia said with grim resolve. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ that¡¯s good.¡± ~*~ ¡°It won¡¯t be too har- mom, listen to me, I said it won¡¯t be that hard. All I hav- mom, could you- mom mom!¡± Claudia¡¯s mother wasn¡¯t so much prone to hysterics as they were her natural state. Which wasn¡¯t the only reason she left home as quickly as physically possible, but it was certainly a big reason. She had been this way her entire life, an overbearing force of caution and fear, but when she heard Claudia was working for the government -- in law enforcement, even -- she reached levels of anxiety that would destroy the hearts of less practiced worry-ers. ¡°It¡¯s all- it¡¯s all goin- ugh, mom it¡¯s going to be fine I have it under control bye.¡± One tap, and silence. ¡°Putin¡¯s ghost,¡± she sighed her favorite little expletive, ¡°it¡¯s a miracle that woman can wake up in the morning.¡± She muted her phone and her mother¡¯s obligatory follow-up calls and focused on dressing herself. Her boss, Nikolay Kondrashin, was a stickler for professionalism, especially for the people under his direct command. But his dress code for the females in his employ was, while archaic, not impractical. Knee-length skirt in any drab, colorless shade. Stockings and flat black shoes. A button-up blouse. Hair short, or wrapped up in a bun. No jewelry other than wedding bands or a watch. Not even earrings were acceptable. Not anymore, anyway. She inspected herself with a casual glance. She looked the same as she always did. Like the nameless character in some uninspired stock photos. That was fine by her. She had the radio playing as she put her supplies away. The news. They were reporting on her boss¡¯s -- and by extension, her -- most recent success in curbing the homosexual disease that threatened the motherland. They had found something like thirty men in their most recent online sting. Thirty new bodies for the reeducation camps, where their ¡®unnatural desires¡¯ would be purged from their systems one way or another. She listened to the end of the congratulatory report before clicking it off. She realized, with the radio off, that her phone was still vibrating. But her mom usually only called twice after being hung up on, and this was solidly in third-ring territory. She glanced at the screen: it was a co-worker. Oliver. That was odd. She picked up. ¡°Hello Oliver. I¡¯m heading out the door now.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not late. It¡¯s fine. I just wanted to ask if you knew about Garik.¡± His voice was slow and careful. Drained of emotion. He was calling from work, so they both knew there were more than two pairs of ears in the conversation. ¡°I¡¯m terrible with names, Oliver. I only remember yours because it¡¯s my brothers, too.¡± ¡°He was that short guy with the stomach. You called him an avocado pit.¡± ¡°Oh. Yes, Garik. Did something happen?¡± ¡°I was going to ask you. I can¡¯t get in touch with him for our follow-up interview.¡± She had been part of the first interview, but only as a witness on behalf of her boss, Mr. Kondrashin. All she really did was take notes and bring both men some coffee on request. Although he did give her his number because, to quote, ¡°she had a worldwide ass¡±. ¡°No, I¡¯m sorry. He hasn¡¯t been in touch with me.¡± Thank God. ¡°I see. Thank you. See you at work.¡± He hung up before she could exchange the same meaningless pleasantry. She thought for a moment about his disappearance, shrugged to herself, and grabbed a banana off her counter before heading out the door. She was planning a big lunch today. ~*~ ¡°It¡¯s time to guess a letter, Claudia.¡± The haunting yet gentle vocals and virtuoso guitar of the Blue Oyster Cult blossomed fully in the largely silent room, only underlined by the occasional squeak of the tense hemp rope as it strained against her reddening skin. It didn¡¯t take long for the irritation to promote itself to being downright painful, but Claudia tried not to think about it. ¡°Are you sure I can¡¯t ask more questions?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Yes you¡¯re sure or yes I can-¡± ¡°-No more questions,¡± Teresa irritably answered, ¡°The Silver Wheel is a very busy establishment but we only have one parlor. I¡¯d hate to leave our welcomed guests waiting any longer than absolutely necessary.¡± It was very hard for Claudia to think clearly right now, but her brain practically latched on any dangling thread it could find that would either give her an opportunity to escape, or at the very least, stall. And her eyes flickered with the dull recognition of one such opportunity. ¡°What¡­ if I refuse to play?¡± Teresa looked entirely unphased by what Claudia hoped was a winning move. If anything, she looked tired of hearing that question. ¡°Then you lose, and you die.¡± ¡°O-okay I¡¯ll play! I¡¯ll play. But can we compromise? A question with every guess. Please.¡± Teresa sighed. ¡°You may ask whatever questions you want, but I retain the right to not answer.¡± Claudia figured that was the best answer she was going to get for the time being, and turned her attention to the board. Four blank spaces, and literally nothing to act as a hint. She would have been more comfortable with a longer word: longer words were always easier to guess, and since they had more letters, you were less likely to be wrong on any given guess. But a four letter word could only have between two and four letters in it, which means you could go through most of the English alphabet before you found a letter that was actually used. But there was a clear enmity coming from Teresa. She wanted Claudia to lose. Which meant she probably picked a four-letter word with as few unique letters as possible in it. So something like fool. Moon. Tool. Soon. Took. Hoop. Coop. Zoom. Doom. Noon. Soot. O was the most common letter in a four-letter word to repeat itself. And as a vowel, it would be a safe choice anyway. So Claudia took a deep breath, and said: ¡°Is there an O in there?¡± ¡°...no. There is not.¡± Teresa went up to the board and drew an O in the corner, marking it as an unused letter. Claudia felt a pang of fear at the logical recognition that she was one step closer to death, but the unreality of her reality dulled the sensation somewhat. Or maybe the tainted floral scent in the air was to blame. Teresa gently placed the stick of chalk back on the base of the blackboard, then turned to face Claudia. Claudia frowned. ¡°Uh¡­ don¡¯t you draw the hangman now?¡± She anxiously laughed, struggling again with the bindings on her wrist. She didn¡¯t want to remind Teresa on the off-chance she forgot, but she figured getting more information was the more important objective at this exact moment. ¡°Typically, yes,¡± Teresa said, ¡°But perhaps it was a misnomer to call this game ¡®Hangman¡¯. The more appropriate name would be ¡®Reverse Hangman¡¯.¡± ¡°W-what¡­?¡± But there was no one to answer the question. Teresa had vanished. In the time it took for Claudia to blink, she had disappeared from beside the blackboard. She wasn¡¯t ¡®gone¡¯, however¡­ Claudia could still feel her in the room: like a ghost watching from the other side of the veil. But that wasn¡¯t all... she was also hearing something mingling with the music streaming in from radio. A new sound, an awkward sound, directly behind her¡­ the soft grinding noise of heavy steel being dragged against the thin yet coarse fabric of a carpet. Her stomach jolted into her throat as the noise abruptly stopped. She tried to turn around, but the noose wouldn¡¯t allow it. ¡°You can¡¯t mean¡­¡± She struggled. She strained her arms against their bindings, muscles turning blue and joints burning as she tried to use raw muscle and her own dense bones to snap the ropes around them. She thrashed her head side to side, like a suffocating fish struggling to throw itself into a long-distant ocean, but the noose -- and the unstable stool under her feet -- leashed her in. A glint in the corner of her eye. Dull, piss-yellow light catching on polished, sharpened steel. She screamed well before the shimmering axe blade cut through her shoulder, severed her bone, and removed her left arm from her body, but when she felt the heated metal cleave through her in one sweeping yet gruesomely graceful motion, all the noise suddenly stopped. Everything was static. Everything was fuzz. And her world turned black and white as her wide eyes watched her arm, her own arm, drop onto the ground with a sickeningly light ¡®thud¡¯. And in those precious few seconds where she could neither breathe nor feel the pain, while she was still trapped out of her own body, she felt Teresa brush some hair aside, put her lips up to her ear, and whisper: ¡°Three chances left.¡± ~*~ Nikolay Kondrashin was not a tall man. In fact, he was considerably shorter than his peers. But it was important that you pointed that out to him. He generally found it more offensive when you didn¡¯t acknowledge his height in some form or another. By the same token, he was also a man who demanded respect and had very little tolerance for when he assumed he was being insulted. The line between recognition and mockery was razor-thin, and apparently he was the only one who could see it. So offering him a taller chair at the head of the table? Good. Offering to let him sit on your coat, or raise up a normal chair? That¡¯s bad, as the man being dragged from the room was now discovering. Claudia watched him go with a trace amount of satisfaction. It had been her idea, after all, to send him off. ¡°Is everyone important here?¡± He started, his still high-pitched voice barely reaching the end of the table. There was a general murmur of agreement. ¡°Good. Good.¡± Snow battered the window outside. ¡°I¡¯ll make this fast since we¡¯ve all got things we¡¯d rather be doing. I got a text three hours ago that at least four of the people we¡¯re looking for are hiding right here in Khabarovsk. That¡¯d be Pushchin, Stepenov, Mikhailovich, and Zheng. Thanks to a webcam we know Stepenov is with an uncle who¡¯s very bad with computers. And one of the local family businesses just ordered a printer and a noticeable amount of paper: bend some thumbs we¡¯ll probably find Zheng with an employee. Mikhailovich only matters by association, we can let her scurry for now. It¡¯s Pushchin we really want but we¡¯ve got no leads and no reason to think the other three know where they are either.¡± He took a long drink of water. ¡°In addition to drones, we¡¯ll have to sweep the ground. I want three teams of undercover agents on the streets by tonight. Move slow. If anyone suspects we¡¯re on to them they¡¯ll tell the others and split. Just in case that happens, we¡¯re putting face scanners at every bus stop, gas station, and the airport. Even if they do run, we¡¯ll be right behind them.¡± What followed was a vague battle plan for the capture of these four criminals, although Claudia¡¯s role in that operation was limited at best. While her job on paper was a mere secretary, her real job in these meetings was to read the room. Like most paranoid men, Nikolay Kondrashin saw enemies everywhere he looked. And like most men whose power was only freshly minted, he wasn¡¯t wrong: his ties to the Chubais family were thin and well-tested, and without their good graces he had to hold onto his position as the head of the RFSB with strategically employed brutality and obsequiousness. She helped him direct the former. She watched expressions and when people took drinks. She read lips if people whispered to one another. She noted where eyes wandered, and if anyone had the audacity to check their phones. She took notes, likely more notes than she¡¯d ever need. And she stayed behind when everyone else was excused to detail her observations laboriously. Nikolay Kondrashin ate up every detail and word with a starved, obsessive gratification. When she was done, he sighed like he¡¯d just gotten a good fucking and rested his head against the back of his chair. ¡°Well done as always.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± She smiled warmly and genuinely at the compliment. She liked feeling useful to him, in whatever capacity she could. ¡°There¡¯s something else I wanted to talk with you about before you go,¡± He continued, ¡°Natalie Mikhailovich. You have a history with her, right?¡± One of the four people they had been hunting down. Members of the Open Russia group, a rebellious gang of anti-government terrorists who promoted unprotected speech, political instability, and disturbing the peace of the people with unsanctioned and dangerous art and print material. They were small, but they were persistent, and they had enough technical know-how to avoid much of the biometric technology the motherland used to keep her citizens safe. ¡°Yes, she and I went to school together twelve years ago, where she was my roommate for 10 months.¡± She answered as honestly and completely as she could. ¡°She was also my friend on Facebook before I deleted my account. Why do you ask?¡± ¡°Hmm. Her parents offered a generous bribe so I¡¯m not technically after her, but I¡¯d like to keep tabs on her anyway just in case. Have you considered getting back into¡­ you know¡­ social media?¡± ¡°She¡¯s deleted her account by now, too. I mean, she must have.¡± Mister Kondrashin smiled, broadly and wickedly. ¡°Well, I think I know a way you can help track her down nonetheless.¡± ~*~ Claudia wasn¡¯t crying. Somehow, she just couldn¡¯t. She was sniffling. Trapped between a dry sob and the light, inconsequential tears of a dateless girl on prom. She could feel the pain. The pain was maddening, causing saliva to drip freely from her slack mouth as she stared dumbly at the empty space where her shoulder had once been. But she couldn¡¯t cry. Crying involved some greater involvement from the mind, a convincing realness that she simply couldn¡¯t formulate now. In her mind, nothing was okay, but things were so immersively wrong it was having a hard time putting together any concrete threat to cry over. It was like drowning in the deepest part of the ocean and trying to blame a specific gallon of water. But somehow, the pain wasn¡¯t the worst part of the experience. She¡¯d felt pain before. Lots of pain, even, thanks to her training. It was the imbalance. The lopsidedness. Feeling extra weight on her right side that her left side simply didn¡¯t have. Squeezing the fingers on her right hand to feel their bindings, but squeezing her left hand and feeling¡­ nothing. She had lived her whole life experiencing that balance and symmetry, being without it was so disquieting it verged on sickening. ¡°We cauterize the wound so you won¡¯t bleed out,¡± Teresa informed with her horribly grounding voice, which pulled Claudia back to this reality long enough to at least snap her jaw shut, ¡°It would be unfair otherwise.¡± ¡°This¡­ this is a dream¡­ this has to be a dream¡­¡± Claudia actually laughed, blinking a few more tears from her eyes, ¡°There¡¯s no way this is real¡­ it can¡¯t be¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s real,¡± Teresa once again informed her. ¡°There have been many who wished this place a mere dream. But it is not.¡± ¡°...why¡­?¡± Claudia squeaked, her body trembling as Teresa¡¯s words were forced to settle into her mind. ¡°I assume this counts as your question for this round,¡± Teresa took her place in front of the chalkboard again, this time accompanied by an ornate and terrifying silver axe, the blade molten gold yet devilishly sharp,¡°But unfortunately the ¡®why¡¯ is very simple: I need to send a message, and you must be my parchment.¡± The words passed through Claudia like a cold, stiff breeze. She shivered. First in fear, then again when the last ethereal disbelief that still clung to her slowly ebbed away. She was back in the real world, as far as she could tell. Or maybe just a more alert state of shock. Or whatever foul smells were in the air acted as a sort of smelling salt that yanked her to a more conscious state of mind. In any case, her assessment of the situation was the same: she was still one misstep from hanging from her neck, three wrong answers from meeting a similar fate, and four blank spaces from making it out of here in as few pieces as possible. Technically not a very different situation than before, but now, the place had a terrible sense of realness it hadn¡¯t had when she first arrived. ¡°There¡¯s gotta be something you want¡­ something I can give you¡­¡± ¡°Yes. Your next letter.¡± ¡°I just want to go home. Please. I¡¯ll never come back I promise.¡± ¡°That can be arranged. If you win.¡± ¡°How can you be so cruel?!¡± Teresa had no answer for that -- at least, not this round. So the only response Claudia got was an impatient cough from her ¡®host¡¯, the creak of the rope around her neck, and the generic rock of Danzig¡¯s ¡°Mother¡±, which took over when the Blue Oyster Cult had finished. Her watery eyes wandered back to the chalkboard, and the four blank dashes that were the keys to her freedom. Her heart seized shut between her ribs. How was she supposed to do this now? She was in no state for precision thinking. And there was no logic she could employ that would make it easier to guess a letter, knowing now what the consequences would be if she were wrong. She suddenly could see it in her mind''s eye, clear as day, a blade cutting through her right arm: the heat, the pain, the shock¡­ her right arm throbbed and stiffened at the mental image, one that she just couldn¡¯t bring herself to shake. It always clung fast, and grew stronger, the more she tried to see something else. Anything else. She couldn¡¯t even visualize picking the right letter¡­ ¡°Are you giving up, Claudia?¡± Teresa asked. ¡°No.¡± She answered cooly despite the staccato of her thoughts. ¡°Then you need to make a guess.¡± ¡°Okay. I¡¯m thinking.¡± She had to come up with a different approach to clear her thoughts. She had been trained to endure torture, and the primary mechanism of those lessons was awareness that you were being fucked with: the physical pain was only an element in a recipe designed to break your mind and trick you into cooperating with your tormentors, one way or another. So she had to stop thinking of this as a game she could win or lose, living in fear of a wrong answer. She had to fully and completely accept this as an execution. And only when she came to understand that reality, was she able to actually shake that horrible vision from her frayed mind, and stare at the chalkboard with a renewed focus. Her logic wasn¡¯t wrong with her first guess: at least in assuming Teresa was hostile, and actively wanted her to lose as quickly as possible. With any game of hangman, vowels were the secret to getting on the board, as every word had them. If she kept guessing vowels, there would only be a one in five chance that she wouldn¡¯t get at least one correct before she ran out of chances.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. But there was a sixth, often unused vowel. Almost like a secret one, that would ensure she could guess every one of the five other vowels and still lose in four guesses. And if Teresa wanted Claudia to lose as quickly as possible, then¡­ ¡°Y.¡± ¡°I already answered that.¡± ¡°...no, the letter. Y.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Teresa picked up the chalk with one delicate hand¡­ and drew a y in the second blank spot. _ y_ _. She had guessed right. She had saved her right arm. She was so excited that for a moment she forgot to consider this an execution and she felt her joy intermingle with the horror of the three remaining blank spaces. But she composed herself and toned down her reaction to an acknowledgement. She was still missing an arm and had a rope around her neck. But in her restraint she still had to recognize this was more than just a small win: the number of four-letter words in the English language with a y in the second spot was a small, small list: hymn. Sync. Myth. Gyms. Byte. Eyes. Dyes. By picking a unique word, Teresa had made a terrible mistake -- while they were harder to guess from the onset, even getting one letter of the four right put you well on the path to victory. She still had to figure out what letter to pick next. But first¡­ ¡°Okay. Okay. You owe me a question.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t owe you anything.¡± ¡°D-did you know a man named Garik? He looks like an Avocado pit...did he... come through here?¡± Teresa¡¯s eye twitched at the question, and her straight lips curled downward by a few scant degrees. ¡°Of course. He lost his game as well.¡± Claudia¡¯s eyes widened. She found herself leaning forward, tightening the noose by a small but noticeable amount. ¡°Why did you -¡± ¡°-Please make your next guess.¡± Claudia bristled at being cut off, but had little choice but to turn her attention back to the three blank spaces yet to be filled. Logically, the next letter to use would be E: it was one of the most common letters and certainly paired up with Y quite a bit. But the idea that Teresa would avoid vowels still stuck in Claudia¡¯s mind -- and in that case, the most likely consonant to pair with Y¡­ tyke, tyne, lyte¡­ seemed to be T. She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Combined with the rope, it made even her shallow breaths scratchy and raw. She visualized her arm being removed. She imagined the inevitability of it. And then she braced herself. ¡°...T.¡± Teresa, who was still holding the chalk from the last answer, turned to face the board. And slowly. Almost luxuriously. She drew a cross right next to the O in the corner. And then she was gone. ¡°Wait! Wait, no, I meant- I meant to say M! I meant M! M!¡± There was no response. ¡°Please don¡¯t, no- don¡¯t, no no no please no!¡± She thrashed as before. Bucked harder and stronger. Her right arm ached, as if trying to leave her something to remember it by. Her breathing was hard and shallow and eventually turned into hiccups. But as before, it was futile. She was utterly and completely trapped. And visualizing it did not make this part any better. ¡°...what are you doing?¡± Teresa muttered. ¡°L-leave me alone!¡± Claudia cried back. ¡°Get out of my way.¡± ¡°No!¡± She screamed. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s gotten into you. Wait in the bar with the others.¡± ¡°...w-wha-?¡± The blade came down. And her arm came off. ~*~ ¡°You want a drink?¡± One did not refuse a drink from Nikolay Kondashin. She nodded, and he handed her one of the two coffees he was holding. She took it gratefully. ¡°You¡­ watch the news, right?¡± ¡°Of course, sir.¡± ¡°So you know Marie Walker. You¡¯ve heard of her.¡± Nikolay Kondrashin was guiding her through a wing of the RFSB building that she had never been to before. Not because it was strictly off-limits to her, mostly because she never had any reason to go there. Her prowling grounds around the office were limited to the bathroom, the break room, the cafeteria, and wherever her boss sent her, which was usually just to pick something up; either papers from a colleague, or the colleague themselves. But never to these halls, which, despite their mundaneness and near-identical appearance to all the other halls in the building, were just new and different enough to ignite her curiosity. ¡°I understand she¡¯s the founder and CEO of Walker Horizons. She¡¯s the one who works with interdimensional travel and research.¡± ¡°She¡¯s also a friend of mine, if you¡¯d believe it. Sometimes she needs people and sometimes I need to get rid of people, so we come to mutual terms. I went to her last birthday. Did you know she has a pink yacht?¡± ¡°No, sir.¡± ¡°Of course. Why would you? Anyway, she does more than just explore alternate dimensions. She also discovers new dimensions entirely. The ones from fantasy stories where magic is real and all of that. And recently, she sent me a lovely little gift that will let me send people to one such reality -- a place called ¡®The Silver Wheel¡¯.¡± Claudia tried very hard to withhold a gasp. ¡°That sounds very exciting.¡± ¡°Yes, yes it is. And the Silver Wheel might be just the thing to help us track down your former roommate. If, of course, you¡¯ll be willing to help.¡± ¡°Of course. I want to capture these degenerates as badly as you do. In fact, I would be insulted if you asked anyone else.¡± She allowed a villainous smile to crack over her face. Her boss noticed, nodded approvingly, then pushed open one of the many nondescript doors that flanked both sides of the hall that lead into one of the many nondescript offices, and the holographic interface that consumed most of it. ¡°Then here¡¯s what you need to know. The Silver Wheel is a strange place where you can play games -- casino games I mean -- against other people, wagering things like¡­ skills or memories or what have you. I can send you straight there easily enough, and once we capture one of those other dissidents, we can send them there too. Then you can gamble with them for everything they know, and when you win, report everything back to me.¡± She whistled, then took another sip. ¡°Can that really work?¡± ¡°Marie Walker had one of her own people do something similar, before he got greedy. The question is how good you are at games of chance.¡± She considered for a moment. ¡°...I suppose it doesn¡¯t matter. We can just threaten her family if she plays to win. It seems far more useful as a way to siphon information from people utterly and completely than a mere place to make wagers. If I understand the mechanics, I mean.¡± He smiled, gesturing and waving through a number of holographic projections. ¡°As always, your creative mind does me proud. Still, I want to make sure you take to the Silver Wheel. So I¡¯m going to have you do a test run first. I¡¯ll take care of everything, all you¡¯ll need to do is see if you arrive and can think straight when you¡¯re there. Then you can leave straight away.¡± ¡°No problem. Are we doing this now?¡± ¡°No. We can only do it tomorrow -- there are things I need to take care of first, and you need to be tired: I can only send you there in your sleep. Take the rest of the day off but come in extra-early tomorrow. Five, sharp.¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°And Miss Strekalov: obviously, keep this a secret.¡± ¡°Of course, sir.¡± ~*~ ¡°Ah¡­ aha¡­ aaaahh¡­¡± In some fucked up way, she actually felt a little better. She was at least balanced, now. Claudia¡¯s resolve had shattered and she burst into tears. The broken, sobless crying of someone who wasn¡¯t really all there, her eyes unfocused on something about a thousand yards away. The pain had torn her from her body, and she was disassociating, knowingly and blissfully, for as long as she possibly could. She was in such a state of delirium, she managed to ask her next question in a stunningly relaxed tone of voice. As if everything was fine. As if everything was all right. ¡°Do you do this with everyone¡­¡± Teresa was prepared to dismiss this question, since clearly Claudia was not in any state to comprehend an answer. But the words made her pause. ¡°...No. Only with invaders.¡± ¡°Why am I an invader¡­? I was just told we¡¯d play games¡­¡± Teresa¡¯s expression hardened without so much as twitching. ¡°You are an invader because you were not invited. Your boss knew perfectly well what happens when he sends people here.¡± ¡°...he didn¡¯t tell me¡­¡± Teresa¡¯s expression softened in the same manner. Like ice thawing into water. ¡°...did you not see the video?¡± Claudia shook her head weakly. ¡°I see.¡± Teresa looked past Claudia, to something that was behind her. ¡°Is this why you¡¯ve been protesting so dramatically?¡± Teresa asked. There was no response. Not one that Claudia could hear, in any case. She looked hazily on, occasionally glancing to the side to see if her arms had grown back. They had not. ¡°Well. It ultimately doesn¡¯t matter. Curse your poor fortune in choosing to be that man¡¯s lackey, but the game will not stop now. Whatever his machinations, the Silver Wheel will play no role. Unless, of course, you manage to win.¡± Claudia found that choice of words funny. So much so she even laughed a little bit, tears falling into her teeth and tongue and smearing her lipstick. ¡°I need to pick a letter now¡­¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°If I win¡­ do I get my arms back?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Are you¡­ sure this isn¡¯t a dream?¡± ¡°Please pick a letter.¡± Claudia finally got some life in her eyes as she scanned the chalkboard again. She vaguely recalled she had a strategy. But now she was realizing, perhaps a bit too late, perhaps to no one¡¯s benefit, how pointless that was. All it could do was improve her odds, which meant she was always just guessing. Which means she¡¯d eventually be wrong. She was going to die here. She was going to lose all her limbs and die. And it was going to be so painful. ¡°E.¡± Teresa picked the chalk up, and drew an E next to the T. And what Claudia found most disappointing was that despite her acceptance of that inevitability¡­ she was still finding herself seized with fear as the chalk was placed back onto the board. Acceptance did not numb her to her terrors, they only seemed to leave her dwelling in them longer. As before, Teresa vanished, but now Claudia found herself struggling again.It was a weak and tired effort, but it was more complete than her previous attempts to escape. Now she didn¡¯t care how tightly the rope squeezed against her throat, or how much the stool under her bucked in protest. She just didn¡¯t want to lose any more. She didn¡¯t want to feel anymore pain. ¡°Get out of my way.¡± Claudia didn¡¯t know who her tormentor was talking to. But whoever it was, she invested the tattered remains of her hope into them. Please she thought, please stay in her way. ¡°These are the rules of the game.¡± There was something in the corner of her eyes, something that stayed there no matter which way she turned or moved her head. It was a moon-shadow on a windy night, where nothing, even the stars, could be still. It was cloying and it was invasive but she didn¡¯t find it unwelcome. It almost felt protective. Like the darkness around the light that surrounded her was trying to reach and shelter her. ¡°I will not repeat myself. The Silver Wheel, its guests, and it¡¯s employees are my responsibility. Don¡¯t make me exercise the authority that comes with it.¡± A moment passed. Then another. Claudia¡¯s ragged breathing softened. Her legs trembled and shook. Then the darkness that stuck to the corner of her eyes withdrew. ¡°NO-¡± Her left leg was lopped off. ~*~ She had three phones. Her best phone was her work phone. State of the art. All the best bells and whistles and tracking devices the Russian government could afford. It was so sensitive it could tell when she left a room without it, and made a note of it whenever she did. She had a personal phone too, which was a year old and only had a single cursory bug planted into it, at her own recommendation. Allowing your own phone to be wiretapped was technically optional but refusing put you in a bad light. And she was always looking for ways to claw her way deeper into her boss¡¯s world. To be trustworthy to him. To be invaluable to him. Her third phone was a twenty-year-old brick that had been stripped of anything except the ability to text. Which was what she was doing now. Is Garik dead? She turned the page of the book she was reading, waiting for her phone to display a reply. Yes. She glanced at her work phone, on the counter next to her. Counting her breaths. Tracking her heartbeats. The book she was reading was a thriller, so she muttered ¡°oooh¡± under her breath. How? Throat cut by thieves. accident. no link to RFSB She huffed. It seemed a lot of people were dying by accident these days. Garik was the ninth. Before him, Ben¡¯s roof collapsed on him in the middle of the night. Andrei was shot twice accidentally in his sleep. Lidia was dismembered in a crash when her driver got drunk. No one could link their deaths to the RFSB. No one except her. She knew they were all personal enemies of Nikolay Kondrashin. Garik and Ben were journalists who were going to expose his web of intrigue and corruption. Andrei was an accountant who threatened to make shady deals public. Lidia was a surgeon who knew Nikolay¡¯s greatest secret. But even with the exhaustive powers at his command, he couldn¡¯t orchestrate assassinations like that. Details? She turned the page of her book. She had classical music, Stabat Mater, playing softly in the background. Softly enough to cover the sound of her finger pressing against the flat screen of her phone. But not quite enough to block the sound of her flipping the page. This response would take a while, but she masked her anxiety with occasional gasps and hums. She was a very vocal reader. ~midnight. asleep with wife. started sleepwalking. thieves in home saw him and panicked. cut his throat. She bit the inside of her lip. Did he mention a silver wheel before he died? The reply was almost instantaneous. Yes. what do you know? meet me in 20. A picture was starting to form in her mind. A picture she didn¡¯t like. It was always a risk to meet in-person, but to figure this out she really didn¡¯t have any choice. So she stood up, walked to the bathroom, closed the door, put on the winter clothes she had hidden under the sink, and climbed out the window to the ground. She was four stories up, sure, but this was Russia. That was nothing. There was a small park not far from where they lived. The trees there were old, but not as old as the cameras, which meant many of the branches had grown out, creating blind spots. But they were only blind spots you would have known about if you had seen the footage the way Claudia had. Waiting for her in one such sanctuary was Natalie Mikhailovich. They hugged. ¡°We need to make this fast, I usually don¡¯t poop for longer than 30 minutes.¡± ¡°Okay,¡± Natalie nodded. ¡°Garik was saying that he¡¯d been given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to film in an alternate reality. He mentioned a Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°Who made the offer?¡± ¡°Marie Walker. She wanted to make a documentary or something.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Marie and Nikolay are friends.¡± ¡°So Marie Walker killed him? With thugs?¡± ¡°No.¡± Claudia glanced around. ¡°What are you talking about then?! Why am I here?¡± ¡°Nikolay invited me to the Silver Wheel too.¡± Natalie frowned, but mostly at Claudia, not the invitation. ¡°...and?¡± ¡°I told you Lidia was going to a casino before her crash.¡± ¡°Yes¡­?¡± ¡°And they all died in their sleep.¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± ¡°And he needs to put me to sleep to send me to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°So the Silver Wheel kills people?¡± ¡°I think so.¡± ¡°That means he¡¯s found out about your leaks.¡± ¡°...I think so.¡± Natalie sighed, then nodded with determination. ¡°...then we need to go. Now.¡± ~*~ Claudia¡¯s face was an awful shade of purple. She had one leg to prop herself up, but she was exhausted with pain and fear. She was leaning into the rope, using it almost like a crutch to keep her standing. It restricted her breathing and caused the sores and burns on her neck to grow further inflamed, but that didn¡¯t feel so bad right about now. Not as bad as her three thrashing phantom limbs, which were still wracked in terrible pain despite no longer being attached to her body. ¡°It appears as if you only have one guess left.¡± Teresa reported stoically. Claudia could only gurgle. Her eyes were bulging. She could feel her eyelids scrape across them every time she blinked. ¡°Do you have a question you¡¯d like to ask first?¡± the hostess asked with some indeterminate mix of pity and sadism. Claudia, between her swollen tongue and her constricted throat, struggled to answer. But she danced her foot around on the stool and strained herself upwards enough to spit out a question. ¡°...whwat¡­ did I dew wong¡­?¡± Teresa did not reply to that. ¡°Please make your final guess, Claudia.¡± The woman slowly, painfully blinked. Her last remaining limb was trembling. ¡°Ah¡­ dupth wanna die¡­¡± ¡°Closer¡±, by Nine Inch Nails, was pounding on the radio. ¡°...then you shouldn¡¯t have taken that pill.¡± ¡°..whwat¡­?¡± But Teresa did not reply to that. ¡°Make your final guess, Claudia.¡± Claudia could still see the chalkboard. Well, she could see where it was supposed to be. Everything was a little blurry now. The world was spinning. She had achieved levels of pain she never thought possible. As if she knew she was supposed to be unconscious by now, knocked out by the shock, but something wouldn¡¯t let her slip away, so her brain did the next best thing and just turned itself mostly off. Disassociating. She barely remembered thinking it could be M. So... ¡°...em¡­¡± Teresa picked up the chalk one last time, and walked up to the three remaining blank spaces. She placed the chalk at the very first blank line, and started to draw an arch. Claudia felt something stirring in her fear-bloated stomach, something resembling actual hope: if M was the first word¡­ then it had to be myan¡­ there were no other words that would work¡­ her brain started to tickle and throb with a dull recognition: if that were the case¡­ then she had just won. She just won... Except¡­ when she narrowed her eyes. When she focused. She saw Teresa didn¡¯t actually draw an M on the board. She drew a W. She was filling in the whole word. W. Y. N. D. Wynd. And her world stopped spinning and simply went dark. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Claudia.¡± Teresa placed the chalk down, vanishing for the fourth and final time. ¡°...you lost.¡± Her final limb was removed with a heavy, unbroken swing. The rope snapped taut around her neck, completely closing around it. Claudia didn¡¯t even have time for a final gasp. ~*~ Claudia and Natalie drove for a long time, along P297, until they pulled into Bira, or at least, what was left of it. It was one of the many Urban Localities bought out and repurposed into a carbon reclamation plant at the tail end of the 2030¡¯s -- both to combat the climate disaster and to relocate the remote population to easier-to-monitor urban centers. Now, it was off-limits to people, but not in any serious way: as long as they hid the car well and avoided the cameras, no one would be the wiser they were here. They could even ignore the proximity sensors: after all, as long as nothing showed up on camera, people would just assume it was another raccoon. No one really wanted to drive three hours out of Khabarovsk to check. They listened to Jazz for as long as they had radio. Then, it was awkward silence the rest of the way there. ¡°I feel like you¡¯re mad at me.¡± Claudia finally spoke as she wrapped herself in her third jacket. ¡°I¡­¡± Natalie paused, before sighing in self-defeat, ¡°...I guess I am. You were our In. And either because you were caught or you¡¯re paranoid, we have to spend the night in fucking tents.¡± Claudia bit her tongue. Natalie continued. ¡°You warned the others, right? About the drones and the agents and shit?¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± ¡°There you go. That was officially the last time they¡¯ll get a warning. From here on out we¡¯re gonna bleed people until we¡¯re all in gulags or reeducation centers, because of you.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to die.¡± ¡°No one wants to fucking die, Claudia, your job was to keep that from happening. We¡¯re not... fucking... Pussy Riot. We don¡¯t get second chances anymore.¡± Claudia stared intently at her feet, without saying a word. Natalie took another deep breath, resting her forehead against the roof of her car. ¡°...look, I¡¯m just¡­ I need to sleep on this, okay? It¡¯s been a long night.¡± Claudia still didn¡¯t say anything, but she could feel the disappointment pounding in her chest like a second lead heart. They had put a lot of effort into making this happen. Years and years of fake loyalty and forged background to make her a trustworthy asset to the RFSB. All the way back into middle school when she first reported an anti-party article in the school newspaper. There were times when she had worried she had lost her way, or herself, in her quest to be the perfect spy. And she was giving all that up because she had a hunch -- a strong, perfectly reasonable hunch -- that the Silver Wheel would be the death of her? Maybe she had lost herself. Her resolve. Her determination. ...but it was too late now. She left her work phone in her apartment. People were probably already there, digging through her home and deducing she had left through the bathroom window. Even if she could invent a story to explain it, she would still lose her privileged status at Nikolay¡¯s side. He would never trust her again. Oh, god, she should have stayed. She should have gone to the Silver Wheel. This last-ditch effort to free the minds of the Russian people was going to die because she was a coward. Those dark thoughts boiled in her mind as she and her comrade snuck through the barriers to one of the more intact buildings at the edge of Bira, that would provide them extra protection from the wind and wild animals. Plus, they had some supplies stashed away here for this exact situation: mostly just food and batteries and USB drives with essential privacy software, but they would probably need all three really soon. They set up camp. They started a small fire. And her tormented mind kept her awake for a tiny bit longer, but emotional and physical exhaustion were a potent force when working in tandem, and the two of them were able blunt force her to sleep. ~*~ And when she opened her eyes next, she had a rope around her neck. Teresa looked away as Claudia was slowly strangled to death. She did not watch as she wiggled helplessly in the air, the last of her strength bleeding out of her as she flailed her limbless torso against the increasingly tight rope. Instead, she erased the chalkboard. She did not turn around as her silent gasps turned to whispered gurgles, that grew increasingly faint and desperate, until they were replaced by a haunting silence accentuated by the squeaking whine of the rope. Instead, she pushed the chalkboard into the darkness, and pried open the loose floorboard where she kept all her victims when she didn¡¯t have a spare moment to throw them into the void. Three pale faces stared up at her. But then she heard a gasp, followed by coughing. And then she turned around to see Mr. Eight holding Claudia up. Keeping her alive. Teresa¡¯s icy visage started to shatter. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing? Do you not think she has suffered enough?¡± Mr. Eight, as was his usual way, offered no answers. Beneath the sheet of ice that covered Teresa¡¯s face, raw emotions swam and morphed seamlessly between guilt and horror and desperation, before finally cementing on resolve as she grabbed her weapon of choice once again, dragging it over in a power-walk to finish the job one way or another. Claudia managed to spit something out, however, that stopped her in her tracks. ¡°...it was in the coffee!¡± ¡°...what?¡± ¡°The pill. You¡­ you were talking about a pill. I think he might have put it in my coffee. Without telling me.¡± Teresa dropped her weapon. Claudia, despite still being blue in the face and clearly shaken, was shockingly calm. Maybe having faced death, having lived through the worst the Silver Wheel could offer, and inhaling a year¡¯s worth of the perfumed air when rescued by Mr. Eight, afforded her an eerie lucidity. Which was followed by a weak but terribly sour laugh. ¡°...lady¡­ you think you¡¯ve been killing Nikolay¡¯s henchmen? You¡¯ve been killing his enemies.¡± Teresa took a step back. ¡°You¡¯re his assassin.¡± ~*~ Teresa took another drink. And another. And another. Ture watched her empty glass after glass, refilling it wordlessly. Mr. Eight had walked out of the parlor first, carrying an extremely confused and impossibly alive torso. Ture didn¡¯t know what had happened, and frankly didn¡¯t want to, but apparently Mr. Eight was taking her home. To ¡°fix¡± her, as best as he could. Her days as a human were over, but at least in his care she wouldn¡¯t fall into oblivion. Teresa had walked out soon afterwards, politely asked the guests that had been here to step out into the void (which they were happy to do considering they had just seen Mr. Eight holding a sobbing torso), then took a seat and asked for a glass of straight whisky. Followed by another. And another. And another. She didn¡¯t say anything until she finished her seventh drink. ¡°...isn¡¯t alcohol supposed to numb you?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the theory, yeah.¡± She looked at the bottom of her empty glass. Not for answers, as so many who had preceded her often did. She was looking for anything. Anything at all. ¡°It is not working.¡± ¡°Yeah, Ratna has some theories about that.¡± The edge of Teresa¡¯s lips twitched, as if she was considering either a frown or a smile. There wasn¡¯t any follow-through, however. ¡°Perhaps I am already numb.¡± ¡°...I guess I would have thought so too, until recently.¡± ¡°Yes. I suppose anyone would.¡± He lifted the bottle up to refill her glass, but she rested a delicate pale finger on the lip, stopping him from tipping it over. ¡°...I do not think I want to be numb, Ture.¡± He slowly put the bottle down. ¡°I¡­¡± she started, but stopped. She looked at her glass again. ¡°...I did not feel much when Juan died.¡± Ture leaned forward, so their foreheads were almost touching. He knew that bartenders were supposed to offer sympathetic ears, a task he¡¯d thankfully been able to avoid during his tenure at the Silver Wheel so far. But there was a first time for everything, right? ¡°I realized what Charlie said to him during their game was true. I spent a considerable amount of time with him but I never noticed him in a meaningful way. He was the dealer and a candidate, and I was the waitress and judge, which was the extent of our relationship.¡± She ran her finger along the lip of the glass, which hummed in response. ¡°I liked him as a candidate. He had improved greatly from when he first arrived. But when Charlie killed him, my vindictiveness did not come from any personal feelings. It was professional.¡± Ture frowned at this revelation, but didn¡¯t say anything. ¡°I am starting to understand, however, that I am a terrible judge. The more time passes since his murder, the more I realize how much I never noticed about him. I never noticed the light in his eyes. Or his optimism. Or his eagerness to see everyone leave with a smile. Or his genuine desire to make friends¡­ even with me. He shared these freely but only now in his absence do I realize they were there. Perhaps my numbness is to blame for this.¡± She pushed the glass away, and looked Ture directly in the eyes. ¡°If I realized sooner how much I admired those qualities, perhaps I would have been quicker to emulate them. In which case, it is not unlikely I would not have killed nine innocent people. Or maybe, the anger and hate I would have felt for losing someone I loved would have driven me to kill more. I do not know. And I cannot know what I need to fix until I can feel the pain of my damage. Which is why I must not be numb.¡± She leaned forward. He backed away, uncomfortable. She was forgetting to blink again, which made her unearthly mystique shift deep into the uncanny valley. ¡°Ture.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I will not make the same mistake with you as I made with Juan. I will learn to appreciate you. I will start by saying I have noticed and appreciated how much kinder you have become.¡± Ture looked away. Maybe he was blushing, but it was hard to tell in this light. ¡°Yeah, well¡­ with Ratna around we can¡¯t have two assholes stinking this place up.¡± ¡°There is one more thing I would like to ask of you, Ture.¡± ¡°Anything for you, boss.¡± ¡°...I would like to try to cry. Would you please play the saddest song you know?¡± He smiled, and nodded. ¡°Yeah. I can do that.¡± A single thrumming guitar string took to the air, and Gregory Alan started singing his cover of ¡°The Trapeze Swinger¡±. Teresa closed her eyes, inviting the music to wash over her, and Ture, his smile fading, followed suit. They listened quietly for as long as they could get away with it. Round Three: Liars Dice The purpose of this log was supposed to be documenting the fate of one Claudia Sharapov for Miss Walker, but I¡¯m putting that little report on hold, for now, while I think of a more convincing story and edit the recordings. So this will be just for me. Anyway. Quite the busy day at the lab today. We¡¯d acquired a duplicate Claudia Sharapov from dimension S-NOM 12278, which is effectively identical to our own. As instructed, we kept her in total isolation in an empty, featureless room, reinforced inside and out to be functionally indestructible. You¡¯d be hard-pressed to find a way to stub your toe in a room like that, let alone die. Then, as instructed, we waited. And waited. And waited. Now, our understanding of the Silver Wheel has greatly improved since we discovered it those few weeks ago, so our hypothesis was that it would proceed as it had the other nine times: reality itself would bend over backwards to ensure she died, somehow, exactly when her ¡®Real Self¡¯ was killed. And I just have to say, since this is off-the-record, it¡¯s been objectively terrifying but awesome -- literally, full of awe -- to witness these executions. It¡¯s like the universe itself has some twisted consciousness, and every malicious particle is directed at these poor people. And at first, it didn¡¯t disappoint. Her limbs just¡­ fell off. One after the other. We still don¡¯t know how it happened, but the prevailing theory right now is that there were some¡­ cluster of extremely irregular stellar-mass black holes that, for a fraction of a moment, acted as a sort of atomic scissors as they passed through her. I don¡¯t need to say the odds of something like that happening even once, let alone four times in such a small area, is¡­ well, it doesn''t matter. Not compared to what happened next. I am on record -- if there is such a thing in this nightmare -- as thinking it¡¯s stupid and short-sighted to have dropped all our other research to cater to Marie¡¯s little obsession with the Silver Wheel. But I have salvaged Project 20:7. At first it was sentimental. Something to poke at in my free time. But in just the latest of impossible odds to be beaten, I think I will actually be able to advance our work far beyond what was assumed possible. This woman didn¡¯t die. She started to change. It¡¯s impossible to describe. I don¡¯t need to, either. I¡¯ll remember it until the day I die. But what matters is, I was able to activate the emergency lockdown fast enough to keep her¡­ more like ¡®it¡¯... trapped in the facility, and our dimension. And now I have my very own¡­ let¡¯s say ¡®cryptid¡¯ to study. If I can convince anyone else in my staff to approach it. Needless to say, I¡¯ll be omitting this in my daily reports. Although, thinking on it, I¡¯ll also need to be ready to explain why so many of our people are¡­ retiring. No rest for the wicked. ¡­ ¡­ ...I realize now- I meant they¡¯re literally retiring. I¡¯m not killing anyone. I made it kind of sound like I was earlier but they¡¯re actually- christ I¡¯m not a madman, okay? ...I¡¯m not mad. I promise. I swear. ~*~ ¡°Welcome to the Silver Wheel gambling house. May I take your order?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a Naked Lady, thanks.¡± Teresa waited patiently by the new arrival, arms folded delicately in front of her. ¡°Devil in Disguise¡±, sung by the King himself, was leaking in from some adjacent room. ¡°...wait, the wherenow?¡± Jack Kelly (no relation to Ned, he was frequently disappointed to report) took his first real look around the room since his arrival a mere few seconds earlier. He was an extremely well-versed drinker, what some might call an ¡®alcoholic¡¯, so waking up in strange places with women who weren¡¯t exactly happy to be there wasn¡¯t terribly unusual for him. But this was the first time he ever woke up so well-dressed, seated normally in a moderately comfortable chair, at a poker table in an establishment he didn¡¯t recognize with an upside-down plastic cup in front of him. ...wait, no, second time. ¡°The Silver Wheel, sir,¡± she repeated, ¡°I am Teresa, your waitress, and I-¡± ¡°-and you¡¯re the girl of my dreams, right?¡± He smiled like that uncle who tells bad puns just to watch people die inside. Teresa didn¡¯t even blink. ¡°...and I am your waitress this evening. Did you say you wanted a Naked Lady?¡± ¡°Sure did, but you can keep your socks on if you want.¡± Now Teresa twitched. ¡°...I do not understand, I thought the Naked Lady was a cocktail.¡± ¡°It is!¡± A male voice called in from the other room. ¡°I see. I shall get you that, then.¡± ¡°Wait, hold up,¡± he held up a hand stopping her, ¡°I decided I don¡¯t want a drink, but I am a little hungry.¡± ¡°Unfortunately, the Silver Wheel does not currently-¡± ¡°-I was hoping I could get a slice of cake?¡± ¡°...as I was trying to explain, sir, we do not currently-¡± ¡°-slice of that¡­ you know, cake.¡± he said, twirling his finger around. ¡°...¡± ¡°Get me some of that cake?¡± Teresa looked to the door with increasing desperation. ¡°Ture, is there a cocktail called ¡®Slice of Cake¡¯?¡± ¡°He¡¯s saying he wants to lick your asshole!¡± He called back. Teresa didn¡¯t so much ¡®blink¡¯ as slowly and deliberately closed and opened her eyelids, then turned her attention back to the customer. She looked calmer now. ¡°I see. Sir, this is not that kind of establishment-¡± ¡°-also why are you flirting with Teresa?¡± Ture followed up. The bottom of Teresa¡¯s right eye twitched again, then she spun right back to the door. ¡°There is nothing wrong with some light flirtation, Ture.¡± ¡°Literally no one¡¯s ever flirted with you before.¡± ¡°I was never in a position to be flirted with. I was very self-effacing.¡± ¡°I thought it was because you had the curves of a brick wall.¡± ¡°Perhaps that was the reason. But by that same token, Ture, I do not recall any of our customers ever flirting with you.¡± There was a long pause. ¡°...okay, that¡¯s fair. I deserved that.¡± She glanced to Jack Kelly. ¡°I¡¯ll be back shortly with your drink.¡± Jack Kelly coughed, and watched the waitress disappear through the door. Without a word, he turned to the head of the table, where a bored Indian woman was seated, resting her hand on her cheek. She met his glance and shrugged. ¡°Yeah, that was weird for me too.¡± ¡°This whole thing is weird for me. I was really sure this was a sex dream.¡± ¡°This ain¡¯t a dream, big boy, but it might be a dream come true for you: It¡¯s the Silver Wheel, and you¡¯re looking to be its Champion,¡± she devilishly grinned, ¡°And that might come with some benefits, if you play your cards right.¡± ¡°You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention,¡± his smile crudely mirrored hers. ¡°Good. I¡¯ll need it. Silver Wheel is a kind of magic place, y¡¯see. Where you and someone else -- who hasn¡¯t arrived yet -- can play games of chance, wagering anything for anything. Facial hair, childhood football practicing, shampoo allergies¡­ whatever it is you want to gain, you can try to take from your opponent¡­ so long as you¡¯re willing to risk something of equal value. You play, someone wins... or gives up¡­ and the winner takes all. But I¡¯ll go into all the little details when it¡¯s time to play.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say...¡± he strummed his fingers against the table, ¡°sounds dangerous.¡± ¡°Only if you lose,¡± she giggled, ¡°but that shouldn¡¯t be a problem for you, should it baby? If you¡¯re as smart as you are handsome you¡¯ll have no trouble winning¡­ both what your opponent wagers, and the true title of Champion.¡± ¡°That goes without saying, but what about these ¡®benefits¡¯ you were talking about? Magic casino or not, I don¡¯t work for free.¡± Ratna bit her lower lip, and leaned forward: while her elbows cemented her place at the table, and her outfit was too modest to be seductive in itself, there was a wildness and intensity in her eyes that more than made up for her professional attire. It was as dry, hot, and blinding as the desert sun, and like any man, he became thirsty in its light. ¡°Is being my Champion not good enough¡­?¡± ¡°I¡¯m in-demand. You can¡¯t just give me a fancy title and some easy pussy and expect me to stick around.¡± ¡°Oh, honey. You misunderstand the situation a little bit, I think.¡± She raised one hand up to play with the hair that dangled off the side of her face, ¡°we¡¯re not giving you anything.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°You take what you want, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t take ¡®no¡¯ for an answer, do you?¡± ¡°The word doesn¡¯t apply to me.¡± ¡°So don¡¯t say ¡®no¡¯ to yourself, Jack. Being a Champion will give you everything you¡¯ve ever wanted. Thrills. Power. Control. You already know that you want it. But the Silver Wheel won¡¯t give you anything for free. To get what you want here, you¡¯ll have to wrestle it to the ground, while it¡¯s kicking and thrashing and biting¡­ and you have to make it yours.¡± ¡°That is not true,¡± Teresa interjected as she placed the Naked Lady in front of Jack. ¡°The drinks are always complimentary, Ratna. No one has to wrestle for them¡± Ratna signed, and leaned back. ¡°...right. Except the drinks.¡± Jack Kelly had to give himself a little time to relax the tension out of his¡­ muscles. He took a few sips of his drink to ease the process along, more carefully examining his surroundings. The place had a rather homey feel to it, between the dim lights and the retro ephemera that hung on the wooden walls, but there was something in the air that put him on edge. It was relaxing, but artificially so: like a drug that tried to brute-force the brain into calmness. Combined with the unignorable smell of blood, he was sure this place had more than a few skeletons in its closet. And of course, there was his would-be seductress. She went through a lot of effort to try to entice him into being a Champion without explaining in any concrete way what exactly that would entail. Vague information married to cardinal temptations coming from beautiful women was about the biggest roll of red they had at the flag shop. It went without saying that a magic casino would be a strange place. But only people with something to hide would offer free booze. He took another sip. He needed to know more. But he couldn¡¯t ask directly because he¡¯d never get a direct answer. If he was going to unravel this, he¡¯d need to look at the periphery until he could put together a more complete picture. ¡°This is good,¡± he put the drink down, ¡°almost tastes real.¡± ¡°Oh, that¡¯s because it is. You came here in a dream, but the Silver Wheel is still real,¡± Ratna eased off the gas somewhat, keeping that spark in her eye while her posture was significantly more relaxed. ¡°Everything you take here, you keep. Everything you lose, gone forever.¡± That same ugly drug that suppressed his nerves seemed to flare up again, to make him more receptive to the earnestness of her words. That was less suspicious for him: if he was running a magic casino, making sure people believed it was real would be a top priority for him, too. ¡°Does that include calories?¡± She chuckled knowingly, on instinct, but when his question actually registered her mood dropped. ¡°...I, uh¡­ I don¡¯t know. Teresa?¡± ¡°No, sir. You cannot gain weight here.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t serve food? Talk about a wasted business model.¡± ¡°Hey yeah he makes a good point. We should serve actual cake here.¡± Teresa¡¯s calm and icy face remained unmoved. ¡°We have enough issues with unwelcome guests, guilt-free binge eating would only exacerbate that problem.¡± ¡°...Oh. Okay, that¡¯s fair.¡± Jack Kelly made a note of that. He was prepared to probe a bit deeper, but his attention was stolen by the sudden appearance of another man at the other end of the table, by another upside-down plastic cup. He was tall and lanky, with too-white eyes blinking the shock of his arrival off his face, his shaved fuzz thin enough to seem actually glossy as the light barely illuminated him. The unlit edge of the room made it hard to see this man, considering how dark his skin and shirt were. ¡°Hey there son. Nice to meet you.¡± He leaned forward, offering a hand and intercepting whatever Ratna was preparing to say. She looked offended at first, but it turned into a sly little grin, and she eased backwards: perhaps to see exactly what Jack Kelly was planning. ¡°W-where am I?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll get to that. You thirsty, son? You want a drink? Anything you want.¡± ¡°No offense sir but please tell me where the fuck I am.¡± ¡± ¡°Heh, alright, alright. No need for that kind of language, son. Mind if I ask your name?¡± ¡°...Hakeem Elemoro.¡± ¡°Hakeem. Very ethnic. I like it. Well Hakeem, this here is called the Silver Wheel. You ever hear of the Silver Wheel, Hakeem?¡± Hakeem looked to both sides, where Teresa was waiting subserviently, and Ratna was looking like the only wolf in the room who knew what was going on. ¡°No.¡± ¡°I¡¯d be surprised if you had. It¡¯s a magical place. Sort of like a dream. But not exactly a dream. But definitely safe. It¡¯s safe right now, isn¡¯t it ladies?¡± ¡°Sure thing.¡± ¡°Yes, extremely.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s not always safe, is it?¡± Jack Kelly hoped he wasn¡¯t bluffing. Teresa shot him a strangely piercing stare, and her voice became soft and disquieting. ¡°...no. I suppose it is not.¡± ¡°You like being safe, don¡¯t you Hakeem?¡± ¡°Where are you going with this?¡± Hakeem leaned forward, unable or unwilling to hide the concern on his face ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on, or even what your name is.¡± ¡°Ah, I forgot again! Always slipping my mind. But my name isn¡¯t important here, really. As a matter of fact I¡¯m not that important at all. No, no¡­ we¡¯re all here for you, Hakeem.¡± ¡°...what?¡± ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want that drink?¡± ¡°Rum and Coke would be fine, I suppose.¡± ¡°Get this man a rum and Coke, would you doll? Heck, make it two.¡± He snapped to Teresa, who was already walking to the door well before he instructed her to. Thank God: he was fairly confident Ratna would be willing to play along with his plan -- her cheshire grin and complacent silence seemed to suggest as much in any case. But Teresa¡­ well, she would probably be far quicker to make a liar out of him¡­ she didn¡¯t even hesitate to correct Ratna when her manipulative flirting suggested a falsehood. So he had to do this part when she wasn¡¯t around. Which was just as well, since he liked watching her go. ¡°This casino you see here? It¡¯s where we¡¯re going to judge your soul.¡± The man on the other end actually looked a bit¡­ frightened. Ratna, on the other hand, cackled with delight. Perfect. ¡°It¡¯s real simple. We¡¯re gonna play a little game, you and me. But before we can, you need to put something at stake, something about yourself -- it can be anything you¡¯d be willing to give up to show you¡¯re a good person. Money, skills, memories, whatever. Once you make your bet, you¡¯ll have the chance to either try and keep it -- and take whatever I¡¯ll wager as compensation -- or, you can show your trust and piety and allow me to judge you as-is by walking out that door back there. No matter if you try to take from me by playing, or you demonstrate your charity through surrender, I¡¯ll render my judgement of the quality of your soul. But¡­ fair warning¡­ it¡¯s when the game starts that this place becomes less safe.¡± He had to talk fast. He had no idea how long Teresa would be gone. Lucky for him, it was long enough. And Hakeem seemed to believe him completely: maybe it was that same beguiling smell from before working its magic, or maybe he was just a far more superstitious man than Jack Kelly, but the man seemed absolutely paralyzed. ¡°What¡­¡± he started, just as the rum and Coke was placed in front of him. Teresa was none the wiser. ¡°...what would we be playing?¡± ¡°Sorry, can¡¯t say. Gotta agree to play first,¡± Ratna interjected, offering the waitress a wink as the other rum and Coke was delivered. Teresa caught it with a confused twist of the head. ¡°Remember what I said,¡± Jack Kelly nodded soberly. ¡°It¡¯s all up to you.¡± Hakeem folded his arms in front of him, brow furrowed: concentrating on his thoughts, and perhaps his past deeds. Jack Kelly gave himself a congratulatory and entirely emotional pat on the back; he acted fast, thought faster, and put himself in a pretty good position. Hakeem was on edge -- he was probably thinking about how unfair it would be to play with a ¡®being¡¯ who can see the quality of his soul. And if he wasn¡¯t a total moron, he would have caught how Jack Kelly not-so-subtly suggested that walking away would be the best way to ensure a favorable ¡®judgement¡¯ and avoid the danger inherent in this place. Any sane man would do as much. Or at least, any sane man in Hakeem¡¯s unenviable position. ¡°...you said it could be anything, right?¡± Hakeem asked. ¡°Anything except your lifespan,¡± Ratna answered for him, ¡°...you know, cuz no one¡¯s promised time.¡± ¡°Ah. In that case, I shall wager my sins.¡± Jack Kelly snorted, and raised his glass to Teresa. ¡°Hon, can I get like, 40% less rum in here? And a shot of Jameson''s. Thanks.¡± Teresa took the glass without a word and walked right back to the door. He watched her go with a smile, until she closed the door behind her. ¡°Are you sure?¡± he turned back to Hakeem, ¡°That¡¯s how I¡¯ll judge your soul, you know.¡± ¡°You said it¡¯s what I would lose, yes? It seems a fitting enough wager.¡± ¡°Yes, but I also said you get the chance to keep it. It should be really something you want to keep -- It¡¯s not a sacrifice otherwise.¡± ¡°Of course, I understand,¡± Hakeem nodded, ¡°And I do want to keep them. I am not a good person, you see, my sins make me who I am. They could be called my Everything, how I survive in this terrible world. If I should lose them, I should no doubt die, given how poor and desperate I am. Keep them, however, and I can live, if only barely. Dying an innocent man might be good for my soul, sir, but as I said: I am an evil man. And I would rather live evil than die good.¡± Jack Kelly bit his lip as Teresa returned with what was probably a very bad drink. She placed it in front of him wordlessly. He didn¡¯t want to bet for this guy¡¯s sins but given the premise he made up¡­ he was having a hard time thinking of a reason why he shouldn¡¯t let it happen. Well. A good reason. ¡°It has to be something I would want.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Hakeem leaned forward, curiously, ¡°And what, if I may ask, would a man like you want from me?¡± ¡°What other humans find valuable. Money. Possessions. Useful skills.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Hakeem tapped his chin thoughtfully. ¡°Yes, I see. Then sir, let me make this offering instead: as I have little else to give, I shall let you judge me by my empathy. Is that an acceptable wager?¡± Jack Kelly considered the offering: empathy would be fairly useful. He was already pretty damn empathetic, it¡¯s sort of a requirement when you¡¯re a professional poker player and actor, but he could always use more. So it was functional, and it fit within the lie he had crafted as well: win-win from where he was seated. So he pretended to think for a little bit more, then said. ¡°Yes, that is acceptable. And my wager, would you like some money?¡± ¡°No, I do not think I do. I would like to win something else, if you do not mind.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°Please remember I am an evil man, sir. If I won money, I would waste it on vice and sinful things. So to show you at my best, I must make a more practical wager: I would be willing to risk my empathy for a car.¡± A car, huh? His car. Would he be willing to risk a car¡­? ...it¡¯s not like he had any choice. He had to commit to the bit. And he could always buy another one. Heck, depending on how he lost it, the insurance might make sure he got one back for nothing. So really, what was he risking? It only took him a few seconds to finish that mental lap, and when he had reached the finish line he nodded once. ¡°Very well. You stand to win a car if you should defend your empathy.¡± As if by magic,thirty chips instantly appeared in front of each man: sporty red chips were laid out in front of Jack Kelly, while Hakeem¡¯s chips were a more Valentine¡¯s pink. Jack Kelly had to try very hard not to be surprised by their sudden appearance, but Hakeem didn¡¯t need to hide his shock, and grabbed a handful of them like they were manna in the desert. He looked afraid again, and a little bit¡­ empty. The light in his eyes was flickering. As if it was missing some invisible yet key ingredient. It was close, but not quite, the same thing as panic. ¡°...what did I just¡­¡± he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on his chips. And that¡¯s when Ratna spoke up again. ¡°Our game tonight, appropriately enough¡­ is Liar''s Dice.¡± Liar''s Dice -- otherwise known as ¡°Pirate¡¯s Dice¡±, ¡°Call my bluff¡±, ¡°Dudo¡±, and a number of other names -- was created by award-winning wargaming designer Richard Borg in 1993, and won the Spiel des Jahres award (a German prize for outstanding game design) that same year. The game is widely considered an inspired example of simple yet complex design, which has both earned the game a stellar reputation and the attention of Academics, who have written on the game with great detail. Each player starts with a cup filled with five dice, which are then rolled on the table, hidden from the other players. The first player must then make a claim about the number and facing of all the dice on the table: for example, that there¡¯s at least one face-up two between both players. The other player can then choose to either make a higher bid -- which would be increasing the quantity and/or the face value of the previous bid (so saying there are up to two twos, one three, or two threes) -- or challenge it. If they challenge the bid, both players show their hands, and if the bid is shown to be valid, the bidding player wins. If the bidder was caught in a fib, the challenger wins. Bidding can continue as long as both players want -- the round only ends when someone issues a challenge. ¡°Course, the game wasn¡¯t designed for gambling, which is kind of what we¡¯re all about here at the Silver Wheel. So we¡¯ve tweaked the rules a bit. For one, instead of winning or losing dice, at the start of the round, both parties ante four chips, and with every bid following the first, you have to put another chip into the pot. If you happen to run out of chips before your opponent, however, you don¡¯t have to put any more in to continue playing¡­ but your opponent still does. Something to bear in mind. Anyway, winner takes the pot, everyone keeps their dice, go on to round two.¡± ¡°Second thing to remember: typically in this game, ones are wild, which means no matter what face value is being bid, you add all your ones to the total number of that face in play. For example If there are three ones and five fours: there are actually eight fours. But in this game, that¡¯s only true for the first round. In every round after that, the winning player gets to decide, after you roll but before you make your first bid, if ones are wild or not.¡± ¡°Third¡­ if you happen to roll three of a kind, you can make your opponent throw three chips into the pot, if they have that many to give up. But only at the start of the round. Oh, and by the way, as a dealer in a magic casino I always know what you¡¯ve rolled, so this is the one thing you can¡¯t bluff on. Try it, and I¡¯ll call you out and you¡¯ll need to throw three of your own pretty chips into the pot. Any other kind of cheating, though, will mean immediate disqualification, so play honestly fellas.¡± Jack Kelly glanced at the still fairly confused man on the opposite end of the table--something about the chips appearing seemed to throw Hakeem off, which meant he probably wasn¡¯t all there when she was describing the rules. But Jack Kelly was. And he could admire the interesting way these new rules twisted the game. Obviously, the main two strategic elements of Liar''s Dice are statistics and lying, in that order of importance. To succeed, you had to determine the approximate number of times you can expect the most common number to be repeated -- that¡¯s the ¡®expected quantity¡¯ -- and use your dice to determine which number is likely making that quota. Fortunately, math was one of his specialties as a professional gambler (he lived a very active life), so he could easily figure out that with ten six-sided dice (and wilds), there¡¯s about a 60% chance any given number would show up three times. Depending on what his own dice showed, he could fairly easily work out the odds and make his bets from there. But then came the lying part, which was trickier, but he was still fairly versed at it. Knowing when your opponent was telling the truth was arguably more important than catching them in a lie, as you can use truth to infer what¡¯s under their cup and adjust your statistics. And if they make a claim that¡¯s statistically unlikely? Just call them out. You won¡¯t win every hand, but you¡¯ll win more than the average, which was all he needed to do.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. That said: the new rules did shake things up noticeably. The game automatically became more high-risk the longer they played, which actually incentivised the winning party to make riskier lies and more aggressive accusations, lest they risk losing more chips than the person who¡¯s behind. Obviously, someone deciding if ones were wild or not not only gave them control over the flow of the game, but it could also communicate to another player what the state of their hand was. If there was one element he didn¡¯t understand it was that last rule: why would you communicate that you have at least three of a kind just for the chance to earn three more chips -- or worse, why pay three chips to tell your opponent that you don¡¯t have three of a kind? There was no point to it, other than possibly tricking stupid people into losing faster. ¡°No questions? Great. Then let the¡­ pft¡­ ¡®judgement¡¯ begin. Our ¡®judge¡¯ will be going first this round.¡± ¡°Open your eyes¡± by Guano Apes started playing, their second cue to scoop up their cups and the die within them for the first throw of the game. ¡°This is your last chance to walk away. If you really are an evil man, it may be your only hope.¡± Jack Kelly urged, swirling his cup of die like a fine wine needing to breathe. They clattered and chattered, almost balefully. ¡°Perhaps I would have, but my empathy is too high a price to pay,¡± Hakeem replied, shaking his cup like he was very poorly mixing a drink. ¡°So I¡¯ll have to risk eternal damnation for a car.¡± Teresa shot him a look. He ignored it. ¡°So be it.¡± They both slammed their cups upside-down on the table. The die suddenly grew silent as they settled, and both men looked hard at each other: almost as if daring each other to be the first to check their results. Jack Kelly, at least, didn¡¯t care who checked first: he was more interested in reading his opponent. He was skinny, but soft. Looking at his hands and his clothes he was an indoor creature. And by his own admission he was a bad person who relied on empathy. Throwing all the facts together, mixing in a bit of deductive reasoning and cold reading, he figured¡­ ¡°For a man who so cherishes empathy, why do you feel no guilt for being a con-artist?¡± The lack of surprise on Hakeem''s face either meant Jack Kelly was wrong, or his act was so convincing Hakeem would expect him to know that much. He figured out which when Hakeem smiled, and leaned forward. ¡°Guilty? Now that¡¯s a funny thought¡­ is there a reason I should? Stupid people owe me more than I can take. They¡¯re the ones who destroyed the environment, they elect the fascists and the nationalists, they¡¯re the ones who don¡¯t vaccinate their kids and revive dead diseases. What I¡¯m doing can barely be called getting my due.¡± Jack Kelly smiled right back. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right. But perhaps it¡¯s not your job to, uh¡­ even the scales¡± ¡°Well. If it is your job, sir, with due respect: you are terrible at it.¡± Jack Kelly nodded once, ambiguously, and broke the stalemate, peeking at the die under his cup. One, two, three, five, and six. If he didn¡¯t need to keep a straight face he would have laughed: what an obnoxiously unhelpful hand. He eased his eyes up to spy on his opponent, who was also looking at his own die with a certain ugly intensity. When he noticed he was being watched, he quickly slammed his cup down. Jack Kelly eased his cup down. A wild and an even spread meant that statistically, the odds favored a four. A four of what, however, he still had to determine. Fortunately, he was in just the right position to figure that out: in a game like this, where you can only bet higher, the first player effectively set the tempo for the round¡­ and with this being the start of the game, when everyone had their chips, Jack Kelly was feeling¡­ leisurely. Jack Kelly threw four chips into the pot. With considerably more hesitation -- he even seemed to wince when he laid hands on his chips -- Hakeem did the same. ¡°There¡¯s at least one two.¡± Hakeem put his chip into the pot, and paused -- knowing he had to call even before he knew what his call should be. ¡°...there¡¯s two twos.¡± Now that was a telling play. Upping the number of the dice meant the rounds would be shorter, since the odds of there being one two or one three was functionally the same. If you added to the face value, all you¡¯re doing is dragging things out. Adding to the number of dice, on the other hand, moved things along: even jumping from one to two meant any future bids would be less and less likely to be true. So the question was¡­ why did Hakeem want this round to end so quickly? Maybe he was still¡­ unnerved about what was going on with his chips¡­? Unfortunately for him, Jack Kelly wasn¡¯t playing along. He tossed another chip into the pot, making the total ten. Five each. ¡°There are two threes¡± Hakeem swallowed air, then took a drink so his next swallow wouldn¡¯t be quite so revealing. He tossed another chip into the pot, then quietly and quickly checked under his cup. ¡°...there are¡­ um¡­ three threes.¡± Statistically likely. But¡­ ¡°Bullshit. Prove it.¡± ¡°Damn. You got me.¡± The cups were lifted: Hakeem had a two, two fours, and two fives. Which meant there were only two threes in play, since ones were wild. Jack Kelly wasn¡¯t a judge of souls, but this Hakeem was easy to read nonetheless. The pause was telling. The cup was telling. But what really got Jack Kelly¡¯s attention was that ¡®um¡¯. This Hakeem fellow was able to perform a small monologue about why he was guiltless in his cons without a single ¡®uh¡¯, ¡®um¡¯, or pause to think. He had that speech, or something like it, prepared. So when he was forced to improvise¡­ Jack Kelly raked the chips towards his side of the table. It was a small lead, but a good start. ¡°Alright. Good job guys. Good hustle. Roll those bones, and Hakeem, you go first next.¡± Both men cupped their dice, and started shaking them. The rattle of the dice drowned out whatever conversation might have followed the first round, but there was an opportunistic lull when both cups were slammed onto the table. One that Hakeem capitalized on. ¡°Tell me something, sir. Am I being judged for trying to win?¡± ¡°I judge everything,¡± Jack replied, ¡°So of course.¡± ¡°I should think trying to preserve my empathy would be admirable.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to tell you how I pass judgement, son.¡± ¡°...of course,¡± Hakeem nodded. ¡°Enough flirting,¡± Ratna cut in, ¡°If you¡¯ll recall, after the first round the person in the lead gets to decide if ones are wild or not at the start of every other round. So why don¡¯t you tell us if ones are wild or not.¡± ¡°They are.¡± Jack Kelly replied without even looking at his dice. Whatever strategic advantage he might have gotten by checking his dice first wasn¡¯t worth the price of giving away that tiny bit of information. Both men checked their hands. Jack Kelly had gotten a two, a four, and three sixes¡­ he had to stifle a laugh, he would have killed for a roll like this last time he made a character in Dungeons and Dragons. Just drop the two or four¡­ but for the purposes of this game, knowing there were at least three sixes in play gave him a pretty big edge. Not only because he knew there would inevitably be a lot of sixes in play -- the odds favored five -- but also there would naturally be less of any other number. From a purely statistical standpoint, anyway. Hakeem was looking at his dice longer. Intently trying to memorize the five numbers in front of him. Maybe he thought that was his tell¡­? He gave himself something close to twenty seconds before he let the cup drop, and threw his four chips into the pot. ¡°I have one five.¡± Jack Kelly was already smiling. It was his default face for games like these. Even with his back to the wall -- which he certainly wasn¡¯t now -- he liked acting as if he had control over every situation he was in. It was a mindset thing. But reading someone so accurately certainly would have put a smile on his face regardless. Jack Kelly put another chip into the pot. ¡°Two fives.¡± He didn¡¯t have a five or a one. But that was still probably true. ¡°Two sixes.¡± Jack Kelly cursed a little under his breath: he would have called him out on three fives, the irony of which wasn¡¯t lost on him since he was holding three sixes himself . But maybe Jack Kelly could rely on Hakeem to do the same. ¡°...four sixes.¡± Hakeem didn¡¯t call him out for bluffing immediately. A curious choice. He probably had a one or a six in his own hand. Maybe, Jack Kelly thought, he got a little too excited when he skipped three and went straight to four¡­ But then Hakeem put another chip into the pot. ¡°Uh, five sixes.¡± ¡°Prove it.¡± Hakeem suddenly looked far more nervous. He tipped his cup open to show a three, four, two fives, and a six -- enough to have made Jack Kelly¡¯s last wager true. But with no one between them, it meant his guess was just one too high: something he saw for himself when Jack Kelly revealed his three sixes. He paled as the grinning blonde dragged his twelve-pot bounty to his side of the table. The difference in their chips was becoming noticeable¡­ and the misery on Hakeem¡¯s face was palpable. Jack Kelly¡¯s own smile waned somewhat as he saw the fear reflected in Hakeem¡¯s eyes, and glanced down at his own chips. Now that he thought about it¡­ this was kind of messed up, wasn¡¯t it? Not only was Jack Kelly lying to a man who was clearly impoverished, trying to scare him into giving up one of the key aspects of human nature¡­ he was doing it by teasing him with a car. One of the most essential luxuries known to men. Jack Kelly was pretty well-off: he could always buy a new car. Hell, he could probably buy three without needing to check his bank balance. So this wager¡­ it suddenly didn¡¯t seem very fair to him. ...he would have been tempted to quit, actually, if it weren¡¯t for the promise of becoming this Champion. That had an allure he simply couldn¡¯t ignore. ¡°Round three. Maybe Hakeem¡¯s chance at a big turnaround,¡± Ratna moved the game forward, ¡°Roll your bones -- and will there be wilds?¡± ¡°...no¡­ not this time.¡± Wilds made games shorter, since you can¡¯t bet on a one. And suddenly he was very invested in making this game as short as possible by making his next win a critical blow. Both men loaded their cups with their die, gave them a hearty shake, and slammed both face-down on the table. Hakeem¡¯s look of distress hadn¡¯t eased with the start of a new round. He smacked his lips. Somehow, they were dry. ¡°A¡­ root beer please, Teresa,¡± he asked. She nodded, and started for the door. ¡°Root beer, huh?¡± Jack Kelly asked while his eyes remained locked on Teresa, ¡°now that¡¯s a strange choice, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a special drink for me, sir.¡± Hakeem answered flatly, ¡°On bad days my mother would give me root beer, when I was a boy. I still have a can saved in my home for when I have a bad day. It reminds me of her, and the better days of my youth.¡± ¡°...oh.¡± ¡°I do not expect you to understand, sir. I wonder if you even have a mother.¡± ¡°...that isn¡¯t important,¡± Jack Kelly tried to shake the guilt by throwing four chips into the pot. Hakeem followed suit. Shockingly, it didn¡¯t help much. Jack Kelly tipped his cup up to gaze at the contents. Two ones, two fours, and a six. If ones had been wild, this would have been a hell of a roll. Hakeem stared at his dice for another half-minute, only looking away to nod appreciation when his drink was placed next to him, before quietly dropping the cup in place once again. ¡°Ready?¡± Jack Kelly asked. ¡°Of course,¡± Hakeem answered. ¡°Alright¡­ I have one one.¡± ¡°I have two ones.¡± ¡°I have two twos.¡± ¡°Two threes.¡± ¡°Two fours.¡± ¡°Three fours.¡± There were thirteen chips in the pot now, and since Jack had two fours he had no plans on calling Hakeem out now¡­ so the pot would probably hit 14 or 15 by the time the round ended. Of course, everything Jack Kelly said from here on out would either have to be a bluff or an extremely educated guess, since the only number he had left higher than his fours was his one six. But Jack Kelly mastered his poker face in the arena of professional gambling. He always smiled. His eyes were always semi-distant and mildly dead, even when making eye contact with others. And he didn¡¯t so much as let a twitch or a drop of sweat escape his face: every muscle was relaxed, in his face, in his shoulders, in his core. Nothing would betray him. ¡°Three fives.¡± Hakeem, on the other hand, was tense. His vocal stutter was still the best indication of when he lied, but he had a tangible anxiety that made his motions plastic and his face a map of tension knots. He even had a hard time untying his jaw to answer or drink his root beer. Granted, a lot of that was probably an issue of stakes: it would be easier for Jack to lose a car than Hakeem to lose his sense of empathy. But Jack Kelly got the feeling that when Hakeem conned his targets, he wasn¡¯t looking at them face-to-face. He was taking a long time to answer. Staring at Jack Kelly. Trying to glean if this was a bluff or not. It was, but Jack Kelly didn¡¯t give him a single suggestion it was. Hakeem would need to rely on Lady Luck. ...but then he put a chip in the pot. ¡°Three sixes.¡± Jack Kelly had to think for a second: he had one six. With no wilds, the odds of there being three sixes in play was not fantastic, but better than the odds of there having been three fives, since he didn¡¯t have any fives in his hand. If Hakeem thought three fives was reasonable, he must have at least one in his hand, which hurt his odds even further. But if Hakeem didn¡¯t have at least two sixes, then him calling Jack Kelly out for saying four sixes was practically a guarantee. There was no ¡®um¡¯, but¡­ ¡°...prove it.¡± Hakeem lifted his cup: three threes, a four, a five¡­ and only one six. Jack Kelly lifted his own. ¡°Only two sixes. Sorry,¡± he said almost sincerely. But as Jack Kelly started dragging his well-earned chips to his side of the table, Hakeem¡¯s anxiety flashed only momentarily before it cooled to something resembling¡­ anger. He turned towards Ratna, and spoke. ¡°Ma¡¯am, please humor me: you work here, correct?¡± ¡°¡¯S why I got the suit on.¡± ¡°And with the third rule: you said you can see what our dice are, even when covered by the cup?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± ¡°I believe my judge here can do the very same.¡± Teresa raised a solitary eyebrow, the only motion on an otherwise static face that turned his way. It was actually a bit unnerving. Jack Kelly could feel the chill from her stare even when he looked away. ¡°That would be cheating, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± Ratna purred, ¡°Can you prove it, Hakeem?¡± ¡°I do not see how I could,¡± Hakeem glared, ¡°Considering this place seems to operate on some kind of magic. I would say the onus falls on my opponent to prove he isn¡¯t.¡± Jack Kelly shrugged. His original gambit with his initial lie hadn¡¯t worked, so there was no reason for him to continue lying if it proved disadvantageous. But just as he opened his mouth, Ratna interjected. ¡°That seems fair: after all -- coercing you into playing under false pretenses would be quite the offense. Right, Teresa?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the waitress nodded, ¡°certainly grounds for disqualification.¡± Jack Kelly knew that Ratna was not technically his ally. But he still felt that sting of betrayal, even if he wouldn¡¯t reveal it. Instead, he kept his poker face sturdy, and let out a small, inoffensive laugh. ¡°Could I get a daiquiri, doll? With some frozen fruit in it, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°...yes, of course,¡± she curled her lips into a scowl, ¡°...once the game has resumed.¡± ¡°Haha. That¡¯s fine.¡± That was not fine. ¡°Well, that puts us both in quite the spot, Hakeem,¡± Jack Kelly leaned forward, ¡°I¡¯m not sure how you want me to prove I¡¯m not cheating, and your lack of trust in me certainly doesn¡¯t reflect well on you.¡± ¡°I understand that, sir. But I am a man of logic, even in a magical place like this: I simply have to believe that there¡¯s a method to knowing how each dice lands. For example -- I would find it very believable if there were sensors on the table that read the face of the dice from the bottom, so it knew what was facing up. Is that how this works?¡± Jack Kelly cast a sideways glance to Ratna. She didn¡¯t exchange the favor. ¡°...could be,¡± he shrugged, ¡°that would make sense, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Would you object, sir, if I assumed that¡¯s how it worked?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t mind, but if you can¡¯t prove that¡¯s how it works, you can¡¯t accuse me of cheating.¡± ¡°Do not worry. I intend to prove it in the very next round,¡± Hakeem smiled faintly, and started collecting his die, ¡°Are you ready?¡± Jack Kelly nodded once. Frowning. Was he confident in how Jack Kelly was cheating¡­ or just desperate? It really felt more like the latter than the former, in which case, Jack Kelly could only feel pity. Not enough to stop the game, but enough to make him feel bad as he started swirling his die in his cup. But Hakeem was doing no such thing. Whereas before, he rattled his die like he was preparing a drink, this time, he was swirling his cup face-down, scooping up his die off the table one by one. The common technique of very basic dice-stacking. It took him longer to scoop up all his die, but when he was done, he still rather definitively slammed his cup down, as he had the three rounds before. Jack Kelly almost laughed at that little show. It would have been funny if it wasn¡¯t so sad. ¡°Are one¡¯s wild?¡± Ratna asked. ¡°This time? Yeah.¡± ¡°Then it¡¯s time for you both to make your ante.¡± Eight chips total were thrown into the pot, and both parties checked beneath their cups. Jack Kelly had a two, two fours, a five, and a six. Hakeem, on the other hand, had to look at the numbers on the side of his little stack to figure out what was on top, and cover the whole thing with his free hand so Jack Kelly couldn¡¯t spy: but it hardly mattered. Jack Kelly already knew exactly what his hand was: three threes, a five, and a six. When you stack dice using the method Hakeem used, they don¡¯t shuffle. They slide, carried by their momentum, against the inside of the cup, moving around quite a bit but never changing face. Ironically, in trying to prove Jack Kelly could see what dice he had, Hakeem had allowed Jack Kelly to know what dice he had. And there was no way either of the real judges at the table could accuse him of cheating for doing that. ¡°Before we begin, may I ask you to throw three chips into the pot? I have three of a kind.¡± ¡°...yeah. That checks out,¡± Ratna nodded to Jack Kelly, ¡°chuck em¡¯ in.¡± Jack Kelly shrugged amicably and did as he was told. It didn¡¯t matter. This was all for show, now. Still, he was petty enough to take advantage of that leap of logic. ¡°She could tell what dice you had even when they were stacked. Your theory doesn¡¯t hold up, it seems.¡± ¡°She is the dealer. It is not cheating if she can see my dice. Only if you can, sir.¡± ¡°Alright. If you say so. You go first, by the way.¡± ¡°I know. I have one one.¡± Jack Kelly knew that wasn¡¯t true, but he wasn¡¯t going to call him out on it just yet, as he was interested in making this their last round. He would milk Hakeem dry, if he had the chance, and with only six chips left in his hand, Hakeem only needed to make three more bets to be unable to ante, thus securing Jack Kelly the game. ¡°I have one two.¡± Jack Kelly replied, throwing a chip into the pot. ¡°Two twos for me.¡± Hakeem said -- it was true thanks to Jack Kelly¡¯s hand, but Hakeem didn¡¯t know that. Hakeem only had five chips left. ¡°Two threes,¡± Jack Kelly said, throwing another chip into the pot. ¡°I have three threes,¡± Hakeem said¡­ and for just a flash of a moment, quick enough for Jack Kelly to only barely notice¡­ he smiled. At first, he merely dismissed it as he picked up his next chip¡­ ...but then paused. Three threes. Jack Kelly knew that was true, because despite having no threes or ones himself, he knew for a fact that Hakeem did have three threes -- which were all the threes in the game. He also knew that adding up the remainder of the die under his and Hakeem¡¯s cups, there were only two fours, two fives, and two sixes: there was no possible way he could make his next claim true. And since Hakeem had only four chips left -- the bare minimum he needed to ante to play the next round -- there was absolutely no way he wouldn¡¯t call Jack Kelly out. He had no other choice. Letting the game go on and making his own wager would effectively be throwing the game, and while Hakeem was a bad gambler he didn¡¯t seem like a stupid man. ¡°Dazed and Confused¡±, by Led Zeppelin, started howling in the other room. ¡°Are you all right?¡± Hakeem asked: it had only been a few seconds, but it was the longest Jack Kelly had needed to think this entire game. Jack Kelly shrugged it off: fine. He lost this round. He still had an overwhelming chip advantage, and this would go a good way to proving he wasn¡¯t cheating, anyway. ¡°I¡¯m fine. Three fours.¡± Hakeem paused. Rolled some words in his mouth for a little bit, before leaning forward. ¡°I¡¯m almost certain that is a lie, but I admit I am struggling to tell. With each chip I lose, it gets harder and harder to read the signs.¡± Jack Kelly frowned on the inside: he feared as much. It seemed odd from the beginning that Hakeem would be so much more impacted by the appearance of the chips than he was, and from the moment they started playing -- and Hakeem started losing -- it grew more and more obvious just what was going on. Hakeem¡¯s lack of empathy would certainly make things easier than they already were, but Jack Kelly worried all the same that maybe he was accidentally turning the poor man into some kind of psychopath. ¡°Well, I¡¯m sorry it had to turn out this way.¡± ¡°I was wondering if there was anything I could do, sir, to get you to cancel this game,¡± he begged, leaning forward, ¡°...anything at all.¡± It was only then that Jack Kelly felt something rubbing up against his foot: Hakeem¡¯s. His foot was gliding up and down his leg in an undeniably flirtatious manner. Jack Kelly¡¯s poker face, for the first time that night, flickered. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. But there¡¯s nothing you can do. You are going to lose.¡± Just as he finished saying that, the foot got extremely¡­ aggressive, sliding all the way up to his crotch. Jack Kelly¡¯s face shot down, and he nearly jumped out of his seat, jostling the table in the process. And Hakeem smiled. ¡°And there we have it: you, Jack Kelly, just cheated.¡± ¡°...excuse me?¡± ¡°At the start of this game, our dealer confirmed that I had three dice of the same face,¡± He started, nodding to Ratna, ¡°is that still true?¡± ¡°...no. As a matter of fact, it¡¯s not.¡± Ratna reported. ¡°That¡¯s right. And Ratna, correct me if I¡¯m wrong, but I would have won this round if I still had three dice of the same face, is that so?¡± ¡°It sure seems that way,¡± Ratna continued, mindless of the growing confusion growing on Jack Kelly¡¯s once-static expression. ¡°So it would be in his best interest to try to change that by manipulating my dice to something more favorable.¡± ¡°That would be cheating.¡± ¡°So, behold,¡± Hakeem lifted his cup, revealing his die: a one, two twos, a four, and a six, all splayed on the table in a heap. ¡°My proof.¡± Jack Kelly was slack-jawed at the revelation: for a moment, it was out of sheer shock, but once his brain caught up with the rest of himself, he realized that as accusations went, this was extremely weak. When this dawned on him, he tidied up his expression with a cough and a smirk. ¡°Hakeem my friend, you had your dice stacked in a precarious tower, and you rammed your foot in my crotch. I jumped, which is normal and natural when something like that happens, which made me bump into the table and knock down your dice. That can hardly be called ¡®cheating¡¯. If anything, since you were the one who got me to move, you cheated by indirectly knocking down your own dice.¡± ¡°But why would I have done that if I was going to win?¡± Hakeem pressed. ¡°Because clearly, and I¡¯m sorry about this, you¡¯re distressed and desperate. You know you can¡¯t beat me fairly so you¡¯ve tried to concoct some story about how I¡¯m cheating.¡± ¡°But I was going to win, sir.¡± ¡°The round, not the game, obviously.¡± ¡°How do you know?¡± ¡°You had three threes in that neat little tower, so yeah obviously you were going to win.¡± ¡°I meant the game.¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m better than you.¡± ¡°Because you¡¯re cheating, sir.¡± ¡°I told you, you kicking me in the crotch and making me jump isn¡¯t ¡®cheating¡¯.¡± ¡°But knowing how my die land is.¡± ¡°But I-¡± Jack Kelly furrowed his brow, and suddenly realized what exactly was going on. He didn¡¯t bother arguing with Hakeem any further, instead turning to Ratna, who was resting her chin on her netted hand. ¡°-You know I¡¯m not cheating, right doll? I only knew what his dice were this round because of how he rolled them.¡± ¡°You sure? Seems like pretty damning evidence to me. He accused you originally of knowing how his dice land, and by admitting you knew he had three threes, you¡¯ve proven him right.¡± ¡°But -- he stacked his dice! You could see him swirling his cup like¡­¡± he tried to reproduce the motion, but it came out as awkward and rushed. He could feel Teresa¡¯s glare on the back of his neck, and he did not like it. ¡°Did you ever see the stack?¡± ¡°...no¡­ he hid it with his hand.¡± ¡°Ratna, did he indeed stack his dice?¡± Teresa asked. And to that, Ratna bore her teeth. ¡°...nope, he didn¡¯t. And if he wasn¡¯t stacking the dice, there¡¯s no reason he would know what his dice had landed on unless he was using the same method I am. Sorry, ¡®boss¡¯, but you¡¯ve been caught in the act, and you¡¯re disqualified. Hakeem wins by default.¡± ¡°Wait, what?!¡± Jack Kelly stood up, knocking over all his unfinished drinks. As the alcohol mixed into a hideous brown puddle, he leaned into the dealer, spit flying into her face as his knuckles whitened against the edge of the table. ¡°You know damn well I wasn¡¯t cheating you fucking cow! What are you doing?!¡± ¡°Ooooh.¡± She puckered her lips and wiped a single drop of spittle from her cheek, examining it boredly on the tip of her finger, ¡°Looks like you¡¯re in real trouble, Hakeem, you¡¯ve pissed off the judge.¡± ¡°I do not know what¡¯s going on, but I am going to ask you to calm down, sir.¡± ¡°I was robbed! This was some fucking bullshit! I wasn¡¯t cheating! He was cheating! You¡¯re all cheating!¡± ¡°Sir, I am going to ask you to leave.¡± ¡°Fuck you, fuck her, and a big fat fuck you for him, too!¡± He jabbed a finger at Hakeem, grabbed one of his knocked-over glasses, and was immediately grabbed from behind and dragged to one of the unlit corners of the bar, where his enraged shout was only momentarily replaced with a terrified yelp, before transitioning fully to silence. Well, silence, sans Grand Funk Railroad¡¯s ¡°Inside Looking Out¡±. ¡°...congrats on the car.¡± Ratna eventually chimed in, shaking Hakeem''s heart into working again. ¡°But I¡¯m guessing you don¡¯t want to stick around, do ya?¡± ¡°No I would very much like to leave thank you.¡± ¡°Mhm. Exit¡¯s that way.¡± She gestured to the door, and he was quick to his feet. People generally didn¡¯t stick around once they saw Mr. Eight, much to Ratna¡¯s endless delight. The door slammed behind him as he threw himself into the void. ~*~ Jack Kelly woke up from his usual 3 PM power-nap unusually frustrated. Not quite ¡®punch your pillow¡¯ angry, but definitely a ¡®yell at the Help¡¯ kind of mood. He found their cowering and mewling attempts to placate him went a long way to improving his mood, and he was finally feeling himself again when he slapped the phone out of his assistant¡¯s hands when he had the audacity to text while receiving instructions on where he wanted to eat dinner. When the phone shattered, it was like a dark cloud lifted off Jack Kelly¡¯s chest, and he was able to be his usual charming self while entertaining the friends of his producer over a late meal. What he did not know, however, was that his assistant -- who even on his best days was never treated chivalrously -- had been considering getting some kind of revenge on Jack Kelly for a while now. And while recently he had cooled off on that plan, this most recent show of assholery was enough to push him over the edge. And as it so happened, the timing couldn¡¯t be better: in just a few short days, a moving company would be taking Jack Kelly¡¯s car (which he loved dearly) to Hong Kong for a new movie being shot there. Jack Kelly¡¯s assistant made a few more calls, using the full authority granted to him by Jack Kelly himself, and then rather abruptly quit. Not more than a few days later, thanks to some expensive ¡®last minute changes¡¯, Jack Kelly¡¯s car wound up somewhere in central Africa, where the assistant was waiting with keys in hand to drive off into the sunset. That would have made him furious enough, but due to a series of checks his now-ex assistant failed to send, Jack Kelly also had no insurance, leaving him with little choice but to vent his frustration on his newest assistant. Unfortunately for the mastermind behind this blatant car theft, he wouldn¡¯t be able to enjoy Jack Kelly¡¯s car for long: when Jack Kelly told the public what happened, fear and guilt congealed within the ex-assistant, who worried that he¡¯d be hunted down and arrested if he was found driving around this stolen ride. When he drunkenly confessed this fear to a friendly stranger he met at a run-down bar, that stranger had the most obvious solution -- change the license plate, and remove any tracking devices that might be in the car. The stranger even said they were a mechanic who could do it for him: all they needed were the keys and a small fee. The ex-assistant never saw the car again. ~*~ ¡°Please tell me everything that happened.¡± Ratna and Teresa were at the bar, untouched drinks in front of both of them. They had needed an intermission to put the chips away and clean up the spill, but as soon as they were able, they sat down to strategize. Ture, who hadn¡¯t seen a moment of the game, watched on dispassionately. ¡°Long story short, Jack pretended that the Silver Wheel was some kind of judgement racket, and he was the judge, to persuade Hakeem into giving up on round one. Dunno if Hakeem fell for it or not, but they played the game anyway so I guess it didn¡¯t matter.¡± ¡°And the last turn? How could he have three threes at the start and lose it at the end if he did not stack the dice?¡± ¡°Oh, that part was simple,¡± Ratna grabbed a free glass and flipped it upside-down, ¡°He did do the swirling technique you have to do when you stack dice, but he didn¡¯t actually stack them: he just let them slide horizontally against each other. It wasn¡¯t a tower, it was a line. When he had Jack jostle the table, it wasn¡¯t to knock down the tower¡­ it was to distract Jack long enough to flip up his cup and change them by hand. But since Jack thought it was a tower, and assumed the numbers changed because of the jostling, he never thought to accuse him of that.¡± ¡°So Hakeem was indeed the cheater.¡± ¡°Yeah. But he cheated smart. He probably knew he could never win fairly, and he couldn¡¯t really cheat, so he had to disqualify Jack. And the only way to do that would be to catch him cheating -- which he wasn¡¯t doing. So he used the premise of Jack¡¯s lie with our third house rule to engineer a way for Jack Kelly to know what dice he had, but not know how he knew, so he could reasonably accuse him of cheating.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°Sounds contrived. Sorry I missed it,¡± Ture turned fully towards the two women in his company, ¡°but have we found ourselves a Champion?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Teresa nodded, ¡°despite his outburst, Jack Kelly was intelligent, quick-witted, and experienced in gambling. He may have lost due to extraneous elements, but he is undoubtedly the candidate of choice.¡± ¡°I may have missed it, but I agree. Seems like the dude to pick.¡± ¡°Oh, sure, sure. From the perspective of pure skill, yeah,¡± Ratna nodded after a long drink, ¡°Jack Kelly thinks on his feet, is an accomplished gambler and actor, and is damn easy to flatter. On paper, he¡¯s the best candidate we¡¯ve seen by far...¡± Teresa frowned. ¡°....but I still vote for Hakeem,¡± she finished with a cinematic wink, ¡°A good gambler could win us our battles. But we need someone with the brain to win us a war. Hakeem seems like our best bet to match Marie¡¯s wits.¡± The two others stared at her dumbly. ¡°...are you certain about this, Ratna?¡± Teresa tilted her head slightly, ¡°As dealer it is your choice, but I would appreciate it if you did not make it rashly.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve waited a long time for this, don¡¯t accuse me of thinking fast. Look: it¡¯s all good to count cards and be a good liar. Hakeem, though, can turn around a losing situation with a keen understanding of the rules. Worked for Charlie, right? It¡¯s about time we had our own Charlie. Besides: wouldn¡¯t be a good fit for the Silver Wheel if it wasn¡¯t a bit of a gamble, would it?¡± She bore her teeth. Thin, yet coated in a glistening sheen. ¡°...I see,¡± Teresa nodded slowly. ¡°Then Ratna has put the fate of the Silver Wheel¡­ in Hakeems hand¡¯s. We have a Champion.¡± ¡°So that means we¡¯re starting our efforts in earnest, huh?¡± Ture hummed, ¡°Seems like a good time for a toast. What¡¯ll it be: for Juan? For the Silver Wheel?¡± ¡°Nah, we¡¯re not that noble,¡± Ratha raised her glass as bloodlust flashed in her eyes, ¡°for fucking Marie.¡± Teresa lifted her glass: ¡°For ruining Marie.¡± Ture lifted his own empty mug, and the three glasses clinked together ¡°Yeah. For those, and then some.¡± ~*~ Earlier that evening, when Teresa and Ratna were engaged with their dueling guests, Ture found himself in a rather precarious situation of his own. Teresa had informed him -- in her usual ¡°appear and disappear¡± way -- that he needed to prepare a daiquiri with frozen fruit. And while he was chopping up a nearly rock-hard strawberry, his ears twitched to the sound of an opening door: but when he glanced at the door to the parlor, he found it remained tightly shut. ¡°Wrong door.¡± A pink-haired woman in an obnoxious neon pink nighty sat down in front of him. He stared dumbly. ¡°You know how hard it is to come here these days and not get fuckin¡¯ murdered?¡± she sighed, grabbing half of the frozen strawberry and popping it into her mouth, ¡°and everyone thinks I¡¯m the one with problems.¡± ¡°You¡¯re¡­¡± Ture took a step back, and she flashed him a quick and dirty smile, which was replaced by a scowl almost immediately. ¡°...in a hurry. Look, if your psycho boss finds me here she¡¯s gonna wanna play some death game or whatever and I¡¯m really not interested, okay sweet stuff?¡± ¡°Then why are you here?¡± ¡°To see you, of course.¡± ¡°...what?¡± ¡°Look, my dude, I am a lot of things,¡± she lolled her head to the side, grabbing the other half of the frozen strawberry, ¡°but Marie Walker ain¡¯t a liar. Wait, no, that¡¯s not right, I literally lie all the time, but when I make a deal, I follow through. And my old employee, whats-his-name, made a deal with you on my behalf, right?¡± Ture froze. ¡°I need a yes or no buddy.¡± ¡°Y-yeah.¡± ¡°Thought so. So here¡¯s what¡¯s up. I¡¯m willing to honor that deal. I¡¯ll find some way to yank you outta here into my world, the real world. Sounds like a good time, and I could use something to keep me busy when I forget my phone on the shitter. But here¡¯s the hard part: I need you to trust me.¡± Ture, normally so quick with his words, was completely silenced. ¡°That¡¯s all. I don¡¯t need you to cheat for me or spy for me or anything like that. You can even keep those gold chips you earned. But when I come back with my solution, you¡¯re going to have to trust me with it, alright? Because lemmie tell ya, more likely than not whatever I come up with is gonna involve walking out that door,¡± she thumbed towards the void, ¡°and last I heard you people don¡¯t do so good with that. Deal?¡± She extended her meticulously manicured hand. Each fingernail was somehow a different shade of nauseous pink. He stared at it. ¡°...I¡¯m seriously in a hurry here, shake it or not, this is your last chance. Don¡¯t make me do one of those cliche countdowns.¡± ¡°...I¡­¡± He was suddenly very short of breath. From fear or excitement, he did not know. ¡°Ugh... fine, guess we¡¯re doin¡¯ this. 3-2-1-¡± Without thinking, acting on impulse, he lunged out and grabbed her hand. He grabbed it like a drowning man latching onto floating debris. As if it was the only thing that could keep his head afloat¡­ or his world from spinning out of control. ¡°Oof, okay, calm down. So you trust me?¡± ¡°...I guess I don¡¯t have a choice,¡± he replied, his voice calmly contrasted with his sudden rush to her hand. ¡°Geez, no reason to sound so grim,¡± she rolled her eyes, yanking her hand free, ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯m the devil.¡± With that, she wiped her hand on her shirt, and bolted for the door. He watched her fall with wide, terrified eyes. Round Four: Durak, Part 1 I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m still the only one who¡¯ll get close to Miss Nine. I understand the hesitation of the rest of the staff. She¡¯s grotesque in a way that Hollywood hasn¡¯t quite been able to capture in its many years of depicting eldritch abominations. It¡¯s not the tentacles or the eyes that can¡¯t fit into their sockets or the fist-sized horse teeth or the film of acidic fluid that exudes from pulsing pale flesh. Everything of that nature can be¡­ adjusted to. It¡¯s the way nothing seems to settle right. It¡¯s a subtle thing. How limbs never seem to fit into sockets, but glide seamlessly across her rippling gelatinous skin to get wherever they need to be. How meat just folds into itself, merging and splitting like a¡­ a lava lamp, I think. And how every time you look away for more than a moment, her entire body morphs into some new knot or twist. And¡­ no matter what you do or where you move or go¡­ every eye is always locked onto you. It makes my heart beat faster just being in the room with her. She was shy and scared, at first. I think that makes sense. There¡¯s still a human mind trapped in that creature. She understands every language she knew before. She responds to her old name. She refuses to eat and tries to hide from sight. She only let me get close to her when I told her I was trying to cure her. I was lying, of course. There¡¯s nothing to cure. This¡­ fascinatingly horrifying creature is its own kind of wretched perfection¡­ and maybe a little bit more than that. We already know that there¡¯s a place she¡¯s supposed to be. Dimension 20:7. She¡¯s being called to it. They¡¯re trying to bring her home. The readings are all the same. It¡¯s possible¡­ it¡¯s possible I can use that call to create my own portal without Marie knowing. I can use her to reach Dimension 20:7. Or¡­ maybe¡­ ~*~ He opened his eyes to Neil Diamond¡¯s ¡°Sweet Caroline¡±. ¡°Welcome back to the Silver Wheel, may I-¡± Teresa didn¡¯t get to finish: the man she had invited immediately started looking around and behind him like a terrified mouse keenly aware there was a cat in the room. She cleared her throat, and calmly placed a cold hand on his shoulder. ¡°Hakeem. Sir.¡± He snapped to attention. ¡°The figure you are searching for is Mr. Eight. He is our bouncer, and he is very well-behaved. In fact, I would say he is the least dangerous person in this room.¡± Hakeem took a deep breath of the perfume-laced air, and slouched into his seat. There was no reason that information should have calmed him down, and yet, it was doing the job. Maybe it was the authoritative certainty to the way she spoke: not so much offering an opinion as repeating the spoken law of the universe. He didn¡¯t smile, but he did nod. ¡°Why am I back here?¡± Ratna was seated on the opposite end of the table from him, a lit cigar clenched between her teeth. She pinched it between her fingers, and blew out a heavy cloud of soot-gray smoke. ¡°You¡¯ve been chosen, bucko. Consider this your lucky day.¡± ¡°I do not feel very lucky, if I may be so forward.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be so quick to say that,¡± Ratna sighed, ¡°Teresa, maybe get this guy his rum and coke while I lay down the facts.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Teresa vanished, the only sign she was ever in the room in the first place the gentle tap of the closing door. ¡°Look, here¡¯s the situation,¡± she started, leaning forward, ¡°we¡¯re kind of in a pickle here. You know a woman named Marie Walker, right? Walker Industries?¡± He paused for a moment, ¡°Yes, the name sounds familiar.¡± ¡°Well, she makes her money exploiting alternate dimensions. And now the Silver Wheel here is her latest project. At first it was¡­ I dunno, annoying? But then one of her goons killed the last dealer and now we¡¯re trying to get her to leave us alone. We tried killing the people she sent here, but then she just started sending her enemies so we found ourselves her accidental hit-men. Besides, killing people in this place is kind of¡­¡± She bit her lower lip and hissed. ¡°Well, let¡¯s say it¡¯s really, really permanent. So it was never a good idea to begin with. Long story short, we need someone in her reality to be our ¡®champion¡¯ so we can sort this out once and for all.¡± Hakeem didn¡¯t react as the drink was placed in front of him. When the glass clinked, it shook him out of his stupor, and he started shaking his head. ¡°Wait, you lost me¡­ why would a place that judges souls be killing people? Why does she care about it?¡± Ratna turned to Teresa. ¡°Hey, get me one of those, but hold the coke.¡± Ratna pinched the bridge of her nose and rested her elbows on the table. ¡°...okay¡­ from the beginning, then.¡± ~*~ The glass in front of Hakeem was empty. Ratna was currently in the process of adding a fourth to her collection. The cigar had burnt down to a stub. ¡°So¡­ correct me if I understand everything now. This is a gambling den where people can wager anything in exchange for anything. No judgements or anything of that nature. Marie, the first person to devise a way to come here without an invitation, is interested in how it works, and has sent people to study and exploit it.¡± Ratna, who refused to budge her lips from the rim of her glass, shot him a thumbs up. ¡°And you need me to get all these ¡®pills¡¯ and the data she used to make them and destroy them.¡± Ratna finished her drink and, with a gasp, said ¡°Yeah, that sums it up.¡± ¡°And I¡¯m going to do that by¡­¡± ¡°Playing games with them, obviously. We have at least two names, some Russian guy and Marie Walker herself. We¡¯ll invite them, you¡¯ll have them wager the pills and data, you¡¯ll win it from them.¡± ¡°To that, I have two more questions,¡± He leaned backward, strumming his fingers along the table, ¡°First, what do I get out of it? Surely you do not expect me to work for nothing.¡± ¡°What, the open bar isn¡¯t good enough?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Heh. Well, for one, you can wager for more than just the pills and the data: as long as those are in the mix we don¡¯t care what you bet for. And secondly, if you succeed and destroy all those pills and data, we¡¯ll grant you a wish. We¡¯re pretty good at those.¡± He raised an eyebrow. ¡°Any wish?¡± ¡°As long as it¡¯s physically possible, we¡¯ll think of a way to make it work.¡± ¡°I see. But therein lies my second question: what on earth do you expect I can offer them to make them willing to wager their pills and data? I was not lying to this Jack Kelly character: I am not a man of ample means.¡± ¡°Obviously, you¡¯ll be betting the one thing they want most in the world: the Silver Wheel itself.¡± ¡°...eh?¡± Teresa fished into her pants pocket and withdrew a small silver key, which she placed on the table in front of him. It was inornate, smooth and plain and rather boring. Not unlike the woman who had produced it. ¡°I was bequeathed responsibility for this establishment,¡± she said with complete emotional detachment, ¡°and thus I am considered its owner. If you agree to our terms, I will temporarily bequeath those privileges to you so you may use them as a wager. This key will be symbolic of this.¡± ¡°Ah. Well, I¡¯ll need time to think, you understand. It¡¯s not-¡± ¡°-of course,¡± she continued rather harshly, ¡°it would be possible for you to take this key and try to sell it behind our backs. Of this, we are keenly aware. Which is why it shall only be given to you while you are here, and will be removed before you leave. And if you attempt to make negotiations or exploit your authority of the Silver Wheel while within our premises, or devise a trick with our enemies in the waking world, I will swiftly and mercilessly dispatch you. I will be watching you, unblinking, every moment until this operation is successful.¡± She leaned over him, her icy blue eyes almost glowing in the shadow she cast over the dull light. And while she loomed over him, her eyes magnetically locking him in place he felt¡­ a wet, cold¡­ something slithering up his back, causing his pores to pucker and his blood to physically grow cold as it rushed to escape contact with¡­ whatever it was. ¡°I trust you will not need me to demonstrate further.¡± If he could have pissed himself he would have, but for some reason he was entirely incapable. ¡°Y-yes.¡± ¡°Very good.¡± Suddenly, the lights were back up, the music was playing, and she was standing normally next to him, arms folded daintily in front of her. He hadn¡¯t quite realized until now that the entire world had been frozen. Or that he hadn¡¯t been breathing. ¡°...right. Well.¡± Ratna blinked, ¡°As you can see, you¡¯ve got nothing to lose and a whole lot to gain, assuming you don¡¯t try to double-cross us. Should be a no-brainer, but we¡¯ll let you go back to sleep now so you can think things over. Have your answer ready by tomorrow night.¡± ¡°...yes. Okay.¡± Hakeem stood up, eager to put some distance between himself and the waitress. But as he put his hand on the door handle, he paused, and glanced backwards. ¡°...this Russian man. What¡¯s his name?¡± Ratna paused for a second, tapping her chin. ¡°Uh¡­ Nica¡­ no, Nikolay. That¡¯s it. Nikolay Kondrashin.¡± ¡°I see. Thank you.¡± He closed the door behind him, and jumped into the void, as he did before. Both Teresa and Ratna were quiet for a moment as they stared at the door. When a safe amount of time passed, Ratna opened her mouth to speak. ¡°...there ain¡¯t shit we can do if he tries to double-cross us, is there?¡± ¡°No. There is not.¡± ¡°Fuck.¡± ~*~ He woke up with a start. Suddenly, he remembered. The game. The die. That Jack Kelly guy¡­ everything. It was as if his brain had lost ten pounds of baggage he didn¡¯t realize was there. Or maybe it just felt a little bigger, which made the existing weight feel lighter. He spent a lot of time looking out the window of his apartment trying to figure out which it was, nursing a glass of ice water. Ilorin buzzed under him. He could see the polluted coast from here. Teresa had been lying to him, of course. Her face was too inflexible to read but he wouldn¡¯t have trusted something as uncertain as a facial twitch to begin with. No, what gave it away was the threat itself: no one with real control over a situation needs to spell it out so dramatically. Besides, if she could just kill people who went into her bar, she could just¡­ ¡®invite¡¯ Marie Walker and her goons any night of the week and kill them personally. Some invisible law must bind her -- for example, maybe she could only kill people who invaded the place without an invitation -- and if that key was truly worth the Silver Wheel, then when he held it she shouldn''t be able to touch him. He was even pretty certain that she was lying about being able to watch him. After all, if she could, she¡¯d probably know his name was Ehije. He emptied his glass, but whatever sleep he was enjoying before it got interrupted by the Silver Wheel wasn¡¯t coming back. Which was just as well for him, considering it was technically the middle of the day and he had shopping to do. He was an online con-artist. A catphisher. A crook. He had to be awake when his marks were, and his marks were mostly on the other side of the Atlantic. He went out, walking to the closest Goodies. He had already sold the car he had conned- well, ¡°won¡±- from Jack Kelly. He didn¡¯t really need it (he didn¡¯t even have a parking spot at his place) and the money it got him would keep him off the street for another six months at least. There was a time, he understood, that people could actually get rich doing what he did... that there was a big enough class of stupid rich people who were bleeding money out of every pore, and you just had to have a big enough bucket to catch it all. But that was a long time ago. And it¡¯s not that people got smarter: they just got poorer. Good luck guilting a lonely middle-aged woman into believing her long-distance lover needs ten grand to deal with a sudden medical emergency when she doesn¡¯t even have five grand in the bank. These days, it was the small cons. Calls from the IRS. Corrupt cops looking for a bribe to avoid ¡®accidentally¡¯ raiding their homes. If he could find a name and some photos easily enough, he could be a distant relative who needed a gift card now. If he was lucky, it would get him a few hundred bucks, max. If he was unlucky, they would waste his time for a few hours toying with him then tell him to fuck off. He didn¡¯t hate them for that, just like he didn¡¯t hate himself for his trade. After all: stupid people were the largest market in the world, and if he wasn¡¯t milking them, someone else would. Maybe a TV preacher with his own private jet, or a fake doctor shilling a miracle weight-loss drug, or the government selling a worthless lottery ticket, or a small business nestled into a pyramid scheme. Maybe they¡¯d invest it in some essential oils, a cancer-melting crystal, a vagina rock endorsed by a B-list celebrity, or brain pills created by some paranoid conspiracy theorists. Or it was always possible they''d be conned by one of those enslaved people forced to work for an organized crime racket who make up his ''peers''. At least he wasn''t kidnapping anyone \to make his calls for him. Or hiring lobbyists to make his cons ''legitimate. The cashier commented on the bags under his eyes. He hummed, but otherwise ignored the attempt at conversation. If there was a line he wouldn¡¯t cross, it was that he wouldn¡¯t steal. He would happily lie to people and exploit their trust until they handed him their money, but he¡¯d never force it away from them. Which was what he had on his mind when he started microwaving his breakfast burrito back in his apartment: he didn¡¯t know much about this Marie Walker person, but if she was rich, he was way more interested in just making a deal than trying to go against her in a game -- after all, he had barely won against Jack, and that was only because he was able to use Jack''s lies against him. But would making a deal with Marie be stealing? He hadn¡¯t lied to or conned the people at the Silver Wheel: they were coming to him because he was a con artist, and were asking for his help as a con artist. They wouldn¡¯t be the first people to trust him out of desperation¡­ but they would be the first trying to hire him for what he did best. He gnawed on the still-frozen center of the burrito while eyeballing his office in the corner of his apartment. It was clean and professional, and had some nice furniture so when he took selfies he would look more professional. He even had a cabinet file for his forged documents, a scanner, and a holographic projector, although most people he ¡®worked¡¯ with couldn¡¯t afford something like that. He sat down. He brought up Google. He searched for Marie Walker. The very first thing to show up wasn¡¯t her Wikipedia article, interestingly enough: it was a news article about her seventh testimonial in front of the US congress. After skimming the article and a few others, he understood that apparently there was quite a controversy surrounding what she does: the seventh meeting was specifically about tax evasion and interdimensional finance, but the first three hearings had been about the ¡®dangers¡¯ of tearing into space-time, the next two addressed the ¡®dangers¡¯ of transporting objects -- or even people -- from one dimension to another, and the sixth meeting was regarding the ¡®dangers¡¯ her work could have on the health of society. Apparently some of those old codgers still thought traditional religion was the moral backbone of society. That was almost cute. It was clear from the videos that Marie was the smartest person in the room at all seven meetings. She had an insincere patience to the way she answered the questions levied to her that made it clear she was mocking them internally while externally she explained things articulately. It was so artificial and Hollywood he wasn¡¯t surprised so many people online were calling her an alien robot. After that, he went to her Wikipedia page. It was shockingly light on content: listing what she did, her work history, a few bare scraps of her personal life (¡°She currently lives in Vancouver, Canada¡±), and some awards she had won for her unprecedented work in countless scientific fields. If he went by that alone, he would think her a living saint, a bastion and patron of human knowledge and potential¡­ but nobody that rich and powerful had no skeletons in their closet. The fact he wasn¡¯t seeing any simply meant she was very, very good at covering them up¡­ which meant, of course, they were nasty enough to make those cover-ups worth her time and effort. He had to dig deeper. He made a fake Facebook profile as a newly-graduated student at MIT and messaged former employees asking about their experience working for her, as he was considering an internship. Most gave him garbage advice, or ignored him entirely. A few made comments on her eccentricities, which he followed-up on. The woman was nuts, was apparently the general consensus, but two people gossiped that she was known to have a lot of secret projects, and that the people closest to her rarely ¡®retired¡¯...they almost always vanished. Neither of them assumed anything from that -- after all, if they stumbled across some super-awesome alternate dimension, who wouldn¡¯t take the chance to escape this crappy one -- but Ehije was less convinced. Especially considering the circumstances around one Bruno Kelly (no relation to Jack, he assumed), who apparently was never in a position to discover new dimensions yet ¡®vanished¡¯ anyway. He got the name of other important project heads, which he cold-called as chairman of the newly-minted ¡°Pioneers of Promising Tomorrows¡± award being offered by the IFS, looking for acclaimed scientists to form a panel of judges to nominate young scientists. While they were talking about the responsibilities of the job, he asked about their previous work with Marie Walker and Walker Horizons, and they all corrected him immediately: they didn¡¯t work for Walker Horizons, they worked for something called ¡°Bigger Sky labs¡±. He inquired. They told him their work was confidential. So for each person he called, he pretended to know the confidential secret already and guessed something new for each person, hoping he would strike gold: and he was wrong every single time. By the time he had used up his last name, all seven people who had worked for Bigger Sky had figured out he was a fraud. But that was fine. At least now he knew it wasn¡¯t human experimentation, trafficking, weapon deals, mind control, time travel, space travel (apparently that one was publicly known, whoops), or bionic engineering. But there was one interesting caveat he did notice after his seven failures: all seven had claimed that the lab they had worked at was in the same place -- South Carolina. But the people who had given him their names told him that they had worked remotely¡­ even the one based in South Carolina. Secrets within secrets. There was only so much he could learn about her directly: she was one of the wealthy few, it seemed, who could actually afford true privacy. So he would have to learn more about her through her friends¡­ namely, Nikolay Kondrashin. If he could spell it right in Google. It took a few tries. There was a lot more to uncover about Nikolay on the first page of Google. He was head of the RFSB, or Russian Federation Stability Bureau, a branch of the Federal Security Service that was created when they stopped pretending and just went full-fledged dictatorship. Nikolay was only the second director to serve this relatively new branch of the government, and was apparently more brutal than his predecessor by far, redefining what constituted dangerous anti-government activity with much broader and much vaguer terms, which of course granted him and his organization more power to chase them down. His corruption was legendary, and his decadence and eagerness to climb every ladder he could reach was second only to his ferocious ego. A lot of people disliked him. Even in the government. But he was liked -- or useful, or at least tolerated -- by the right people, which was all that really mattered in securing his prospects. And the people who were brave enough to be vocal about disliking him seemed to wind up dying anyway. Ehije never laughed, but he found his ¡®friendship¡¯ with Marie Walker hilarious nonetheless. A desperate up-and-coming sucker who wants power at any cost? No wonder she worked with him: give a desperate man a little power, he¡¯ll be completely blind to the strings you wrap around him. She¡¯d chew him up and spit him out the moment she was done with him. But while that would have put a smile on his face, he had to consider: what would Marie Walker need with a lackey like this? Their two businesses couldn¡¯t be further apart: she was all about advancing humanity forward, presumably, while Nikolay¡¯s business was largely about stopping progress wherever it reared its ugly head. So what could Nikolay offer her? Certainly not prestige, or an ¡®in¡¯ with the Russians: she had both of those things already. She sure as hell didn¡¯t need his money, her company rivaled his home country in GDP. He could help squelch any bad press against her or her enterprises, certainly, but there would have been better candidates for that job¡­ and she wouldn¡¯t need to really invest as much into looking good to Russia as she would Europe, or the Chinese Confederacy, or the Pacific Alliance. No, as near as he could figure, there was really only one thing he could give her to make a partnership worth her time: bodies. He sighed deeply as he looked out his window: the sun was setting. Dinner for the rest of the world. He¡¯d have to make it lunch. He escaped his apartment to the almost-fresh air of his city and used the walk to straighten his thoughts and process what he¡¯d learned. He found himself walking past the store, but he kept going anyway. Apparently he had a lot to untangle. ~*~ ¡°...welcome to the Silver Wheel.¡± Today¡¯s victim was another woman. Another Russian. She looked young and doe-eyed, in a suit exactly like Claudia-- well dressed, professional, prim and proper. But it was a disguise. A shell. The clothes were ill-fitting, for one, and the woman had an earthy smell around her that clued into the fact she must have spent quite a bit of time outdoors before this, where an outfit like this would have been disadvantageous. But more telling was the wristwatch that had been slapped on her right wrist, and the colorful bracelets on the left. Peer beneath them, which was possible when she started struggling instinctively against the rope that bound her to the wooden chair, and you could see the telltale thin, red bruise left behind by handcuffs. Teresa made her observations silently while she waited for her guest to wake up to her situation. She did, with a shout. ¡°I¡¯m here to find Claudia Strekalov!¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± Teresa asked, raising her chin up ever-so-slightly, to cast a deeper shadow on her corpse-like face. ¡°I¡¯m here... ¡° the woman swallowed, ¡°I¡¯m here on behalf of Nikolay Kondrashin. One of his companions vanished after coming here and I¡¯m here to win her freedom.¡± The lines were so rehearsed, so practiced, so fake, it almost made Teresa feel a certain kinship with this woman. But it was promising nonetheless. It meant Nikolay was so far unaware that they had grown wise to his scheme. ¡°I understand.¡± Teresa stepped away from the gilded mechanical spinning cage where the balls for the evening¡¯s game were kept, and took a single but powerful step forward. It silenced her guest¡¯s heavy breathing and the shaking of the chair, allowing them both to more clearly hear Billy Idol, who was singing ¡°Rebel Yell¡± over the muffled radio. ¡°I am more than willing to take you on your word, ma¡¯am, but before we continue, I feel obligated to give you two crucial pieces of information,¡± Teresa continued to walk towards her, although the steps that followed were far less overpowering, ¡°The first is that there is no way to recover the woman that you speak of. She is outside the power of the Silver Wheel to retrieve. So whatever stakes you think you will be playing for, they will not be that.¡± Teresa put a hand on the woman¡¯s shoulder. A visible chill ran up her spine, and her features froze -- both from the ice that surrounded her, and the realization that her friend was truly gone. She lowered her head, staring at the table and the bingo card in front of her. Rather than numbers, there were pictures of internal organs drawn on the card. The heart was in the center. It almost looked like it was beating. ¡°The second thing you should know is that you are not a guest here. You are an intruder. If we play, you will be playing for your life. Win, and all you will receive is the right to be treated as a guest. Lose, and you will die.¡± The certainty of that statement was irrefutable, and carried on the perfume and blood that tickled this woman¡¯s nose. She was pale and shivering and shrinking, and there were tears running down her cheek. She gripped the armrests of her chair defensively. ¡°No way¡­¡± ¡°...but if you should suddenly discover you are no ally to Nikolay Kondrashin, then I am offering you one chance to walk away. I will untie you, give you a drink for your nerves, and send you back to the world from where you came,¡± Teresa continued, ¡°...and I would strongly advise you take it. You will not win this game. And you will not get a second chance when you discover that firsthand.¡± Teresa paused, and knelt down beside her. They were at eye level now. ¡°...please. Please leave.¡± The woman without a name closed her eyes, and took several deep, shivering breaths. As she hung her head low, Teresa noticed a small plastic patch on her collarbone. It was one of the same sensors that Charlie had worn, when he was the first guinea pig to be sent to the Silver Wheel. The woman shook her head. ¡°...they have my family. I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t.¡± Teresa steeled herself. ¡°I understand.¡± She walked back to the mechanical cage, and rested her hand on the wooden handle. ¡°Then tonight¡¯s game... will be Bingo.¡± ~*~ Helmut Beisner flipped the powdery white pill between his thin, wiry fingers. They were tiny, about the size of a zit. Flavorless. No scent. Dissolved in water or with enough heat. Could be mixed with any number of drugs and still work perfectly, although it worked best with benzodiazepines. You could technically hide one in a plate of spaghetti, or even just in a burger if you wanted: it would have been easy to miss. Easy to lose. They came in a small pillbox, nondescript but crafted out of sterling silver and engraved with ¡°Royale¡± in a font that looked plucked straight from the cover of the 1953 novel that inspired it. A shocking amount of love had gone into its design. Helmut Beisner always appreciated those little touches. The pink hearts that hugged the corner of the box. The text printed on the outside edge of the box, ¡°A Whisper of Love, a Whisper of Hate¡±. His name, right under ¡°Royale¡±, to suggest he would be the author of any number of stories using these miraculous pellets. He had been one of two people chosen by Marie Walker to beta test them. Well, that¡¯s the story she gave them anyway, in addition to a video that came from this ¡®Silver Wheel¡¯ place that made it clear in no uncertain terms that anyone who dared use them would either need to be the world¡¯s greatest gambler, the world¡¯s biggest idiot, or someone you never wanted to see again. All she asked in return was a few days¡¯ warning before any pills were ingested¡­ so she could find and ¡°study¡± the people unlucky enough to visit the Silver Wheel uninvited. As he understood, the other beta tester, Nikolay Kondrashin, leapt at the opportunity. Helmut knew very little about that man, and didn¡¯t care to learn more: he was a blind politician who was eager to use any means, but especially cruel ones, to get more and more power and prestige. Helmut liked to think he was cut from a very different swatch of cloth. He dropped the pill back into the beautifully designed container, and tucked it neatly into his chest pocket. It was soon his cue to step out. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°...without further ado, the man himself: Helmut Beisner!¡± The applause that followed wasn¡¯t thundering, but this was not the kind of crowd that engaged in that kind of frivolous exaggeration. They were a higher class than most of the rabble in the world. They clapped exactly enough to show that they appreciated him, his presence, and his work, and exerted not an ounce more effort. The fact that they clapped at all was something to appreciate, and he genuinely beamed as he stepped out on stage, the hot lights melting into his unblemished white suit. He looked out at a crowd of beautiful people in beautiful outfits, their jewelry shining in the darkness like stars in the sky. He waved, he clapped, and he put his hands onto the podium, which quickly silenced the crowd. ¡°It¡¯s so great to be out here, folks,¡± his teeth sparkled in the dazzling light above him, grasping both sides of the podum with smooth, soft fingers, ¡°in a beautiful city, a beautiful arena¡­ and of course, with beautiful people. But that¡¯s kind of a funny word, isn¡¯t it? ¡®Beautiful¡¯. Full of Beauty. Beauty stems from the French word, beaut¨¦, which in turn is a¡­ something of a bastardization of the Latin word, bellus. Which, roughly¡­ meant ¡®handsome¡¯ or¡­ or ¡®charming¡¯. You used it for kids and women. It was an insult if you called a man, ¡®bellus¡¯, it seemed. But beauty itself, that word, it was defined quite boringly by Webster, but a bit more romantically by Stendhal as ¡®the promise of happiness¡¯. Rather¡­ rather beautiful in its own right, isn¡¯t it? ¡°But I have to ask, what does that mean, exactly? A promise of happiness? Let¡¯s pretend for a moment I was a beautiful man myself, heh, and I saw myself, in the mirror, every morning¡­ would that be a, a guarantee that I¡¯d be happy? Or would it guarantee happiness for people who saw me? Does beauty always make you smile? Or is there happiness in awe? Is it possible for something to be so beautiful it leaves you bitter instead? Angry, maybe, that you won¡¯t ever have that kind of beauty in your own life? ¡°So when you think about it, ¡®the promise of happiness¡¯ seems like it¡­ it has to be wrong. There¡¯s no way you can define beauty that way and yet, and yet¡­ it just feels right. In your heart and in your gut, that¡¯s just got to be what ¡®beauty¡¯ means. So maybe¡­ so maybe to help it make sense in our heads, we have to break it down just like I did the etymology of the word ¡®beauty¡¯. And recently, that¡¯s exactly what I did. ¡°Let¡¯s start with a promise. What¡¯s a promise? A promise, ladies and gentlemen, is just the seed of a lie. Every promise is broken, with enough time, and keeping a promise is just that, ¡®keeping¡¯ it for that little bit longer. Postponing the inevitable for another day, or week, or month, but one thing is for sure, it will end someday. And when it does, all that¡¯ll be left is an eternal and unfixable lie¡­ but that¡¯s not to say there still isn¡¯t a certain sad, determined nobility in the promise. Because a promise isn¡¯t just a lie to the people we make them to, but also, also to ourselves: saying that we can do the impossible, defy our own, our own failures and the stuff that makes us human, and create something good that will last forever. That¡¯s the power of a promise, I think. And that¡¯s the first part of defining beauty. ¡°Which brings us to happiness. I like to think of happiness, and I hope you¡¯ll agree with me¡­ it¡¯s a lot like food. Do we need food to live? Yes. Are we eating it all the time? No. In fact¡­ in fact, the amount of time we spend eating is very disproportionate to the time we spend doing anything else. But a couple minutes of food keeps you going for hours, even days or or even weeks in extreme cases. And everything we do, well, everything we feel we have to do, usually just amounts to making sure we, we¡¯re able to eat pretty consistently. And that, I think, is just like happiness: we spend most of our lives not actually happy. But we live our lives around those few minutes of happiness we get every once in a while, it¡¯s the fuel that keeps us going and moving forward¡­ but like all fuel, it¡¯s¡­ fleeting. It depletes itself so quickly. And if you don¡¯t constantly recharge it, well¡­¡± He stuck a finger-gun to the side of his head and pulled this thumb, snapping his head to the side. There was a polite and small laugh from the crowd. ¡°Right? So let¡¯s combine those definitions. Beauty¡­ beauty is a lie that keeps us going. Beauty is temporary, beauty is fake and intangible, beauty is patterns rooted in our biology that helped our monkey ancestors survive and thrive and mate, but even today it still helps us put one foot in front of the other. If we didn¡¯t have these lies¡­ what would we be?¡± ¡°Which is what brings us to today¡¯s exhibit,¡± he gestured broadly to the giant curtain behind him, ¡° which I have called ¡®Fate of Beauty¡¯. A once, once in a lifetime exhibition just for you people, people... people who I know appreciate beauty and help it spread worldwide. So¡­ so without further ado¡­ allow me to begin.¡± At his cue, carts were wheeled out in front of every member of the audience, although the contents of these trays were hidden under a silver cloche. The servers stepped away, and left the room. Once the final door had closed, Helmut continued. ¡°Don¡¯t open those just yet, just¡­ wait a little bit. Because to appreciate what I¡¯m about to do to you, I need to do just a little more, heh, more pretentious science nonsense. You¡¯re all, all smart people, I know that. You¡¯re all well-read. So you know the kind of work that Marie Walker is doing, working with other dimensions, alternate dimensions. Well, everything she did is based off the work of Hugh Everett the third, who hypothesized the¡­ the ¡®Many Worlds¡¯ theory, which basically says that every time you make a decision, a new, parallel reality is created where you make a different decision.¡± ¡°Okay, we all understand? Then go ahead. Pick up the, the tray things- I have no idea what they¡¯re called.¡± And the people in his audience did as they were told, lifting their cloches to reveal bubbling champagne in a slim, elegant glass. As each one was revealed, he smiled broadly. ¡°Here¡¯s where I have to apologize, folks because I¡¯ve¡­ I¡¯ve doomed you. For in that glass is a very potent little drug. One sip, and your consciousness will spiral out of your body, and you¡¯ll be left an empty husk: alive, but¡­ not really. In a waking coma until your body gives out and you die. But your mind will be spinning in a confused black void, without direction or hope or rescue. I don¡¯t mind saying, it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a bit of a nightmare.¡± ¡°Now, of course¡­ none of you are planning to drink that, are you? That¡¯s fair¡­ that¡¯s all right¡­ but it means you¡¯ve condemned a version of yourself in another reality. By choosing not to drink, they are forced to. I know, it sounds weird, almost impossible¡­ but it¡¯s how our reality works.¡± A few people glanced at one another. There were whispers, hushed, thoughtful. This was what they had paid him for, and he was delivering. But now it was time for the coup de grace, such as it was. ¡°Well, I can see no one in this room has¡­ volunteered to spare another version of themselves from that fate. No one can blame you for that¡­ but all actions must have their consequences. So with that¡­ let me show you why I called this exhibit ¡®Fate of Beauty¡¯.¡± The curtains split. And standing in neat, identical rows, was the audience. Every beautiful man and woman, in their beautiful outfits, decorated in their beautiful jewels, motionless save the breath inflating and deflating their chests and the milky white distraction that clouded their eyes. Row after row of soulless husks. ¡°Go on ahead. Walk down, find yourself, look into your dead eyes. Slap your face or something: they don¡¯t care.¡± People gasped. At least one person fainted, seeing their zombified doppelganger standing on stage behind him. Everyone was shocked into silence¡­ until one brave soul started to clap, which opened the gates to an enormous, indeed, thunderous applause as his audience came to appreciate the magnitude of his exhibit. He bowed, gracefully, and stepped aside to let his audience experience their own beautiful lies come crashing down around them. Yes, the Royale pills were nothing short of miraculous. But they did come with a big warning when they were given to him: people had to ingest at least 40% of a pill to reach their destination safely. Otherwise¡­ there were mistakes. And where science failed, art thrived. ~*~ ¡°...lungs.¡± ¡°Oh, uh¡­ bingo.¡± ¡°Then congratulations, ma¡¯am. You win.¡± ¡°Um¡­ okay.¡± Here¡¯s how it was supposed to go: The victim was to be strapped into the chair, with a bingo sheet with all their internal organs laid out before them. Every round, Teresa would pull a ball from the machine, which would have one of the organs on it. A chip was placed on that organ, and then Teresa would shoot the actual organ in the player¡¯s body, and then draw again. If the victim survived until they reached Bingo, they would win. Otherwise, they would obviously lose. The victim could try to prolong their life one of two ways. They could try to predict which organ would be called that round, and if they predicted correctly, they would be spared the bullet... or shot twice, if they guessed wrong. If that didn¡¯t suit them, then once per game, they could also ¡®move¡¯ the free space to any other square in the game. It could save their life¡­ but it also meant the heart, which was normally the ¡®free¡¯ space, could be drawn, which would effectively end the game immediately. That was, indeed, how Teresa played the game. She just opted to skip the ¡®shooting¡¯ part. Teresa untied their guest, named Natalie, and produced a bottle of water for her, which she took and drank eagerly, while massaging her wrist. ¡°I apologize if I concerned you earlier, ma¡¯am. It was simply in the interest of preserving the integrity of my place of employment.¡± ¡°...it¡¯s¡­ this is fucked up.¡± Natalie sighed, ¡°Is what you said about Claudia true?¡± ¡°Unfortunately, yes. But she did help me understand what was going on. She was not the first person Mr. Kondrashin sent to us under false pretenses, but she was the first to realize it. I owe her a considerable debt for it.¡± ¡°Yeah, no shit.¡± Natalie squeezed the water bottle tightly, ¡°That fucker obviously expected this place to kill me too. He¡¯ll probably just shoot me if I leave here in one piece.¡± ¡°That, I¡¯m afraid, is something I cannot help with.¡± ¡°You sure I can¡¯t just hang out here forever?¡± ¡°Sorry, job¡¯s taken,¡± Ratna stepped in, cigar smoke and the hot breath of whiskey following after her, ¡°I didn¡¯t hear the usual amount of screaming, so I got worried.¡± ¡°She, like the others, has merely been tricked by Mr. Kondrashin. She did not intend to intrude. Therefore, I exercised a measure of restraint.¡± ¡°For all the good it¡¯ll do me.¡± Johnny Cash¡¯s ¡°The Man Comes Around¡± was playing on the radio, although Ratna was aggressively humming something else, as if trying to compete with The Man in Black himself, while she walked over to one of the unlit corners of the room. ¡°Stop bitching. Trust me, dying out there is way better than dying in here.¡± ¡°That is correct. Now, if you¡¯d please-¡± ¡°-Hey, wait a second,¡± Ratna interrupted, the sound of dragging following as she pushed the poker table back into the spotlight, ¡°before you head off, there are some things I want to ask you.¡± Teresa bowed her head and stepped aside. ¡°...okay.¡± ¡°Long story short-¡± ¡°-I really wouldn¡¯t mind the long story right now.¡± ¡°Tough. We¡¯re on a schedule. But you know about this Kondrashin guy, right?¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± ¡°Well, we hate him. Maybe as much as you do. I was wondering if you wanted to spend your last moments alive spitefully.¡± ¡°Sorry, but I can¡¯t. I wouldn¡¯t dream of betraying him. Not when he has my family.¡± She nodded down to her shirt, where there was still a sensor attached to her collarbone. It looked like a fairly nondescript plastic tab, which probably meant everything she said would reach Nikolay in some form or another. ¡°Oh, yeah. Well, sorry about that. Want a drink before we send you off, then?¡± As she spoke, Ratna sat down on the opposite end of the table from Natalie, and flipped her Bingo card upside-down. She produced a pen, and handed it to her with a wink. Natalie smirked. It seemed whatever this sensor could do, it couldn¡¯t see them, at least. ¡°I would love something warm. Like cider.¡± ¡°One cider, coming up.¡± Natalie searched the archive of her mind. A few times she reached for her breast pocket, muttering under her breath when she remembered she didn¡¯t have her phone anymore. Eventually, she settled her thoughts, nodded, and started to write: Claudia would have known more. She worked directly with the fucker. But she did say his ego is huge, but I wouldn¡¯t suggest you make fun of his height, he seems more-or-less fine with that. Interrupt him when he talks, he hates that. He¡¯s allergic to nuts (can you use that?) Teresa placed a mug of hot cider in front of Natalie -- a small, uninviting one, to make it clear she wasn¡¯t here to savor. Natalie took the hint, and took a sip. One last thing. ¡°Enjoying the cider?¡± ¡°It¡¯s good enough.¡± And this is really gross so... brace for it ¡°I¡¯m sure our bartender will love to hear that.¡± He''s fucking his mother Ratna¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°...yeah, he¡¯ll love that.¡± She''s old, she''s sick, and he does it all the time. He''s even forced her to get abortions. Even with all the crap he works hardest to hide this nugget. ¡°Hmm. Well, I¡¯m not in a position to care what he thinks.¡± ¡°Fair. Teresa, a moment, please?¡± The two conferred in the dark corner of the bar. ¡°I remember the surgeon. Must be the one who did the abortions. He was told this was a new horror holo-simulation. He genuinely believed he wasn¡¯t going to die.¡± Teresa whispered. ¡°So we can use this?¡± Ratna muttered back. ¡°Are you asking permission or if it¡¯s possible?¡± ¡°Both.¡± ¡°Then yes.¡± Ratna laughed. ¡°Haha! Perfect! Unlike our cider, apparently!¡± ¡°Fuck off!¡± came from the bar. ¡°I guess it¡¯s about as good as your taste in music!¡± ¡°These are the classics!¡± ¡°They suck so much even you cry when you hear them!¡± ¡°Good thing you killed yourself before you gave your husband the chance!¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...¡± ¡°...that took it too far, didn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Little bit. But don¡¯t worry, we have all of eternity to be awkward about it.¡± Teresa walked back over to their guest, who was looking rather dreadfully at the door to the bar. Her cider mug was empty. ¡°Thank you for joining us today, but it is time for you to leave.¡± ¡°...yeah. I guess it is.¡± Natalie stood up and went to the door, but when she put her hand on it, she paused. Frozen for a moment as she felt the first cold breath of death brush upon her wrist. She shivered, and looked back once, desperately. ¡°...do you know¡­ what will happen? Where I¡¯ll go?¡± Teresa shook her head. ¡°There are many possibilities. There is only one thing I know for certain.¡± Natalie swallowed. ¡°...it will not be here.¡± ~*~ Ehije was only able to fall asleep that morning with the help of some boxed wine and a few pills of Ambien. He had spent the rest of the night figuring out his thoughts, doing a little more research, and half-heartedly sending out a few more phishing emails, none of which seemed to take; which probably meant they were caught by the anti-spam filters. But his mind was awash with a strange sort of guilt that made it easy to ignore his disappointment. He had a plan. A plan he didn¡¯t like, but it was what he was going to stick with anyway. And he felt terrible about it. So terrible he knew he¡¯d need help sleeping that night. Hence stocking up on the boxed wine and Ambien. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find, however, he wasn¡¯t actually in the parlor of the Silver Wheel. He was in the bar, a part of the Silver Wheel he had only glanced briefly while running away from that Mr. Eight¡­ thing. Face to face with a blond European, who had a glass of root beer already out on the table. ¡°White Rabbit¡±, by Jefferson Airplane, wafted through the air. ¡°The girls are gettin¡¯ set up in the other room,¡± the barman reported. ¡°I see.¡± He took the glass, and stared at the liquid. The barman was wiping off the back of the bar with what looked like a silky washcloth, and seemed rather intent on the task. Ehije tried to watch the soothing circular motion of the rag, but he felt a tickle of anxious fear on the tip of his neck hairs as he remembered that Mr. Eight was lurking in one of these dark corners. He glanced at the corners once or twice, which were barely illuminated by the flickering lights that hung over him, but when he turned back to the bar he found something new placed in front of him. A golden poker chip. ¡°...what is this?¡± The bartender looked up. ¡°We haven¡¯t met formally. Ture. Bartender.¡± ¡°And I am Hakeem.¡± They didn¡¯t shake hands. ¡°Look, I¡¯m not a coy guy,¡± Ture continued, putting his washcloth away, ¡°So I¡¯ll cut the bull. I¡¯ve worked with Marie Walker in the past. I¡¯ve scratched her back, she¡¯s scratched mine. It¡¯s a partnership I sort of want to keep going.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°I understand you¡¯re going to be our ¡®champion¡¯. They give you the key to this place and you use it in a game against Marie Walker and her cronies. I¡¯m gonna make you a better, easier offer.¡± Ehije took a sip, but kept his face neutral. ¡°You go in there when they¡¯re ready, you take the deal, take the key. You come in here, give me the key, I give you this chip, and you jump out the door. Since I¡¯ll own the establishment, I can promise you won¡¯t be brought back. You can spend the rest of your life enjoying your winnings and forgetting this place even exists.¡± ¡°That certainly is easier, sir, but why would I trade the key for a single chip?¡± ¡°It¡¯s worth five billion American dollars.¡± Ehije blinked. ¡°...excuse me?¡± ¡°It¡¯s worth half a percentage of Marie Walker¡¯s company. You can sell it for five billion dollars. Keep it for a few years it¡¯ll probably be worth more, but¡­ I mean, shit, five billion.¡± Ehije needed a moment to comprehend that many zeroes. Ture didn¡¯t give him that time in silence. ¡°You¡¯re literally not going to find a better deal. You¡¯re too much of a nobody to strike a bargan with her in the waking world, and even if you did, she¡¯d probably just throw a few million at you and know you¡¯d have no choice but to accept¡­ assuming she didn¡¯t just make you give her the key by force. You talk to her here, right in front of Teresa? Well, Mr. Eight wouldn¡¯t like that very much. And I¡¯m guessing by the way you keep checking the corners that you don¡¯t want to see him again.¡± Ehije shifted in his seat slightly. ¡°Easiest money you¡¯ll ever make. Take it or leave it.¡± Ehije emptied his glass. ¡°Won¡¯t Mr. Eight attack me when he sees me give you the key?¡± ¡°S¡¯ not like they know we¡¯re striking this deal, bro. And Mr. Eight¡­ he¡¯s only really around when he¡¯s needed. I don¡¯t think he lives here like I do, lucky fuck.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Ehije nudged the glass forward a smidge, and Ture refilled it without saying another word. ¡°...may I ask¡­ why you are working with Marie Walker?¡± Ehije asked as Ture dropped a few ice cubes into the glass. ¡°Don¡¯t mind you asking, but I¡¯m surprised you care,¡± Ture slid the glass back to Ehije, ¡°I¡¯ve lost track of how long I¡¯ve been in this place. Stuck behind this bar, serving drinks to people I don¡¯t like who never remember to say thanks. It¡¯s-¡± ¡°-Oh, thank you.¡± ¡°Missed the moment, man.¡± ¡°...yes.¡± ¡°...look, point is, it¡¯s draining. Marie Walker, though, she works with dimension-hopping and that kind of shit. Maybe she can figure out a way to bring me back to your world. That¡¯s all there is to it.¡± ¡°Between you and me, that seems like a rather naive hope, when clearly you are more valuable to her here.¡± ¡°...maybe so, but that¡¯s not really your problem, is it? Chip for the key. That¡¯s where your business can begin and end with this place.¡± ¡°I see. It is a very tempting offer, sir.¡± ¡°Sure is. But you don¡¯t have to decide now. Meet the girls. Hold the key. Figure your shit out. As long as you do it before the game starts.¡± He took another long drink from the root beer. ¡°...say, what brand is this?¡± ¡°Whad¡¯ya mean?¡± ¡°The root beer. What company made it.¡± ¡°Uh¡­¡± Ture reached below the bar, and pulled up a bottle, ¡°...looks like IBC.¡± ¡°It is very good.¡± ¡°I think it¡¯s the classic stuff,¡± Ture turned the bottle over, ¡°the name is etched on the glass. The new bottles just have it printed on the¡­ paper cover thing.¡± ¡°Is it safe to drink, then?¡± ¡°No one gets sick here. Must be safe. One of the quirks of living in a pseudo-dreamscape, I guess.¡± ¡°Interesting.¡± ¡°Yeah it¡¯s something.¡± The door to the parlor swung open. Teresa was standing on the other side, head bowed. ¡°I apologize for the wait, Hakeem. Please join us in the other room.¡± ¡°Thanks for the root beer, Ture,¡± Ehije said as he stood up, taking his glass with him. ¡°Yeah, yeah.¡± The door closed behind them. The parlor was set up slightly differently than Ehije remembered: the table was bigger, there was a deck of cards situated in front of the dealer, although the deck looked noticeably smaller than before. Teresa pulled out a seat for him, and he took it, pulling into the table on Ratna¡¯s left side. ¡°So. Here we are,¡± Ratna beamed ¡°Have you decided to be our champion, Hakeem?¡± He looked into his glass. ¡°...it is not in my character to be a forthright person, Ratna. That was your name, right?¡± ¡°Yeeeep.¡± ¡°Well. I have survived for my entire adult life, and many of the years before that, lying, scamming, and cheating. Changing who I am. There was never a point where I felt lost in my many disguises, because they were always exactly as deep as they needed to be, and I always knew the purpose of each one and was quick to dispose of them when their purpose was fulfilled. But while I never felt I lost my true self, I will say that I did not spend very much time with him.¡± He sighed. ¡°So it is unusual for me, I will admit, to find that this person, whom I barely know despite being, is being called on for such an important mission. Not in spite of my evil ways, but indeed, because of them. And in that realization, I was forced to consider something I never quite articulated before¡­ why it is I became a con-man. After all. The ability to lie well is the most valuable commodity in the world. It can get you anywhere. From the halls of the Vatican to the high tables of the government, men and women with talent like mine have reshaped the truth to fit their needs and made the world their own. So why settle for mere con artistry?¡± He looked up, the light above him reflecting in his onyx-black eyes. ¡°The answer is as simple as it is complete. I hold a great deal of hate for the world. I hate the stupid people for their idiocy and cattle-like mentality. I hate smart people for their manipulation, their self-interest, and their willingness to blind themselves to the consequences of their deeds while they rape the planet dead. But most of all, I hate the good people. The people who are just kind and self-sacrificing enough to prevent humanity from seeing how utterly and horribly rotten our world has become. Since they are too weak to make any meaningful change, they instead become its ultimate obstacle. A placebo for the trembling masses. ¡°I had considered taking the key and trying to sell it. I am always partial to money and comfort. But it is not in my character to seek these things above all else. No, it¡¯s in my nature to remind people that the world is brutal, unfair, and wicked. And I think I should do that quite well for Marie Walker, and then the world, once I have earned my wish.¡± He looked up, locking eyes with Ratna. ¡°So yes. I will be your champion. And I shall make Marie Walker suffer.¡± Ratna licked her lips. ¡°Then we happily accept your cooperation, Hakeem.¡± She reached into her pocket, and withdrew the tiny, silver key. After blowing it a kiss, she slid it across the table to Hakeem. He took it, examined it carefully between his fingers, then placed it into his chest pocket. He remained seated. Teresa almost smiled. ¡°So. When do we start?¡± ¡°Tonight. You think I just pulled this table out for shits and giggles? We¡¯re starting with Nikolay. Not for any strategic reason, we just hate him the most.¡± ¡°I did some research on him, but I do not think it was enough to play him. If you have anything more you can give me before he¡¯s summoned, it would be helpful.¡± ¡°Angry, egotistical, bloodthirsty, ambitious asshole,¡± Ratna listed callously, ¡°Also, fucks his own handicapped mother and forced her to have abortions. You know, stuff like that." ¡°He is also aware of how the Silver Wheel works, so you will be unable to fool him with a gambit similar to the one Mr. Kelly performed with you.¡± ¡°...who?¡± ¡°Your opponent the other night.¡± ¡°Oh, yes. Right.¡± He scratched his chin. Part of being a con-artist was abusing ignorance and trust. Nikolay wouldn¡¯t be giving him either. Heck, he might even know more about the Silver Wheel than Ehije did. Unless¡­ He swallowed hard, the corner of his eye twitching to the corner of the room, where that dark thing had been known to lurk. ¡°...I think I have a plan.¡± ~*~ Nikolay Kondrashin had three things he absolutely needed before he could close his eyes and sleep at the end of a long day. For one, he needed a clear mind. An empty task-sheet. That meant compartmentalizing his work: every day he gave himself a certain number of things to do, no more, and no less. Once he had determined what he needed to do in a day, and he completed that day¡¯s tasks, he was done. He trusted in his own capacity to follow-through that tomorrow¡¯s tasks didn¡¯t worry him in the slightest, and he always resisted the temptation to start on them early: after all, if you make a habit of working ahead of schedule, you may as well not bother having the schedule at all, and the anxiety sets in once again. The second thing he needed was the right sound. Most nights, that was a gentle thunderstorm hammering away at the roof of a cottage, but not every night. If he laid down and couldn¡¯t sleep within exactly 10 minutes, he knew that he needed to try one of three alternatives: windy blizzard, ocean waves, or songbirds. It was impossible to know which would work, and he needed to give each one thirty minutes before he could try another. Typically he got it either on the first or second guess, but some unlucky nights he would lose an hour or more to this. The third thing he needed was a fresh coat of warm milk in his throat. On a good night, that meant he would drink the milk, start the soundscape, close his eyes, and drift to sleep. But if it should take an unusual amount of time to fall asleep, he would need to get up once or even twice to re-coat the inside of his throat. One especially terrible night, it took four glasses of milk before he could fall asleep. The best thing he liked about his little routine is that it guarantees he¡¯d have no dreams. At least, as far as he could tell. It had been twenty years, by his estimation, since he last woke up from a nightmare with a start, or wondering about an experience he wasn¡¯t sure was real or not. He didn¡¯t really care for those flights of fancy: he wanted to close his eyes in one room, open them in the same room later, with nothing distracting in-between. It helped ground him and steady his mind. So you can imagine how upset he was when he closed his eyes looking at the eggshell white of his hotel room and listening to the pitter-patter of rain on wood, only to open them to the sight of a grinning stranger and Thin Lizzy¡¯s ¡°Killer on the Loose¡± blasting in his ears. He stood up, grabbing for the empty spot on his hip where his pistol would normally be. ¡°Where the fuck-¡± He looked around. Breathing hard. He knew this place. He knew this place well: the lightning, the thin veil of scented smoke, the pale dressed-up doll waitress who executed his enemies. This was the Silver Wheel. He did not recognize, however, the man sitting on the other end of the table. Or the dark-skinned woman who appeared to be the dealer. "Why am I stuck in a room with these apes?!" He hissed, as if allergic to diversity in any of its forms. ¡°Please try to calm down,¡± Teresa bowed her head patiently, ¡°they are people, not apes. I would normally apologize for the confusion but I suspect you are the one who needs to apologize." For a moment, he was too angry to be scared. But that moment passed when Teresa lifted her head, and he saw the same electric blue eyes he had watched eviscerate and torture so many of his enemies. Rich in color, but cold and dark as the void of space. She didn¡¯t smile as his stammering was silenced, and instead stood up to her full height. Nikolay cowered from beneath her shadow. ¡°Welcome to the Silver Wheel. Would you like a drink¡­ sir?¡± His breathing steadied. A drink offer. It was a drink. She only gave those to guests. He remembered the rules of the Silver Wheel, and he let out a breathy sigh, followed by a breathless laugh: he was a guest here. He was safe. He was safe. ¡°What the hell are you thinking?! Inviting me here?!¡± he cackled, his voice feeling especially slick thanks to that milk he drank earlier, ¡°You know who I am and I know what this place is. You know I¡¯ll never¡­!¡± ¡°Whoa. Whoa, motherfucker,¡± Ratna, the dealer, stole his attention, ¡°don¡¯t yell at the help. You wanna yell, direct it at the boss.¡± ¡°...what did you just call me?¡± ¡°Motherfucker,¡± Ratna leaned forward, ¡°Cuz you, uh, fuck your own mother.¡± Nikolay punched her in the face. Ratna fell to the ground. ¡°...yeah. Where¡¯s your fucking bouncer now, bitch?¡± he simmered, flashing his teeth. ¡°I would suggest that my dealer avoid antagonizing our guest any further, lest you lose your position here at the Silver Wheel.¡± Nikolay turned slowly to the man on the far end of the table. Well-dressed. Black as midnight. Pearly white smile. He looked like the other doll in the center of the table. There was a silver key dangling from his neck. He emphasized the word ¡®my¡¯. Did he own this place? ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± ¡°Eije. The owner of the Silver Wheel. Please have a seat.¡± Ratna crawled back to her seat, a scowl pushing against her swollen cheek. There was blood dripping down her chin. Nikolay, old and short as he was, knew how to throw a punch. Nikolay watched quietly as she returned to her seat, then did the same, all without breaking eye contact with the dealer. ¡°I didn¡¯t know this place had an owner. Teresa, is it true?¡± ¡°Yes, sir. It is true. This man is my employer.¡± ¡°...huh. I¡¯ve never heard of you before.¡± ¡°Well. Someone has to pay for the drinks.¡± There was a snort in the other room. Everyone ignored it. ¡°You want to play a game with me.¡± Nikolay continued. ¡°You¡¯re a sharp one.¡± ¡°It¡¯s obvious. The room is set up for a game. There¡¯s a fucking deck of cards in front of your whore of a dealer.¡± ¡°Then I suppose it¡¯s equally obvious why I want to play a game?¡± Nikolay glared at the other end of the table, folding his arms in front of his chest. But only for a second, before he grunted with frustration and let them rest on the table. ¡°You¡¯ve been sending people here to die, Mr. Kondrashin.¡± ¡°Yes. Why does that matter? You made the rules. I played by them.¡± ¡°Oh, I wasn¡¯t criticizing you. I was complimenting you for your outside-the-box thinking. We had hoped the death threat would deter any more interference from your reality, but you found a way to keep those pills useful. And you were able to get rid of your enemies without leaving any meaningful traces back to you. It was, without hyperbole, a stroke of genius.¡± Nikolay couldn¡¯t avoid feeling the smugness swelling up in his chest. But he tried to avoid showing it explicitly. ¡°...and?¡± ¡°And I think that kind of creativity is exactly what this place needs. We made the mistake of trying to preserve what the Silver Wheel was, when really, we need to adapt it for the times. Marie Walker opened Pandora¡¯s Box, so to speak. It¡¯s no good trying to shove those demons back under the lid.¡± ¡°What are you saying?¡± ¡°I want your help rebuilding the Silver Wheel.¡± Nikolay furrowed his brow. ¡°The original purpose of the Silver Wheel has become obsolete. There¡¯s no reason to cling to the old model. If people come here just to tip the hand of fate, why complicate matters with games of strategy and chance? That¡¯s where you¡¯d come in. You¡¯d think up an alternative model and be co-owner, if you¡¯d like. I can¡¯t think of anyone more qualified than you for the job, and trust me¡­ I¡¯ve been able to see a lot of candidates.¡± Nikolay was having a hard time controlling his heartbeat, or his breathing. His nostrils were flaring. A part of him didn¡¯t believe it, but another part absolutely did: after all, he was the most qualified person for the job. He knew it. The world should know it. ¡°That sounds good. I can do that easily. You won¡¯t be disappointed.¡± ¡°Excellent to hear. You are officially the co-owner of the Silver Wheel. I can¡¯t wait to get started!¡± ¡°...wait, really? Is that it?¡± ¡°Why yes, are you surprised? I nominated you and you accepted the nomination. That¡¯s all that needs to happen. The game we¡¯re going to play is just a fun way for us to get to know each other, since we¡¯ll be working together. I¡¯m a rather big fan of games, you know, that¡¯s why I set it up this way to begin with.¡± He leaned forward. ¡°...you¡­ will play, right? We won¡¯t have time for games like this soon.¡± ¡°Of course! Of course!¡± Nikolay beamed, ¡°But I would like to know more about what I¡¯ll be doing while I¡¯m here!¡± ¡°Oh, as co-owner? Oh, I promise it won¡¯t be too taxing,¡± Ehije leaned backwards, ¡°you¡¯ll come up with ideas, I¡¯ll say if I like them or not, and I¡¯ll implement the changes I approve. Oh, and if you have any new drink suggestions, I¡¯m all ears!¡± Nikolay¡¯s smile started to fade in brilliance, even if it technically never shrank. He found himself asking a familiar question. ¡°...is that it? What about firing the dealer who just insulted me like that?¡± ¡°Oh, gracious, you don''t need to worry about who gets hired or fired! Maybe I could arrange an opportunity for you to invite certain guests, though?. And I suppose if you wanted me to do the occasional favor for you in your world, well, I may be amenable to that..." Nikolay¡¯s fist tightened. Co-owner? This wasn¡¯t a co-owner position. That was a glorified assistant. It was a step down from his post in the Government, even if it was a more impressive office. Nikolay deserved better than that, didn¡¯t he? Wasn¡¯t he supposed to be the best of the best? He deserved better than this¡­ and sitting in front of him was the opportunity to take it for himself. Perhaps the only opportunity he¡¯d ever get. ¡°I see,¡± Nikolay¡¯s eye twitched, ¡°Say. Ehije, since you like games and gambling so much, why don¡¯t we make a little wager with this next game?¡± ¡°I confess I am a little weak for a good gamble.¡± ¡°How about¡­ you wager your half of the Silver Wheel. If I win, I become sole owner of the place.¡± Ehije smiled. ¡°I expected as much from a man as ambitious as you. In fact, I applaud it! This is exactly the kind of thing this place needs.¡± ¡°So do you accept?¡± ¡°Of course! And I won¡¯t even make you wager your half of the wheel,¡± Ehije nodded, ¡°but there still needs to be stakes, otherwise it¡¯s no fun!¡± ¡°I agree.¡± ¡°So here¡¯s what I want if I win: I want the pills Marie Walker gave you, and for you to never, ever, ever set foot into Nigeria.¡± Nikolay frowned. ¡°...that¡­ is an odd gamble.¡± ¡°Is it? I want the pills because I¡¯m curious how they work, and I think you¡¯re too cautious to give me the real pills if I asked. And as for Nigeria, well¡­¡± He gestured broadly. ¡°I think it¡¯s clear I¡¯m a fan of the arbitrary.¡± Nikolay half-smirked, as if he had already won something, and extended his hand. Ehije leaned forward and shook it once. ¡°Then let¡¯s play.¡± ¡°Finally.¡± Two piles of chips appeared in front of them: Nikolay¡¯s were a powdery, milky white, with streaks of orange that swirled in the center. Ehije¡¯s, however, were pure silver disks, which almost melted together as they sat beside him in three even stacks. ¡°If both parties agree, then tonight¡¯s game...¡± Ratna sighed, the faintest smile returning to her face. ¡°...will be Durak.¡± Round Five: Durak, Part 2 It¡¯s getting hard to tend to my regular obligations. My thoughts are¡­ preoccupied by Miss Nine, these days. Calling it an obsession is too generous -- it¡¯s more of a distraction, really, preventing me from dedicating the full scope of my mental faculties to Marie¡¯s own little obsession. I still believe in her mission and I am faithful to her vision, but I can¡¯t help but feel as if her thinking is too¡­ narrow? I can¡¯t quite think of the right word, but I can¡¯t think of a better one either. She¡¯s really transfixed on human values and ideals. While disregarding a multiverses¡¯s worth of perspectives and opinions. She¡¯s got a menagerie of interdimensional and intergalactic entities to choose from, and yet she refuses to investigate or even discuss any of them. It¡¯s a mindset I can¡¯t wrap my head around¡­ you¡¯d think she¡¯d be more interested in recording and documenting these beings, and yet, she trundles ahead blindly towards her own noble, yet terribly blind ambition. Miss Nine is making me reconsider my own blindness. The human eye is such an unfortunately limited thing. The range of light it can perceive is narrow to the point of uselessness, and the amount of that information processed by the brain, narrower still. I can¡¯t help but feel that humans have been held back by this narrow vision, both literally and figuratively. Miss Nine¡¯s eyes have been opened, both literally and figuratively, to things no other human could imagine. The typical wavelength of light humans can perceive sits at around 380 to 700 nanometers. Miss Nine¡¯s striking eyes, however, can see between .00001 nanometers to 1 meter. A baffling amount of information is absorbed by them, and her mind is somehow able to perceive and process it. I want to see the world as she sees it. I¡¯m going to use this eye I collected to create a lens that will allow me to see what she sees. ... Maybe she¡¯ll like me more if we have something in common¡­ ~*~ Durak, despite being ubiquitous with Russian history, did not enjoy a robust cataloging of its history. Thus, much of its past and origin are unknown. But what we do know is that it was invented in the 19th century and exploded in popularity with the peasant class. In some respects, it even grew to represent them, as the game continued to be popular well past the revolution and even thrived under Communism, spreading out to other Soviet Nations to take a prominent place around kitchen tables in Eastern and Central Europe. These days, it¡¯s less popular than many games that were imported from the west, but it still remains a pastime enjoyed by many. Durak, unlike most card games, is only played with a deck of 36 cards, with twos through fives of every suit being removed before the game begins. Each player is dealt six cards, and the top card on the deck (called the talon) is then flipped up, shown to the players, and placed under the deck at a 90 degree angle, so it remains visible under the other cards. That card determines the ¡°trump suit¡±. The player with the lowest-value ¡°trump suit¡± card in their hand starts as the ¡°attacker¡±, while the player to his left -- or, in the case of two-man Durak, the other player -- is the ¡°defender¡±. The attacker then chooses one of his cards and puts it on the table. The defender then has two choices: they can either ¡°defend¡± the attack by playing either a higher-ranking card of the same suit (so a ten of diamonds would ¡®block¡¯ a seven of diamonds), or any card of the ¡°trump suit¡± (so a six of clubs would ¡®block¡¯ a seven of diamonds, if the club was the trump suit). Once blocked, the attacker can choose to attack again, but only with a card that has the same value as one of the cards on the table -- the defender is under no such restriction. If the defender passes, or is unable to defend from an attack, they lose the round and must take all the cards on the table and add them to their hand. If the defender succeeds, all the cards on the table are discarded. At the end of the round, any player with fewer than six cards draws from the deck until they have a full hand. Once the deck is exhausted (including the card at the very bottom that determines the trump suit), it is not refreshed, and players no longer draw cards. The winner is the first player to get rid of all the cards in their hand. ¡°Of course, Durak might have plenty of strategy, but this is a gambling house. So we¡¯ve gotta find something for these chips to do. So in this game, if you¡¯re defending and you¡¯re unable to beat your attacker, you lose a number of chips equal to the value of the attacking card. If you can¡¯t beat a six, you lose six chips. A King, ten. And since all Aces are high, that would be eleven. Other than that, we play the same. You win if you get all your opponent¡¯s chips or get rid of all your cards. Oh, and all the standard Silver Wheel rules apply: no cheating, winner takes all, leaving means you lose, yada yada. Questions?¡± A song neither man recognized (it was ¡°Saturday Night¡± by Leyton Buzzards) was nibbling at the corner of their ears. But the game choice did bring a smile to Nikolay¡¯s face: this was his grandfather¡¯s favorite game. He spent many hours in his childhood playing this with the old man. They were fond memories. If he had remembered the game existed he might even still play it in the waking world, but the details of those old memories seem to slip away faster and easier with every passing day. But the stakes were too high for him to get lost in happy memories. He had to win. Durak was roughly split into two stages, both of equal importance. The first phase was when there were still cards in the deck, and winning was functionally (although not technically) impossible, since you¡¯d end each round with at least six cards in your hand. You had three goals during this phase: to keep the number of cards in your hand at a minimum, to ensure the cards you do keep are good -- cards of the trump suit, or high-value cards that the other player wouldn¡¯t be able to easily beat -- and to keep track of who has what card and what¡¯s been removed from play. The second phase, called the ¡®endgame¡¯, occurred when the deck was exhausted, and the players are focused on emptying their hands as quickly as possible. Both phases are far easier when you have at least three players in the game, since there are rules that give you more opportunities to get rid of bad cards, but it wouldn¡¯t be impossible in a head-to-head match like this¡­ if you played smart, knew which fights to take, and which to avoid. ¡°Teresa, get me a strawberry schnapps, won¡¯t you?¡± Ehije ordered while Ratna shuffled the cards, ¡°Would you like something?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a Moscow Mule.¡± ¡°You heard the man.¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± she bowed to her boss, and walked out the door. Ratna had started dealing their cards. ¡°Lovely woman. Well. Not a ¡®woman¡¯, exactly. But she''s a convincing fake, isn''t she?" Nikolay¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°...I saw the video where she got shot,¡± Nikolay leaned forward, picking up his hand but not checking the cards yet, ¡°and I want to know what the hell she is.¡± ¡°Win this game, and you¡¯ll learn a lot more than just that.¡± ¡°...I also want to dissect her.¡± ¡°Of course. It can be arranged later.¡± The final top card, unarguably the most important card in the game, was flipped and tucked under the deck for both men to see: the Ace of clubs. ¡°Clubs trump.¡± Ratna announced, ¡°Alright boys, who¡¯s attacking first?¡± Nikolay finally looked at his hand: he had a nine of spades, a ten of hearts, a seven and King of diamonds, and an eight and Jack of clubs. Two cards with trump suits. Could be better, could be worse. His opponent was looking at the cards too. Looking rather¡­ comfortable. ¡°My lowest trump card is a Queen,¡± Ehije flashed the card to both the dealer and his opponent. A good card. A very good card. Nikolay, a man very comfortable with letting his inner demons claw up his stomach until he could find the perfect time to unleash them, took the news with a smile. ¡°Eight. It seems I attack first,¡± Nikolay showed his card, and turned his attention to the empty table in front of him. The battlefield where he would determine if he was destined to become a god amongst men¡­ or merely god¡¯s secretary. At the very least, his opening move wasn¡¯t challenging: he wanted to avoid using his trump cards and high-value cards for as long as possible. And that seven wasn¡¯t looking too appealing right now. Nikolay placed the seven of diamonds onto the table. Ehije laughed, taking the card, adding it to his hand, and throwing seven chips in Nikolay¡¯s direction. ¡°And first blood is drawn. A bad start for me.¡± Ratna dealt Nikolay another card: the eight of spades. Not what he would have liked. Despite drawing ¡°first blood¡±, Nikolay knew his hand, right now, wasn¡¯t a winning one. But it was still too early to call it a losing one, either. He smiled anyway, keeping his eyes aggressively glued to his cards. Ehije hummed, hovering his fingers over his cards. ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­ let¡¯s attack with¡­¡± He threw down a seven of spades. Nikolay could defend from it, so without a word he put down a nine of spades to block. ¡°I¡¯ll have to try harder, I guess.¡± Ehije chuckled, putting down a seven of diamonds as a second attack. Now Nikolay had to think: he could block this attack with his king of diamonds. But if there were no more attacks (which seemed likely) he would lose it, which would be a net win for Ehije: he would have gotten rid of two bad cards and one of Nikolay¡¯s good cards, and reset their hands back to an even six But if he didn¡¯t block¡­ the chips would be equalized and he¡¯d be up one card. He¡¯d be stuck with some bad cards, but that didn¡¯t have to be a bad thing¡­ if he played smart. ¡°I¡¯m not defending,¡± Nikolay sighed, throwing seven chips right back to Ehije while begrudgingly grabbing the three other cards on the table. The chips were even, and he had more cards than he wanted. Not a great start. ¡°Ah, a pity.¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± ¡°Not to pry, Nikolay, but it does not seem like you¡¯re having much fun.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°I know this is an important game for you, but you should be smiling! A game can be friendly and important at the same time!" ¡°...I can tell you''re being patronizing. You don''t respect me at all." "Nonsense! I wouldn''t make you co-owner if I didn''t respect you!" "You''re not treating me like one! Treating me like a glorified suggestion box, and letting your dealer say the most disrespectful shit to me-" ¡°-Well, it''s true, isn''t it?" ¡°Excuse me?" ¡°You... fuck your mother?" "What kind of disgusting wart of a human being do you think I am?! What the hell makes you believe that''s true?!" Ehije simply shrugged, his smile unflappable. ¡°...you won''t be smiling when I have that key,¡± Nikolay sat back down, those demons really starting to chew up his insides. The obvious choice would be to attack with the seven of spades. But he was already holding the eight and nine of spades, so it was unlikely his opponent would defend with a ten of spades or above. He needed to make the most of each turn, and that meant trying to milk each chance to lose as many cards as possible. So he dropped his seven of diamonds first. Thankfully, Ehije blocked it with an eight. And now, now he was ready to play the seven of spades. Ehije didn¡¯t block, as Nikolay predicted: which meant he won the round. He didn¡¯t get to draw a new card, but that was fine. He still had a fairly good lead. And more chips than his opponent, to boot. Well, it wasn¡¯t much of a lead. At the moment, they were just going back and forth. Trading blows. It was still too early to make any calls, and it was Ehije¡¯s turn to strike. Ehije puckered his lips, and he played his newly-won seven of spades. Nikolay blocked it with a nine of spades. Ehije then played a nine of diamonds. Nikolay could have blocked it with his king, but that would be an enormous waste: and again, they found themselves switching cards and chips. This was going to be a long game, at this rate. But Nikolay wasn¡¯t worried. Ehije was making his turns quickly and easily. Barely glancing at his cards before deciding what he should attack with, or if he should defend. It could be he was a genius at the game, but based on how they¡¯ve played so far¡­ ...it was more likely he had no idea what he was doing. ~*~ ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be watching the game?¡± ¡°Losing my Religion¡±, the billboard-topping wonder from R.E.M, was playing louder than usual in the bar. Ture was leaning forward, bobbing his head while keeping his eyes locked onto Teresa, who was standing nearly motionless in front of him. She considered his question, then answered after a moment. ¡°Ratna is there. It does not need two witnesses.¡± ¡°...you¡¯re nervous, aren¡¯t you?¡± She didn¡¯t say anything. Ture shook his head. ¡°Come on. You said you didn¡¯t want to be numb anymore, right? Be honest.¡± ¡°Yes, it is true. I am anxious. The stakes of this game are very high.¡± ¡°For us. Not for our champion,¡± Ture reminded her, holding out a freshly-poured glass of white wine, which she took readily. ¡°Feels weird, doesn¡¯t it? Risking our everything on an uninvested stranger for a few pills.¡± ¡°It is important that they are uninvested in our fate, Ture. I cannot imagine what someone else could give that would equal the Silver Wheel in worth, from my perspective.¡± ¡°...I never really got the impression you liked this place, honestly.¡± She finished her glass, and handed it back. ¡°How much I like the Silver Wheel and how much I care for it are unrelated.¡± ¡°Amen to that.¡± She finally seemed to make up her mind, and took a seat at the bar. He poured her another glass. She drank it quickly but joylessly. As if it were an obligation, rather than a comfort. ¡°...how¡¯d you get the boss to give you that key, anyway?¡± ¡°I did not. It was always mine. I inherited it from my progenitor when I took over waitressing duties.¡± ¡°...do they, uh¡­ know you¡¯re gambling it?¡± ¡°I did not see it necessary to communicate that point.¡± She paused for a moment, then preempted the next question. ¡°You may be surprised to learn that the boss does not generally hold much interest in the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°I¡¯d be surprised to learn anything about the ¡®boss¡¯, boss.¡± ¡°I suppose I have not been very forthcoming with many aspects of the Silver Wheel¡¯s operation.¡± ¡°Wasn¡¯t ever important until now.¡± ¡°Please pour me another glass of wine.¡± ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t want to be numb,¡± he teased while he poured. ¡°Yes, but only as a necessity of diagnosing my issues. I am fully aware and at peace with my anxieties on this matter.¡± ¡°Gambling the Wheel?¡± ¡°Talking about the boss.¡± He slid the glass forward, and she clasped it once again in her thin, silky fingers. He hadn¡¯t quite realized how perfect her fingers were until now, watching them snap into place around the glass and hold it steady while still looking genuinely untouchable: like there was a cushion of air between her skin and everything else. Like she had never touched anything in her entire time alive. Like she merely gestured and the glass, out of sheer politeness, started floating up to her lips. He tried to remember if there was ever a time he held her hand, or touched her body¡­ but his memory was drawing a blank. He felt the sudden, intense desire to grab her at that moment. She placed the glass back down, and folded her hands in front of her. ¡°In truth, Ture, there are many things I do not know. But unlike humans, it seems I am not coded with any particular desire to learn more than I need. So I could not tell you why the Silver Wheel was made, who made it, or how long it has existed in its current or any other form. It is not that those facts are a secret to me, it is that I never found cause to learn them.¡± She accepted the refilled glass, but did not drink from it. ¡°Regardless of this, I do know this much: the boss runs many establishments like the Silver Wheel. It is his intention to use it as a testing ground. Not for visitors, but for employees like yourself and Ratna. My job, as you are likely aware, is to judge. Those deemed unworthy or unsuitable are generally kept in these establishments until they willingly terminate their own existence, or they become worthy.¡± ¡°And you take the people you approve of back to your boss, right?¡± ¡°Yes. Back home.¡± ¡°...and then what?¡± ¡°I do not know.¡± ¡°What qualities are they looking for, exactly?¡± She shook her head. ¡°I am not able to tell you the exact criteria. But Juan came to us as a desperate killer. When he passed away, he was almost worthy. You may make whatever assumptions you wish with that information.¡± She took another drink. ¡°Regardless of this. I do not think the boss will be especially perturbed to lose one of his establishments in theory. The people who often become employees are volatile. Coups, or something similar to them, have been known to break out among employees, leaving their establishments adrift. In practice, however, this would be the first time anyone from the outside has staged a hostile takeover. This might incite curiosity, or perhaps rage, from the boss. It will depend, I suppose, on what the boss¡¯s boss thinks on the matter.¡± ¡°Everyone¡¯s got a boss, huh?¡± ¡°Yes. But maybe it is disingenuous to call them a boss. It is an adequate description of their purpose, but not a perfect one,¡± she paused to take a drink, maybe a bit longer than necessary, and when she was done she continued. ¡°If I were to try to describe them more accurately, I would call them shepherds of motion.¡± ¡°...that¡¯s¡­ weird.¡± ¡°I suppose I could also call them ''stirrers'', if you would prefer a more mundane description. They oversee the flow of the essential forces of reality. They do not claim authority over it, merely responsibility in ensuring the laws are followed and destinations are reached. They are, at once, a manifestation of indelible laws, and a necessary negotiation for a reality that does not deal well in absolute absolutes.¡± ¡°...you¡¯re losing me,¡± Ture sighed, ¡°there¡¯s no idiot-proof way of explaining this, is there?¡± ¡°Not in your language, no. I suppose all that matters for you is knowing that they would not need to exist if the universe was a perfectly oiled machine that operated on flawless, predictable logic. But as long as unpredictable variables in reality exist -- from the motion of atoms to the decisions of kings -- their existence is a necessity.¡± ¡°You sure have a roundabout and shockingly relaxed way of saying ¡®free will exists¡¯.¡± She looked up from her drink. Almost surprised. ¡°Is that a controversial statement?¡± ¡°It¡¯s contentious. Or at least, it was when I was alive.¡± ¡°It must be a great comfort for some people to believe they are victims of destiny or biology.¡± ¡°I, uh, don¡¯t think that¡¯s the thrust of their argument, but you¡¯re not wrong.¡± ¡°Maybe, at some later point , I would like to discuss the issue further. But not now, Ture. Now, I think I should like another drink.¡± ¡°Going pretty heavy today, aren¡¯t we?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she replied, watching him fill up the glass, ¡°because we¡¯re losing.¡± ~*~ Nikolay was winning. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. There were still plenty of cards in the deck: fifteen, by his count, meaning they had gone through just over half. But his lead now was convincing: just by knowing when to take a hit and when to defend, he had a six-chip lead and a hand that consisted of a King and Queen of spades, a King of diamonds, a Jack and Ace of hearts, and a Jack of clubs: only one card of the trump suit, but all his other cards were winners of their own suit, and would be difficult to defend against. By comparison, Ehije had eight cards. Most of them were low value. And he only knew of one ¡°trump suit¡± card, the eight of clubs, which Nikolay had used in an earlier round to secure his current lead. That may have been a poor strategy if this were normal Durak, but this game was different: Nikolay realized he didn¡¯t need to wait for the deck to be empty to secure his win. All he needed were three indefensible attacks so he could empty out Ehije¡¯s chips and win the game that way. And with a hand like this, he had cards to spare. But Ehije looked as calm as ever. Almost like he was having fun. Not taking Nikolay seriously. How irritatingly familiar. ¡°Say,¡± Ehije cut into the music, ¡°would you care to learn why the Silver Wheel was first created?¡± ¡°I suspect it was because you were bored. It certainly couldn¡¯t have been for money or power.¡± Nikolay smirked. ¡°Well, it certainly does liven things up! But no, that¡¯s not it. I¡¯m not actually the person who created the Wheel, myself, but I was told its purpose was to¡­ stir the pot, or somesuch?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t get it.¡± ¡°The world works on consistent and predictable rules. Every cause can be traced back to a source, which in turn was caused by something else. Even things that seem random were caused by measurable, detectable phenomena. Humans, of course, are no exception. And if you existed in isolation, everything about humanity would be¡­ pre-written, I suppose. You could map out and predict everything every human would ever do, until you wipe yourselves out.¡± Ehije put a finger to his lips. ¡°Oh, sorry. I guess that was a spoiler.¡± ¡°Not much of one.¡± ¡°But the Silver Wheel is an element of randomness that helps keep things from being truly preordained,¡± he continued, eyes flickering down to the cards Nikolay was holding: it was his turn to attack, after all, ¡°It never did much -- just occasionally shuffle who has what -- but even those small changes could lead to some seriously unexpected results. Including those pills you used to get here.¡± Nikolay almost always preferred having someone else do the heavy social thinking for him. But he wasn¡¯t beyond doing it himself when it was necessary, and the pieces he was putting together painted a very¡­ confusing picture. ¡°If that¡¯s true, how come you¡¯re asking me to change how it works? You know I would just make it predictable again.¡± ¡°Just because I inherited the Wheel doesn¡¯t mean I agree with the vision of the person who did. I, for one, never saw much value in unpredictability. Surely it would be better to always know what¡¯s going to happen, wouldn¡¯t it? Humanity doesn¡¯t do so good with chaos: every unpredictable element and every deviation from the norm creates friction in the world. Why, if we all looked and acted the same way, we¡¯d hardly have any problems at all, would we?¡± ¡°It¡¯s so refreshing to hear someone say that, Ehije. I¡¯ve always felt that uneven cogs that can¡¯t fit neatly into the machine of society either need to be re-fitted or discarded. Civilization slows to a crawl while waiting for the worthless and the irregular to ¡®catch up¡¯.¡± ¡°Exactly! Which is why the Silver Wheel of the future should have no surprises. It should be run by someone who is efficient and predictable and focused on a singular goal, even if it is self-serving. At the risk of offending you, that¡¯s part of the reason I selected you for the task.¡± ¡°I promise I won¡¯t become a total monster when I win.¡± ¡°Oh, I look forward to finding out either way. Although¡­¡± Ehije paused, glancing to the side. New glasses were placed in front of them by Teresa, who vanished soon after. ¡°...although I do worry about Marie Walker.¡± Nikolay shook his head. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°She is, after all, an element of chaos. It was fortunate enough she sent you the pills, of course, but she must have sent more pills to others, right? And as long as those pills are out there, well¡­ your position at the Silver Wheel won¡¯t ever really be secure, will it?¡± ¡°...yes. Yes, I- I suppose you¡¯re right. I wouldn¡¯t worry too much about it right now, though.¡± ¡°Oh? Do you know who has the other pills?¡± Ehije leaned forward, onyx eyes glittering. ¡°Just her and some faggot, Helmut Beisner. And I don¡¯t think he¡¯s even used his pills yet.¡± Ratna, for whatever reason, started chuckling. But what that hyena of a woman thought barely mattered to Nikolay. And she would matter even less when he was running this place. ¡°Just those two, you say?¡± Ehije leaned back, ¡°That¡¯s good to know, Nikolay. I suppose we should keep playing, then? I think you¡¯re in the middle of trouncing me.¡± Nikolay grinned: Ehije had no idea how true that statement was. He had a suite of cards that Ehije could only really block with a card of the trump suit. Nikolay knew for sure he had at least one, the eight of clubs he gave up earlier, but Nikolay also had a Jack of clubs: considering the Ace of clubs was at the bottom of the deck, the odds that Ehije had the King or the Queen were low. The odds of him having both? Almost impossible. Even if he did catch on and realize that Nikolay was going for a brute-force chip victory, he¡¯d have no real way to stop it. So Nikolay attacked by dropping his Queen of spades. ¡°See what I mean? I can¡¯t keep up. I pass.¡± A good start. The card switched hands, which meant Ehije had a high-ranking spade¡­ but that¡¯s why Nikolay played it first and kept the King in his hand. King beat Queen. Every time. Ten chips were passed over to Nikolay. Ehije had less than half left, with 14 on his side of table. He remained oblivious. But Nikolay¡¯s good fortune only grew when the card he drew to replace it was the Ten of clubs. Which practically assured his victory. ¡°Oof. Got me in a corner, huh?¡± Ehije hummed, ¡°alright, looks like I gotta start playing like I mean it.¡± He put the eight of spades on the table. Nikolay replied by defending with the King of spades. An unfortunate loss, but a necessary one. ¡°Sorry, but not this time.¡± Nikolay quipped. ¡°My turn¡¯s not over yet.¡± Ehije quipped right back, dropping the eight of hearts. Nikolay blocked with his Jack. ¡°And now?¡± ¡°...alright, now I¡¯m done.¡± Ehije threw up his hands in defeat, and the cards were thrown into the discard pile. Nikolay drew two new cards, and his heart nearly stopped: it was the Jack and Queen of diamonds. He had the King, Queen, and Jack of diamonds, all in his hand! Almost indefensible. He¡¯d start with that, use his club on the off-chance Ehije had the Ace of diamonds in his hand, and once he won the round he¡¯d be one turn away from claiming ultimate victory. He put down the Jack of diamonds. Ehije double-checked his hand. He looked¡­ a bit nervous. ¡°Uh, Ratna, you said they had to be the same suit, right?¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± ¡°Fuck. Okay, fine. You win.¡± The Jack was handed over. So were ten chips. Ehije was four chips away from losing entirely, and the card that Nikolay drew next? The Queen of hearts. The fact he was drawing so many face cards wasn¡¯t just a sign of good fortune -- it was a sign that Ehije¡¯s hand was likely full of lower-valued cards. Dragging him out of the game. Nikolay was on the edge of his seat. He was so close to winning he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. He was salivating. His chest was pounding and heaving, despite his efforts to ignore it. Once Ehije finished his stupid turn this farce of a game would end and he could really get to work. He just needed to defend. ¡°Here¡¯s a fun question for you, Nikolay. Do you believe in fate?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Do you think you were destined for something?¡± Ehije attacked with the eight of diamonds. Thank god he didn¡¯t use a spade: Nikolay didn¡¯t actually have any of those in his hand. He did have the Queen and King of diamonds, though, and he quickly put down the former. ¡°Not¡­ much of a question, is it? You already said people are predictable due to biological and sociological factors.¡± ¡°Oh, that is true. But do you think,¡± Ehije attacked with the eight of clubs -- the clubs being the trump suit, making this an aggressive attack, ¡°that the right people are placed in the right spot at the right time?¡± ¡°That would imply a plan. I can¡¯t quite stomach that idea.¡± Nikolay begrudgingly blocked with the ten of clubs. A big loss, but a necessary one. ¡°Hmmm. Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things. But maybe fate doesn¡¯t work like that. Maybe fate is a thing that operates moment by moment.¡± He leaned back, folding his hand in front of him. Ending his attack. ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡± Nikolay half-muttered while the four cards were discarded, and his two replacement cards were drawn -- a nine of clubs and a Jack of spades. The banter didn¡¯t matter now. He was about to win. ¡°I think you¡¯ll understand in just a second.¡± ¡°Mhm. I¡¯m sure.¡± Nikolay could play any card and win, as long as it wasn¡¯t defended against. But he started with his Jack of spades: that could only be blocked with a Queen, King, or Ace: all cards he could attack with again. Ehije blocked with a Queen of spades. Annoying. Not catastrophic. Nikolay put down the Queen of hearts to attack again. Ehije blocked with his own queen: the Queen of clubs. So he did have a card that could beat Nikolay¡¯s Jack of clubs. That¡¯s fine, though: because with the queen spent, he could attack with that very Jack. He slapped it down on the field, his breathing growing uneven as he stared at Ehije¡¯s increasingly dwindling hand, and the four chips that stood between him and his well-deserved victory. The tension was grappling his throat -- the only way he could possibly lose was if Ehije just happened to have¡­. Without a word, Ehije put down the King of clubs. ¡°What is wrong with you!?¡± Nikolay whispered, his already thin patience being torn to pieces by the demons in his stomach, ¡°Just lose already!¡± He put down his King of Diamonds. There was no way Ehije would have both the King of clubs and the Ace of diamonds, was there? Ehije pulled one card up from his hand. Teasing Nikolay for a moment as he stared in utter disbelief, before gingerly placing the Ace of diamonds on the table, next to the King. ¡°No, no, no, you¡¯ve got to be shitting me!¡± He had two cards left: the Ace of hearts and the nine of clubs. There were no nines on the field so he couldn¡¯t attack with that, but he could throw down the Ace! ¡°Wow. Five attacks. You really want this, huh?¡± ¡°Shut up and block it if you can!¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry.¡± Ehije laughed, putting a six of clubs, the trump suit, in front of the Ace. ¡°I intend to.¡± The demons that were tearing through Nikolay¡¯s stomach were a demanding, bloodthirsty lot. If they are promised satisfaction, and denied it, they vent their frustrations on Nikolay¡¯s insides. The tearing, bloody rage he was feeling tore through his nerves, reaching the tip of every limb and the lining of every bone. Active, demanding, constricting rage. Not only because his attack failed and this fucking game wasn¡¯t over, but because in the process of being wrong he also equalized the playing field: he spent all his good cards, and now they¡¯d each draw back to a full hand of six. His lead was almost completely gone. And now that his turn was over, those four fucking chips were still taunting him at the other end of the table. Glistening their unholy silver, throttling his eyes and refusing to be ignored. Nikolay could feel their claws in his throat now. Burning his flesh and boiling his blood. The demons were taking their toll. ¡°Whew. That was a close one.¡± Ehije laughed as the cards, all the cards Nikolay was sure were going to win him the game, were thrown into the discard pile. Ratna dealt new cards, starting by dealing Nikolay two in a row, since he had one less card. Each one was sent to either side of the table, one after the other, as the deck continued to dwindle¡­ until vanishing entirely, and the last card, the winning card, the Ace of Clubs, was handed over to Ehije. Each man had six cards in their hand. And nothing left to replace them. They were in the endgame. ...but there was something Nikolay didn¡¯t like. The way they dealt the cards was¡­ unusual. Typically even if your hand had fewer cards than your opponent¡¯s, you still alternate dealing cards until one hand is full. The only reason they would do it any other way¡­ ¡°...wait. Wait!¡± Nikolay shouted, standing up, ¡°You dealt me two in a row! But if you dealt normally, then I would-¡± ¡°-what, have the Ace of clubs?¡± Ehije¡¯s smile, once gentle and almost fatherly, twisted in an instant. A spider baring its fangs. ¡°It sure seems that way." Nikolay¡¯s throat was suddenly filled with writhing, angry claws. ¡°...what did you-¡± ¡°-That¡¯s why my dealer dealt this way. If you have an issue with that, why not cry to your mother about it?" The demons were snaking up his arms now. Teasing his nerves and muscles into making fists. He could almost feel his bones popping in his jaw. ¡°God, you look so pathetic. Did you actually think I¡¯d let you beat me? Did you actually think this game was fair?¡± Ehije stood up, walking along the table until he was standing over Nikolay, looking down his nose. ¡°It was never fair. And it never will be fair. I make the rules around here, and you? You''re just a sad, pencil-cocked nothing who''s only legacy is a pile of rotten, incestuous fetuses at the bottom of a dead surgeons waste-bin." Nikolay was barely listening. Each word was just throwing another match into a forest fire. His rage was already consuming and complete. His demons, his limbs, his soul demanded satisfaction, and he could feel the tension winding up in his shoulder, his forearm, his fist. Ehije was already within striking range. He could be put in his place, on the floor, in a split second. But while there were no words that could penetrate the intense inferno burning in the pit of his stomach, a pair of sharp, blue eyes could. And he turned, ever so slightly, to meet those frigid blue pits with his own hateful glare. Neither one could melt or warm the other. A perfect stalemate of completely opposite emotions. ...wait, no. They weren¡¯t completely opposite. They were similar. Just different temperatures. Teresa was staring at him with intention. With anticipation. No, that¡¯s not right either. Teresa was waiting for him. Nikolay stood up, reached out his hand¡­ and clapped it against Ehije¡¯s shoulders. Whatever Ehije was saying, he shut up. ¡°Sit back down and play, asshole.¡± ¡°Aw, scared? Wanna end this quickly so-¡± Nikolay smiled at him, a sight so alarming that Ehie shut up a second time. ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing, you fucking idiot.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not half as clever as you think you-¡± ¡°-shut up.¡± Nikolay¡¯s eyes widened, and he spoke with such a guttural rage it silenced the con-man a third and final time. He looked almost scared. ¡°I¡¯m not a fucking idiot, and I will wait until I¡¯ve won our game before I beat you to death with my bare hands.¡± ¡°You still think you can win?¡± Ehije seemed to find himself, although his voice was less taunting and more indignant. ¡°I know I can. Sit down and attack me with your fucking cards, prick.¡± Nikolay let go of Ehije¡¯s shoulder. Ehije took a step back, paused to stare at his opponent for a bit longer, then took his seat at the far end of the table. Both men picked up their cards. There was no denying it. Nikolay¡¯s hand was bad. Very bad. He had a seven and nine of hearts, a ten and Ace of spades, a ten of diamonds, and a nine of clubs. For a typical endgame of Durak, this was absolutely not what you wanted¡­ especially when you knew your opponent had the Ace of the winning suit. Nikolay had to bait it out of him. Otherwise, he really was fucked. Ehije, however, had control during an attack, and he started by dropping the six of hearts. Nikolay blocked with the nine of hearts, despite having a lower-value heart in his hand, the seven. Ehije retaliated with the nine of spades. Nikolay had to think over his next step. The ultimate goal of Durak, of course, is to empty your hand first: so in theory, if he defended until Ehije could play no more cards, they would both ¡®win¡¯. But in practice, that Ace of clubs changed everything. As long as he had it, he could block any attack, but it was far more useful as a definitive way to ¡®end¡¯ an attack: meaning he could always decide what hand was the last. He always knew he could win an attack. Nikolay, on the other hand, had no such insurance. So the smaller hand would be far more useful for Ehije than it would for Nikolay, assuming he were able to keep that ace in his sleeve. In a normal game of Durak, it would be to Nikolay¡¯s advantage to actually lose this attack, get the extra cards, and use them for future attacks. But this was not a normal game of Durak. And after thinking it over for longer than he cared to admit, Nikolay blocked with the ten of spades. Everything hinged on how well Nikolay could remember the previous plays. If he was right, then this plan would net him the win. But if he misremembered anything (since it¡¯s illegal to check the discard pile in Durak), it would be his downfall. Ehije continued his attack with a six of diamonds. He only had three cards left. One¡­ no¡­ two of them were the winning suit. One was definitely the ace, and the other one, Nikolay was almost certain, was the seven. Nikolay, taking a deep breath, blocked with the ten of diamonds. They each had three cards left. Nikolay was holding the Ace of spades, the seven of hearts, and the nine of clubs. ¡°Alright. I can¡¯t attack anymore.¡± He smiled. ¡°...your turn.¡± He was right to smile. His hand was probably amazing. If this were a normal game of Durak, he would probably win. But Nikolay had reason to smile too. Because if he was right¡­ ...he just actually won the game. ¡°My turn.¡± And he slapped down the nine of clubs. If this was a normal game of Durak, that would be a losing play. Because it would have been advantageous for Ehije to forfeit the round, collect the nine of clubs, and have all the remaining clubs in play in his hand. The rest of the game would play out like clockwork: Ehije would attack with the seven of clubs, the only other unaccounted club in the game (that had to be in Ehije¡¯s hand, since Nikolay never had it), which Nikolay would have to take, and then use the next round. That would then be blocked by the nine of clubs, meaning both cards would be discarded, leaving only the Ace of clubs in play, insuring Ehije¡¯s victory. But this was not a normal game of Durak. Because Ehijie only had four chips left. If he didn¡¯t defend this attack... he would lose. And the only thing he could defend with was the Ace of clubs. And with the Ace of clubs on the field¡­ He could attack again with the Ace of spades. There was only one card that could defend against that: the seven of clubs that Nikolay knew was in his hand. Which meant that Ehije had only one card left¡­ which had to be the Jack of diamonds, which Nikolay had used against Ehije earlier in the game. Which would offer no defense from the seven of hearts. The look on Ehije¡¯s face when he saw the seven on the field was¡­ indescribable. And proof that he had been right. ¡°Well, well, well¡­¡± Nikolay slowly rose to his feet, casting a broad shadow over the table, and the four remaining silver chips that remained on Ehije¡¯s side. ¡°...looks like I win.¡± But then that frozen look on Ehije¡¯s face¡­ melted away into a broad-faced laugh. Just like his earlier kindness had evaporated to reveal the spider from before. ¡°...heh. Did you really?¡± ¡°...what?¡± Ehije stood up, clasping the final card in his hand: defenders would win in the endgame of Durak, so if Nikolay had really made a miscalculation, then¡­ then¡­ ...was it possible he lost?! ¡°I hate to break it to you, Nikolay, but they chose me as champion for a reason,¡± Ehije chuckled, walking slowly around the table, dragging his face-down card against the edge. ¡°Just about anyone can get lucky in cards, but they chose me¡­ heh, well¡­ they chose me because I have tricks up my sleeve.¡± He stopped, a foot shy of Nikolay. ¡°Check it.¡± He flipped over the card. Nikolay looked down, fear clogging his throat as he saw¡­ ¡­wait, that¡¯s the Jack of diamonds. ...wait, Nikolay did win. He looked up to find his opponent missing, and the door to the bar swung wide open. That bastard Ehije was already halfway out the door to the void. ¡°You shithead!¡± Ehije turned around just long enough to flip Nikolay the bird before falling backwards into the void, only pursued by ¡°Demon Cleaner¡±, by Kyuss. Nikolay stared out at that darkness for a precious few seconds, before turning back to the table. Ratna was trying to smile. But Nikolay had gotten very good at spotting the fear that raked the corners of smiles. Ratna was terrified. She should be. ¡°...congratulations on your victory, sir.¡± Teresa bowed her head, ¡°It would appear that you are the new-¡± Nikolay pushed the waitress aside, storming up to the table where that cocky shit dealer was trying to make herself smaller, breaking eye contact and keeping her shoulders slouched. The bitch who had tried to rile him up earlier. The bitch who cheated to try to keep him from winning the victory he was owed. And the bitch who was about to feel a world of hurt. ¡°H-hey, I was just doing what my boss told me to do,¡± she lied as Nikolay loomed over her, raking in the chips and picking up the cards. Looking busy. ¡°You¡¯re my boss now, right? Ha, so, so now I¡¯ll do whatever-¡± Nikolay punched her across the face with his entire body. She toppled to the ground and he straddled her across the stomach, pinning her arms to the ground with one hand and beating her purple face into pudding with the other. He let his demons have their play by attacking her with a ruthless tempo, smashing her nose flat, her eyes shut, her cheeks blue, her lips twisted and cracked. It was amazing the kind of power he held over her. She couldn¡¯t even struggle against him. He only stopped when his own knuckles were bruised and a tooth was wedged in his middle finger. But he could have done it for as long as he wanted. He spat into the bloody, cavernous hole that used to be her mouth. ¡°Cuntface. Once I change the rules and get my dick back I''m stuffing that worthless mouth of yours." He stood up, licking blood and skin off his knuckles. Ratna wasn¡¯t moving. Teresa had been standing there, watching the whole time. Her fingers were curled tightly around her silver tray. ¡°So. I run this place, huh?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°That means we¡¯re gonna be making some changes around here.¡± ¡°Of course, sir.¡± ¡°Then let¡¯s get fucking started.¡± ~*~ Ehije woke up in a cold sweat. He had lost. The plan had been perfect. Make Nikolay forget violence had consequences by goading him into punching Ratna. Lure him in by flattering his ego. Frustrate him with a turnaround, drop the facade, and lure him into attacking with his infamous rage. He¡¯d forfeit by default, and given how he likely never left the pills out of his sight (given his paranoid nature), the only way the Silver Wheel could deliver the pills to Ehije without allowing him to step foot in Nigera would be some freak accident -- like a plane crash. Tresa was ¡°quite confident¡± they could kill him and take his pills in one fell swoop. How did it fail? What went wrong?! The game was obvious: Nikolay was just better at Durak than Ehije was, even with the dealer playing favorites. Nikolay was actually counting cards and paying attention while Ehije was setting up for the con. But how did he calm down enough to realize that it was a trick in the first place?! Ehije could see the violence boiling in his eyes, the tension in his muscles¡­ he was one wrong step from being grappled by that¡­ that thing they called Mr. Eight! Did he not push hard enough? Did he push too hard? Or was Nikolay, as the man had made so clear, just not a fucking idiot? Because he really seemed like a fucking idiot. He took a deep breath. He centered himself. He forced himself to focus on his expanding and deflating lungs until he saw his plain white ceiling, and not the millions of swirling questions and what-ifs that were swimming in his mind. And when he finally, truly, felt awake and present in the real world, he slowly sat up and stared out the window of the shitty apartment he called home. ¡°...I should have taken that fucking chip.¡± He got a glass of water. He stared hard out the window. It was just shy of noon. Smog had engulfed the city. Then, both because he was still tired and he wanted to make sure this wasn¡¯t some surreal dream, he went back to sleep. When he woke up next, the sun had set. He had to pee. And he realized this wasn¡¯t a dream.He really had lost. There was no way he could expect that knot in his stomach to have just come from some fake pictures and a story his brain had cooked up overnight. As he ate his breakfast, which today was just some toast and jam, he let his mind wander on a tight leash, so as to avoid slipping into depression, obsession, or regrets. Or at least, deeper into any one of those three than he already found himself. How could he not? He managed to use his wit and quick thinking to secure his place as the champion for a magical otherworld, passed up the chance to trade that title for an enormous sum of money, then immediately lost in his very first game because he¡­ well¡­ probably because he underestimated his opponent. Everything he was told suggested that Nikolay was easy to manipulate and ruled by his temper. Everything he saw reaffirmed that. Getting attacked was as sure a deal as he could have possibly hoped and yet he must have miscalculated somewhere along the way. That, or something he couldn¡¯t have accounted for sabotaged his efforts. Would he have done anything differently? He didn¡¯t know if he would have played the game differently: he wasn¡¯t sure he could actually count the cards the way Nikolay had. And he was still utterly convinced that it would be possible to be punched by Nikoaly, but he had no idea how he managed to pull back from full-on hulking at the last moment. ...Nikolay did look at Teresa for a little bit before he grabbed Ehije¡¯s shoulder. ...did¡­ she somehow cause it? He sighed, pulling back on the leash he tethered his mind to. It didn¡¯t matter. He couldn¡¯t go back in time and he definitely wasn¡¯t getting a second invitation to the Silver Wheel. It was over, he lost, and it was time to accept that. It would be hard to be a con artist if you could paralyze yourself over every failure or missed opportunity. ...now¡­ that was a thought. He put down his toast and jogged over to his computer, typing in a name. Helmut Beisner. There was a lot about this guy. A young artist, a modern-day Anish Kapoor known for almost exclusively producing work for the elite, the richest of the rich. His work was known to be extremely temporary and based largely on performance, although it retained too much artistic flair and interactivity to be truly called ¡°theatre¡±... but of course, this was all based on second-hand accounts and testimonials, which were intentionally vague to keep his work prestigious and thus, valuable. What little public art he did produce was known for being¡­ unnerving. The first example Ehije could find was switching the bones in the corpses of a married couple, and trying to morph the bodies to accommodate their new frames. He also famously used extremely precise surgeries and genetic engineering to manipulate animal fetuses into mimicking famous paintings. No one doubted he was a genius. More than a few doubted he was sane. He had his fair share of controversy as well. His wife and three children went missing for seven years, and he was accused of their murder. The case against him was apparently airtight, until his wife and children materialized out of nowhere and verified his many, many claims about how much they loved living with Grandma. He was caught with enormous quantities of drugs more than once, he was caught running a dog fighting ring, and there were upwards of sixteen sexual assault allegations against him -- including some from minors. But he hopped over justice with the ease only afforded to the affluent, and to this day continues to produce work for his patrons, which were many. ...interestingly, however, his only link to Marie Walker was the conspiracy theory that she provided alternate versions of his wife and children to cover up for his murders. But of course, that didn¡¯t matter. Ehije already knew they were linked. And he knew that Helmut had just finished his most recent presentation and needed a new venue, and a new patron, to demonstrate his next illustrious piece of art. That¡¯s right. There was no way that he was ever going to be invited to the Silver Wheel again, but Nikolay wasn¡¯t the only one who had a key to the place. Helmut Beisner had the same pills NIkolay had. He could come and go as he pleased. Ehije smiled venomously as he made a new email account. ¡°...I¡¯m not done yet, you son of a bitch,¡± He was going to pull the biggest con of his entire life. Round Six: Chicken Miss Nine has stopped trusting me. She used to come to me when I visited her. She would touch me, because I was the only one who would touch her. I was the sole source of warmth and companionship in her life. But that¡¯s changed now. She¡¯s avoiding me. She¡¯s hiding from me. She recoils from my hand when I try to touch her. I think she knows I lied to her. I think she knows a lot of things. Those eyes of hers see things. Maybe even everything. Not just the things on the spectrum of light, but things beyond that, into places I can¡¯t even imagine, and maybe even into our minds. What are thoughts if not chemical reactions, tiny bolts of lightning shooting through a web of nerves. If you could see that lightning, there¡¯s no reason you couldn¡¯t read it. I think she¡¯s reading me right now. All of her eyes are watching me through the camera in her room. I feel her watching me everywhere now. It¡¯s wonderful. No one else feels this way, though. No matter how many times I try to bring up the subject to my staff, they look at me as if I¡¯ve lost my mind. They look at her and they still just see an ugly monster. They haven¡¯t evolved enough to perceive what she is beyond the body she¡¯s stuck inside. Proof of their small minds. Proof that they shouldn¡¯t be here. No one is worth the money Marie is paying them if they can¡¯t see her value and significance and beauty. Not even Marie is worthy. If it weren¡¯t for her watching me all the time, I would feel terribly lonely, I¡¯m sure. But I need to earn her trust again. My fingers feel something like¡­ sadness when they touch the objects of this world. They¡¯re so plain now. Her texture was complex and challenging, but¡­ tables? Mugs? Pens? Flat and smooth and irritatingly dull. If I can¡¯t touch her again I think I might actually go insane. I can¡¯t promise her the cure she wanted out of me, but maybe I can make her understand her own beauty and perfection. Maybe if she understood her own art she would embrace her new body. But I can¡¯t do that. I¡¯m just not equipped to do that. Marie gave some pills to some artist. A man known for his twisted perspective. He would understand. He could help me. He has to help me. ~*~ ¡°Ture, it would appear our guests would like some brandy.¡± Ture was curled up on the floor. He reluctantly, and with considerable effort, stood up. ¡°Okay. Um. Brandy. Right. How old. What kind?¡± ¡°They did not specify.¡± ¡°...course they didn¡¯t. Why would they?¡± He looked down at his selection. There were three major types of brandy: grape, fruit, and of course pomace. Within those divisions, however, there were a considerable number of brands and options, from which he had a comprehensive selection to choose. Without any specific instructions he tended to default to grape; and while he did have Armagnac to spare, he instead usually served E & J Gallo. It was less¡­ complex. Perfect for the simple minds that so often frequented this place. But Nikolay didn¡¯t like E & J Gallo, or Armagnac, or Cyprus brandy, or Kizlyar brandy, which Ture was really sure would have been the ticket. And Nikolay straight-up refused to be more clear about the kind of brandy he liked beyond ¡°the good kind¡±. At least once Nikolay accused Ture of trying to poison him. That¡¯s where the bruises on his neck came from. He had resigned himself to trial and error. And today, his baggy eyes settled quite firmly on a bottle of Brandy de Jerez, a spanish drink frequently paired with sherry. It was a historic wine with low alcohol content and an intense aroma and flavor. It was also versatile; but while some people served it warm, at the Silver Wheel Ture kept it in the cooled rack. He liked it better chilled, and even on the rocks, although that was a bold way to serve it. But he always went all-in: frosted balloon glass, two heavy chunks of ice, to ensure that they would melt slowly and avoid unnecessarily diluting the drink. By his estimate, taking the room temperature of the gambling parlor into account, you could nurse that drink for a solid thirty minutes before it started to dilute, and by that point the effect would be so subtle that only the most refined tongues would notice. He withdrew two chilled glasses from the freezer and loaded them with ice. ¡°Hey. Teresa.¡± ¡°Yes, Ture?¡± ¡°Be straight with me. Why is my penis really gone?¡± ¡°...my progenitors discovered genitals were distracting for employees. So they made the decision to remove them for the duration of your service.¡± ¡°Really missing it now. I¡¯d like to pee in his glass.¡± ¡°You could always spit in it.¡± ¡°He¡¯d notice. He¡¯d notice anyway, I mean, but the thrashing wouldn¡¯t be worth it for just spit.¡± Teresa didn¡¯t reply. ¡°I mean, piss is¡­ it¡¯s ugly. You know? Ugly and gross. Spit is just insulting, but this guy is worth more than just spit.¡± Teresa didn¡¯t reply. He poured two equally sized glasses of Brandy de Jerez. The measurement was exact, 100 cl of brandy for each. It was important to have enough space to be able to safely swirl the drink, to help it air out and evenly distribute the chill of the ice. Plus, the pretentious act of swirling your drink was half the reason people drank brandy, Ture figured. May as well give them the full experience. The sound of rain was playing on the radio. ¡°Alright. Be right back. Hopefully.¡± He wasn¡¯t as confident with the tray as Teresa was. He needed both hands, and he needed to walk slowly, to avoid spilling the drinks, or even stirring them up unnecessarily. He had no idea how Teresa managed to deliver them so gracefully and smoothly, keeping the tray perfectly flat with one gyroscopic hand, the glasses and their contents undisturbed; and he regretted not admiring that talent more when he had the chance. He walked in just as Ratna was starting her explanation of the only game they ever played anymore. The man sitting opposite of Nikolay, another fat, flummoxed bureaucrat, barely reacted to Ture¡¯s approach. ¡°Basically, it¡¯s like normal Rock-Paper-Scissors. Paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper. But there¡¯s one small, tiny difference: you, the guest, have to announce what you¡¯re going to throw before the round begins. If you throw something different from what you announced at the start, you lose the round. You bet 10 chips every turn and when someone runs out of chips the game¡¯s over.¡± The fat, flummoxed bureaucrat shook his head. ¡°...that¡¯s unfair.¡± ¡°Life¡¯s unfair,¡± Nikolay responded, shooting Ture a weary glance as he placed the glasses on the table separating them. ¡°Just think yourself lucky you¡¯re able to walk away from here at all.¡± It was to Nikolay¡¯s great frustration that he learned he could no longer use the Royale pills to kill people: after all, now that he owned the Silver Wheel, being summoned by him either by pill or instruction was as good as an invitation, and it seemed the rules against him killing people who had an invitation were steadfast and non-negotiable: much like the rule that insisted a game must be involved in the proceedings. But there was still more than enough wiggle room for Nikolay to work within those boundaries. ¡°Well, then I refuse to play. If you really are Nikolay -- and I severely doubt you are -- then you¡¯d better understand that when I get out of here I¡¯ll be reporting this to-¡± ¡°Hey. Hey. Shh. Shhh.¡± Nikolay leaned forward. ¡°Shut up. Shut up. Think really carefully before you say no. I mean, sure. You can leave whenever you want. Can¡¯t make you play. But if I brought you here, think of who else I could bring. Your wife? Your parents? Your¡­ kids? You¡¯re lucky, you have something I want and I¡¯m willing to play for, so I have to be nice to you. But I don¡¯t have to be nice to them. And lemme tell you: there¡¯s no way you can protect them in their dreams. Hell, I can bring them here right now. You want me to bring them here right now?¡± All the man could do was stutter, indignant and terrified in equal measure. Nikolay leaned backwards again. ¡°Thought not. So. You want to leave?¡± ¡°N-no. I¡¯ll p-play¡­ I-I¡¯ll play, please, I promise.¡± ¡°Hey, so it¡¯s agreed. You¡¯ll wager your good reputation and your connections to the Saudi royal family, and I¡¯ll wager¡­ I dunno, my house and all my worldly possessions. Say ¡®yes, I agree¡¯.¡± ¡°Y-yes, I agree.¡± ¡°Then we can play.¡± Nikolay took a drink of his brandy. He almost immediately spat it out. ¡°What is this shit?¡± Ture sighed, taking a step forward. ¡°Brandy de Jerez.¡± ¡°The fuck is wrong with you!?¡± Nikolay tossed his glass into Ture¡¯s face, which crashed against his left cheek. ¡°Why is this so hard for you!? All you have to do is pour a fucking bottle into a glass and you manage to fuck it up!¡± Ture picked up the glass. ¡°Maybe if you told me what kind of brandy you drank-¡± ¡°-How many types of brandy are there?! Just pick the one that¡¯s least shit and give it to me! No-¡± he turned to his guest, who was pushing the glass away himself, ¡°-no, you drink what you¡¯re fucking given. Fucking pig.¡± The guest took a drink. ¡°Ture I swear on my mom¡¯s cold dead cunt that if you don¡¯t fucking learn what a good bottle of brandy is I¡¯ll find one myself, shove it up your ass, flip you on your head and drink out of your fucking nose.¡± ¡±Yeah, sure. You want anything else?¡± ¡°Just get out of my sight.¡± ¡°My favorite order.¡± He closed the door quietly behind him. Well, that would be another beating, at least. The beatings weren¡¯t so bad: sure, Nikolay knew what he was doing, knew how to make it hurt, but pain could be endured, soothed with alcohol, and was at least a change of pace. But it was never just beatings with Nikolay. He wanted Ture to know he always had control. And he wanted him to know that unlike Ratna and Teresa, Ture was utterly and completely replaceable. It¡¯s not like there weren¡¯t bartenders in the waking world. That was the stuff that scared him. When he looked down, saw the emptiness below him, the black under his feet, the memory of Juan¡¯s betrayed, terrified eyes, and felt Nikolay¡¯s thin, frail fingers curled loosely around his collar. Nikolay wanted Ture to know that there was a big void outside, and nothing except his thinning patience stood between the bartender and absolute oblivion. He sat down on the ground. It was the sturdiest thing he could find, and yet it still felt too thin a defense against the darkness that surrounded this place. ¡°You seem very tired, Ture.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been tired a while.¡± He reached into his pocket, to feel the balming golden chips that he had won selling Juan out. But of course, Nikolay had taken them. He just couldn¡¯t remember that unless he was pinching at the empty air. ¡°Is there some way I can help?¡± ¡°No, I¡­ um¡­ fuck it...did we ever hold hands?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°If we ever get out of this, I¡¯d like to hold your hand.¡± Teresa gently shifted her head to look down at him. Her lower jaw was completely missing, as were chunks of the left side of her face, including her eye: exposing the featureless dark that lurked beneath her frail facade. Her twisted limbs were nailed to the wall opposite the bar. And her naked, sexless body was cracked and shattered, chunks of her porcelain skin laying on the ground at her feet. ¡°Would that actually make you feel better?¡± She tilted her head slightly: what was left of her hair fell out of the way of her remaining blue eye, as piercing and cold as ever. ¡°Probably not.¡± She closed her eye. ¡°Do not worry, Ture. I will think of something.¡± He didn¡¯t want to admit it, but hearing her say that did make him feel better. If only a little. ~*~ As the saying goes: you have to spend money to make money. Or, in Ehije¡¯s case, you have to spend a lot of money to even get the chance. There was no way he could half-ass it, so he didn¡¯t bother. He raked together all the money he could find: he pulled out the substantial cash he got selling that car, he sold his holo-projector and his collection of forged documents to other scammers, called in a few favors, took out even more loans, and even cashed in the golden geese he¡¯d been nursing for a steady income (turns out, some people really liked being scammed by obvious catfish -- it was a sex thing). But it wasn¡¯t nearly enough to truly put him in the high echelons who usually solicited Helmut Beisner for his attention, so he needed something else to bridge the gap in capital: information. If he could illustrate he was one of the privileged few who was aware of Helmut¡¯s latest work, that would show he was, at least, connected enough to be worth paying attention to. He didn¡¯t bother reaching out to the people who had actually been invited to participate. Their desire to keep Helmut exclusively to themselves -- and their likely familiarity in dealing with curious press -- would make them too cautious to scam. Instead, he reached out to the forgotten foundation of all of Helmut¡¯s work: the support staff. He already knew the arena where his last ¡®gallery¡¯ was on display, so he reached out to current employees under a number of guises to determine what they saw. And what they ¡®saw¡¯ was a fat lot of nothing. As it turned out, he had his own staff who worked directly under him, and the normal staff were simply given paid vacations while he used their venues. Most of them loved the guy for that. ...but there was one group they couldn¡¯t hire externally. The firemen. Fire departments often require that venues submit an itinerary of events and plans so they could be checked for safety. And while they wouldn¡¯t get an exact play-by-play of the evening¡¯s events, they probably got a vague enough explanation that he could use it as a baseline to figure out the rest. And indeed, when he impersonated a marshall looking to review recent applications, that was exactly what he got. The venue was nearly full, but not entirely. The parking lot, however, would be full of limos and larger cars, each with their own chauffeurs. The lighting and electronics were¡­ shockingly mundane. ...but there were a lot of people who were supposed to be on stage at any given time. In fact, almost the exact same number of people in the audience were also supposed to be on stage. The difference between the two numbers was merely one, which was presumably the presenter himself. There was no way that was a coincidence. Knowing he worked with Marie Walker, the people on stage were probably alternate versions of the audience themselves. It was a specific enough guess to send a carefully-worded test email -- Ehije pretending to be one of the chauffeurs who, according to Facebook, was currently on vacation -- to one of the rich people in attendance to check if they could confirm his suspicion. She did confirm. In fact, she even clarified: the double of her the chauffeurs had seen wasn¡¯t a mere clone, but a version of herself without a soul. Disturbing. But everything that Ehije needed. Armed with that information and just enough money, he made the calls. He rented the Nigerian Cultural Center for a weekend. He hired his own limo with self-driving technology. He booked the International¡¯s VIP suite for the same duration. And after he found the right contact information (everything that was easy-to-find was just a ploy to throw the undeserving off his track), he reached out to Helmut Beisner as the owner of the Nigerian Cultural Center, asking him to fly over and discuss the possibility of presenting for ¡°Nigeria¡¯s growing cultural and artist elite¡±, showing that all his accommodations were already paid for. The two weeks it took to hear back from him were the longest in Ehije¡¯s life. He didn¡¯t agree to present, but he did agree to meet. Good enough. Dinner was booked. Suits were donned. And Ehije had to sit patiently in a restaurant he had to pretend he belonged in while he stared at the door. And he was fine with the wait, because he used those wasted minutes to fidget all the nervousness out of his system. Normally lying to people was second nature, and normally that was because he took the time to ensure he was only lying to stupid people. This was the first time he had to con someone who at least appeared smart. And the fact that he had to basically sell himself into poverty to make it happen certainly didn¡¯t help either. It was a lot to sacrifice, but he couldn¡¯t imagine a more worthwhile calling. Besides¡­ as long as he could lie without sweating, there was no door he couldn¡¯t talk himself through. It was late enough in the evening that the restaurant was starting to close when a pale man in a very casual sweater and jeans walked in. He looked normal. Too normal. Dirty blond hair, freckles, reasonably sized bags under his eyes. A wristwatch and a very simple gold necklace. Cheap sneakers. He looked the way a teenager imagined he would look when he reached his late thirties. ¡°Hey. Uh, sorry I¡¯m- wait, are you Khaled? You look like him but-¡± Ehije tried his best to look awed, and leapt to his feet. ¡°Ah, I have waited for this day for so long! Mr. Beisner -- may I shake your hand?!¡± ¡°Haha, right table I guess. Yeah sure go to town. You can even take some hair if you want. It¡¯ll, it¡¯ll grow back, I¡¯m told.¡± They shook hands. They both sat down. ¡°This place looks like it¡¯s gonna close soon. Did you eat? Are you hungry? Maybe we can go somewhere else so these people can, can go home.¡± ¡°They¡¯ll be fine, Mr. Beisner. It is what they¡¯re paid for, after all. Besides, they should be honored for the chance to serve you.¡± ¡°I, I doubt they know who I am.¡± Shockingly humble. Ehije already liked this guy. ¡°In that case, we shall have to make a point to tip them generously.¡± ¡°That¡¯s, that¡¯s a compromise I can deal with.¡± Some wine was poured. They each ordered something small. For Ehije, it was mostly a money saving effort. ¡°I was, I was a little surprised to get your email, Khaled. I didn¡¯t know¡­ your organization existed.¡± ¡°Did you see our website?¡± He made a website. He was more than a little proud of it. He was also every member of the board. ¡°Yeah, yeah, well¡­ I¡¯m interested, sure, I always like¡­ working for people who are real patrons of art, but I have to ask¡­ you¡­ you weren¡¯t part of my last exhibit. How did you know what happened there?¡± Of course he would know everyone at his last exhibit at least somewhat personally. He had to work with dopplegangers of everyone in attendance, and Ehije had a distinctly non-European look about him. In a crowd like that, he would have stuck out. But Ehije had figured this subject would come up. In fact, he was fairly certain that was the real reason Helmut was here: to suss out any holes in his veil of secrecy. ¡°Is it strange for a man in my position to be curious about these matters? I was not invited directly, unfortunately, but the topic came up among friends who did attend. Of course, they told me in the greatest of confidence.¡± ¡°Oh? Friends? Who?¡± ¡°Ah, if I told you, would they ever get another invitation?¡± ¡°Ha, I guess, I guess not.¡± ¡°You needn''t worry about it. They, like myself, understand your intention. Your work is¡­ well, this is a rather pedestrian term, but it¡¯s bold. It¡¯s challenging. And moreover, it always begs a question. And it¡¯s important to ensure everyone who witnesses it comes to the right answer, which requires a certain kind of client.¡± Helmut raised an eyebrow. ¡°Oh¡­ I think I disagree.¡± Uh oh. ¡°I wish I could be more public with my work. I, I really do. Yes, people would be offended, they would be mad not to be, but I think, I think that¡¯s exactly what people need. To be angry, to feel something. So much of what¡¯s killing our world, it comes, it comes from people not having a fire under them. The world ended too slowly and gently for people to, to actually care. And maybe if more people saw hey, I, I¡¯m rich and can get away with anything, and they saw what ¡®anything¡¯ was, maybe it would¡­ light a few fires. It¡¯s why I killed my wife and kids you know.¡± ¡°...excuse me?¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah. The news doesn¡¯t report it that way, of course, but it was just another show for me. Did the job, too. I escaped justice for seven years just because I¡¯m rich and have rich friends, and, and in that time, my mere existence was art, riveting people, offending them, making them, making them furious! It was perfect!¡± He sighed, leaning on his hand. ¡°But they were really scared I¡¯d wind up in jail. Or, or prove my point? So they got some duplicates. The new Olivia¡¯s nice. Same with the kids. Hate them though. We don¡¯t talk.¡± ¡°That is¡­ dedication.¡± Ehije swallowed. He really hoped he was reading this guy right. ¡°...and it¡¯s also deplorable,¡± he continued. And Helmut¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Ah, so you do get it!¡± Ehije relaxed. ¡°I¡¯m a bad person, Khaled, an, an awful person, actually. But there¡¯s a point to it? There exists a class of people who are privileged enough to actually be evil. They, they personify all the worst things in human nature, the things we try to hide behind TV screens and jail cells and, and we pretend, we pretend they can be stopped by heroes before things get too bad. But there aren¡¯t heroes. Or¡­ or rather, heroes work on a different scale, smaller. A hero gives his kidney to his brother. The villians make billions over-charging the medication that hero needs to live afterwards.¡± Soup was served. It was french garlic. Ehije hated french garlic, but drinking it enthusiastically helped him keep himself and his character different people. ¡°Being good in my position would be a waste of time. It wouldn¡¯t say anything. It would help a few people who were going to die in a few years anyway. But doing, doing bad things makes me immortal. It¡¯s won me a seat at the table. And while I¡¯ve had to compromise it, you know, keep it select and exclusive so my evil can¡¯t rile the sheep, I can still use it. It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a tool, a critique. I try to use my art to remind everyone around me, that they, and me, we¡¯re all rotten. We¡¯re all just¡­ just the worst. But there¡¯s no heaven or hell waiting for us, so if we don¡¯t have guilt to torment us, or justice to chase us¡­ we¡¯ve got nothing at all.¡± He took his first drink of the soup. He nodded. ¡°Hm. This is terrible. But anyway, I wanted, wanted to ask you something, Khaled. Are you a good, or a bad person?¡± Ehije knew he was bad with conviction. By conventional morality, at least, he was a terrible person. But his character, Khaled, wasn¡¯t so sure what he was. Khaled was a man who believed in art, and the humans who made it. Khaled was someone who was ambitious and was of means, but not such great means that achieving those ambitions was a foregone conclusion. Khaled was a man who struggled. Khaled was a man who was unsure. And Khaled was a man who would be disgusted at the idea of sharing a meal with a man who was a confessed child killer and a self-proclaimed villain. Ehije had to think for a couple of seconds. Maybe even half a minute, before Khaled could speak. ¡°...I think¡­ we see the world very differently, Mr. Beisner. I find it hard to disagree with some of your assessments, that the world has problems and that bad actors are responsible despite lacking responsibility. Your assessment of heroism is spot-on. And while it pains me to admit it, I think you may be right about goodness being a waste of time. It would certainly be a waste of your privilege: after all, anyone can be good, but so few can be evil without consequences.¡± Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°That¡¯s true, thank you.¡± ¡°...but art that¡¯s perfectly reflective of reality feels like a waste of art, at least to me. And I wouldn¡¯t dream of disagreeing with you -- you are the expert after all -- but there will never be a woman that can smile like the Mona Lisa. No one can sit like The Thinker. There¡¯s a place for art to be a commentary on reality, but a reflection¡­ how do I put this¡­ people already live in the real world. Art may not always provide an escape from it, but it should at least be able to transcend reality and show us something¡­ purer. And in that sense, the idea of a heaven and a hell is art in itself, since it¡¯s a distillation of¡­ our desires, I think, for a world of justice, where good and evil actually have meaning.¡± Ehije was feeling the pinch. This was not his area of expertise. And this was the first con he¡¯d ever had to do where he couldn¡¯t just pick a new target and try again. He only had one shot. ¡°I can see your reasoning, but, but you¡¯ve got one thing really wrong. People don¡¯t live in the real world. The real world is where, where we keep our stuff, but people live in their brains, which couldn¡¯t possibly be more divorced from reality.¡± Ehije couldn''t go deeper into this rabbit hole. The chance of saying something wrong was too high, and it didn¡¯t seem to do much to get him closer to his ultimate goal. ¡°A fantastic point. Maybe I¡¯ll start to understand what you mean if you agree to present for us and I see your art for myself?¡± ¡°Right. Business. Heh, I got so caught up, I could go on about this kind of stuff forever.¡± ¡°Maybe we can talk about it more at lunch tomorrow -- after we tour the Cultural Center. Are you¡­ interested in a tour?¡± ¡°While I¡¯m here¡­ why not?¡± The small talk that followed was brief and polite, but Ehije knew that he had accidentally played his hand incorrectly: Helmut, it seemed, had handlers, based on what he said regarding his murders and his desire to perform publicly. It was all well and good to find his real contact information, but he had been operating under the assumption that Helmut was more independent than he actually was¡­ something a man who had enough connections to have heard about the last show should have known. Helmut was probably on guard now. Ehije could try to devote time, energy, and resources into lowering his guard once again. But that was just a tempting distraction: his real goal wasn¡¯t to ingratiate himself into Helmut¡¯s inner circle, it was just to get his hands on one of those pills. All the lies and deceit up until this point were merely to get this chance to sit down with him. So maybe¡­ maybe it was time to pull out a classic in his playbook. The second course had been served. Each man was eating silently, drinking their wine, taking turns staring out the window. But when Ehije¡¯s plate was cleared and pushed aside, he decided to take the plunge. ¡°...may I make a stray observation, Mr. Beisner?¡± ¡°Yeah, sure. And you can just call me Helmut if you want.¡± ¡°Thank you. But as for the observation: I may not know you as well as I¡¯d like. But from what I know of you, I¡¯m surprised you¡¯d work so closely with Marie Walker.¡± Helmut didn¡¯t react to the comment in any visible way. He just nodded, and forked another bite of white fish into his mouth. But for such an eager conversationalist to pause and actually think was telling enough. Maybe it was the first time Ehije managed to challenge him this entire meeting, which was either very good or very bad. He finished chewing. He swallowed with some wine. ¡°You mean from the murder trial? And the Fate of Beauty?¡± Helmut pushed. Make or break time, Ehije. ¡°...that¡­ and¡­ beyond.¡± ¡°...you sure, sure seem to know a lot about me, for a nobody in Nigeria.¡± ¡°Maybe I¡¯m not as much of a nobody as you may think.¡± ¡°Okay, Khaled. I was happy just getting a free dinner and trip to Africa out of your invitation, but now you¡¯ve actually got my attention, which, which might not be a great thing for you. I don¡¯t really want to cause any trouble for anyone, but, but if you start going down this path there just might be trouble.¡± ¡°Trouble is the last thing I want, Mr. Beisner, it was just a stray observation.¡± ¡°No, no, you don¡¯t make those. Look, I¡¯ve met a lot of people in the art world, you know, and they¡¯ve all got this¡­ what would you call it, dough-ness to them. They¡¯re soft. Their eyes are soft and dull and flat. They like art, they like¡­ they like my art because it¡¯s the closest to reality and feeling they¡¯ve ever had in their soft and dull and flat lives. You, though, you¡¯re sharp. Your eyes have an¡­ like an edge. A sharp edge. There was a reason you made that, that comment.¡± Ehije smiled. ¡°...I¡¯ve got a question for you, Mr. Beisner. And I promise I¡¯m not trying to be coy. But do you think being bigger is better?¡± ¡°...what? Um¡­ you mean like under the belt or-¡± ¡°-nothing so crude. Consider a gnat, an ant, and a human. Imagine you¡¯re the size of a gnat. You see an ant, which by your standards is quite large, and you want to grow that big because you¡¯re so ambitious and clever. But gnats never really have to worry about humans. They¡¯re so enormous they don¡¯t notice you, and you¡¯re so small you can¡¯t really be hurt by them, or even see them for what they are. So you don¡¯t think about them as you grow, and grow, and eventually you¡¯re the size of an ant¡­ and large enough to be noticed, and crushed, by any passing human.¡± ¡°I, I don¡¯t quite follow what-¡± ¡°-Humanity is a gnat, and Marie Walker is dangerously close to making you ant-sized.¡± Their dessert was placed in front of them. Apple-cream stuffed marshmallows caked in a thin candy layer. ¡°...who the hell are you, Khaled?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been given a gift by Marie Walker, haven¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Answer my question, who, who the hell are you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m on your side, Mr. Beisner. And you may not know it¡­ but you need my help.¡± Helmut was breaking up in an amused yet disbelieving giggle. Khaled had a weary, world-worn smile. Their impatient, tired waiter was giving them the side-eye. And Ehije had no idea what he was doing. ~*~ ¡°...this isn¡¯t enough. This isn¡¯t enough at all.¡± Nikolay was pacing in front of the shattered remains of Teresa¡¯s shell, still crucified against the wall. Teresa did her best to raise her head and look at Nikolay with her remaining eye, but the most she could do was reach his knees. Any more, and her already fragile neck would snap. ¡°Right now it seems all I can do is turn myself into the same conglomerate of talents, connections, and money that Walker¡¯s lackey, Charlie, turned into. The Silver Wheel is certainly a kingmaker but I was promised more. I was told I could make myself into a god." ¡°I do not recall you being told you would become a god explicitly.¡± ¡°Teresa.¡± He stopped, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look up. Something cracked. He turned her head slightly, so she was staring at the door to the parlor, where both Ratna and Ture were cleaning up after his last game. ¡°...what would you like me to do about it, sir?¡± ¡°The Silver Wheel was built by someone. Who?¡± ¡°The Boss. They do not have a name.¡± ¡°And this Boss also gave the Silver Wheel its powers?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And this Boss¡­ cares at least marginally about human affairs?¡± ¡°...technically, yes.¡± ¡°What does that mean, ¡®technically¡¯?¡± ¡°They care about the element of humanity. The part it plays in the whole. From my understanding, however, they do not care about the specifics of your species.¡± ¡°I want you to bring your boss here.¡± ¡°You are my boss, sir.¡± ¡°I meant the guy who made this place, you retarded shit.¡± ¡°...I am sorry, sir, I do not think I follow.¡± ¡°I want you¡­ to bring him¡­ here. I want to play him.¡± ¡°An ambitious plan, sir. But there is nothing you can offer them that they would want.¡± ¡°What if I wagered the Silver Wheel itself? He¡¯d want this place back, right?¡± ¡°I do not think they would trouble themselves. The Silver Wheel is one of many establishments of its kind.¡± ¡°...wait a moment¡­ there are other Silver Wheels out there?¡± ¡°Not exactly Silver Wheels, sir, but establishments that fulfill the same purpose.¡± ¡°...and those places¡­ they have owners?¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°...then I want you to bring them here.¡± Teresa¡¯s eye flickered in a dull, terrified acknowledgement of this order. ¡°Sir. I can empathize with your dissatisfaction with the offerings of the Silver Wheel. But I would strongly advise that you reconsider this order. There is a reason, however alien to you, for the way this system operates. There is a considerable amount of risk in what you suggest, both for yourself and for your world.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Teresa, maybe there¡¯s something in your ears. But I said ¡®bring them here¡¯, not ¡®spout your bullshit¡¯.¡± He grabbed one of the nails in her wrist and yanked it out with his bare hands. Half of her body collapsed, followed quickly by the other. She lay splayed across the ground, more parts of her cracking and snapping as even gravity proved enough to break what was left of her shell. ¡°I¡¯m leaving for now. When I get back, there better be another¡­ thing like you here ready to play. If not, I¡¯m bored enough with the Silver Wheel that I really wouldn¡¯t mind throwing Ture into the void for the hell of it.¡± With that, he finished his drink, dropped it on the ground, and fell backwards into the void. Teresa lay motionless for a few precious seconds. Then, slowly, she raised her shoulders up and shrugged herself an inch forward, dragging her entire body behind her. She paused another moment, collecting herself as best she could, before shrugging again. And again. Oozing her way across the blood and alcohol-stained carpet beneath her. She made no effort to raise her face up, until she tapped what remained of her forehead against something during her long and painful crawl against the carpet. ¡°Wow. You¡¯re a mess, huh?¡± Teresa didn¡¯t need to look up to know who that was, so she didn¡¯t bother. Her face remained flat on the ground. ¡°Hello, Miss Walker.¡± ¡°Heh. No, wait, no, I take it back. I wanna try again: wow, you really look like you¡¯re falling apart! That¡¯s way better. Pretend I said that first.¡± ¡°...did you come here to gloat?¡± ¡°What? Pffft, no I don¡¯t have time to gloat! I pay other people to gloat for me! No, no no no, I¡¯m here to steal your bartender.¡± Teresa nudged her face upward slightly. Just enough that her blue eye could pierce the shadows that surrounded her.. ¡°...he cannot leave. That will kill him.¡± ¡°Nah, I¡¯m pretty sure I figured something out. I¡¯ve been doing some science -- which I¡¯m pretty great at, by the way, that whole science thing -- and I¡¯m like, 90, no¡­ no, 50% sure I can bring Ture back with me. It¡¯ll be great. He can eat ice cream. Take fat dumps. Set his pubes on fire. Whatever the hell he wants.¡± Teresa gently tapped the woman¡¯s ankles again with her forehead. Just enough to remind the woman that she was still there. ¡°Please do not take Ture.¡± ¡°Oh, sure. Of course. Sorry, I¡¯ll be on my way now byeee.¡± Marie didn¡¯t move. ¡°...but no, really, why not? Is he having so much fun here with you and¡­ and¡­ god, what was his name, Nicolas? Yeah that sounds right.¡± ¡°It will kill him.¡± ¡°Sister, you say that like it¡¯s a bad thing. If it works, he¡¯s a modern-day jesus. Except he¡¯s real. If it doesn¡¯t, well, at least he¡¯s not getting ass-fucked by mommy''s #1 sperm donor. There really are worse things than non-existence.¡± ¡°Please.¡± Her voice was too cold to be pitiful, or even terribly sad. It was as familiarly distant as it had always been, although it was starting to fall apart much like the rest of her body. But that was the strange thing: as far as Marie could tell, there wasn¡¯t anything underneath that shell. Her words, like her skin, were hollow. And Teresa was trying so hard to keep them in one piece for reasons Marie couldn¡¯t begin to fathom because she couldn¡¯t begin to care. ¡°Hey, you know what, I remember a certain someone saying ¡®please¡¯ a lot before you fucking painted the wall with his brain. Clearly the word doesn¡¯t mean a lot to you, so I wouldn¡¯t start trying it now. So, if you¡¯ll excuse me¡­¡± Marie attempted to step around Teresa. Teresa threw herself in the way again in a desperate flop of her body. More of her shell shattered away. ¡°...wow, you¡¯re like a really sad fish. But I guess all fish are sad, so¡­ you¡¯re like a fish. Slow down bitch or you might come off as desperate.¡± Teresa didn¡¯t say anything this time. Marie kicked her aside with her foot, but when she tried to step around, she felt what remained of Teresa¡¯s hand, two shattered fingers, pinching the bottom of her hot pink pajama pants. Combined, her two fingers had the force of a severely worn paper clip. ¡°Wow. You didn¡¯t even care this much when your actual dealer got offed. Why do you care so much about this traitor, anyway? He obviously doesn¡¯t care this much about you.¡± Teresa tightened her two fingers. Marie didn¡¯t notice. ¡°...no, seriously.¡± Marie shook off Teresa¡¯s miserable grip and sat down on a stool, staring down at what was left of the waitress, ¡°I¡¯m not being hyperbolic here. What¡¯s going on?¡± Teresa didn¡¯t get the chance to answer. The door to the parlor cracked open, and Ture peeked his head in. His expression was awash in trepidation, until it settled upon their visitor. ¡°...I thought I heard you, Marie.¡± He looked like he was staring at a ghost. ¡°Ture! Jesus on jet skis you look terrible.¡± ¡°Uh, you think I look bad?¡± He laughed throatily, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He cast a single but extended glance to the waitress on the floor. ¡°...you should see the other guy, his fists are a mess.¡± ¡°Ture, do not go with Marie. You will die.¡± Her voice cracked further. Some actual emotion was breaking through, as weak and indeterminate as it was. But enough for Ture to actually pause, until Marie interjected. ¡°Yeah, so, I was just going to say the exact opposite of what your former boss said. Come with me. You won¡¯t die.¡± Ture looked between the two. Teresa couldn¡¯t muster the strength to even pull her face from the carpet, and lay flat and motionless. Effectively little more than broken porcelain shards and a flayed wig. Marie, an actual human made of flesh and blood, was checking her nails. They weren¡¯t there. ¡°You¡­¡± ¡°Yep! Figured it out. Super simple, really,¡± She pulled out a small plastic chip, fake silver, and flipped it to him. It beeped three times when it landed in his hand. ¡°I was out, throwing rocks at poor people or whatever the rich are supposed to do, and I had a thought: when we step out into the void, how come we always fall down? There¡¯s nothing out there, and so, there should be no gravity. But clearly there is gravity, so, whatever¡¯s causing it must be invisible. So I did some tests, figured some stuff out -- short and simple, it¡¯s not gravity, it¡¯s like magnets. I land somewhere because I¡¯m attracted to my dimension. You land nowhere because you¡¯re repelled by all the dimensions. So we just gotta make you more attractive and make sure you¡¯ve got somewhere to land. That¡¯s what the chip and the coma patient are for.¡± He flipped the plastic silver chip in his hand, frowning. For so many years in the Silver Wheel (as much as he could track the passage of time), he had been surrounded by and terrorized by the impenetrable darkness that these murkey walls and broken lights barely kept at bay. It had trapped him, tormented him, and even robbed him of a friend. To hear it waved aside so callously with a plastic chip and a few curt sentences¡­ it seemed impossible. It seemed insulting. He felt a stirring in his chest. So many emotions were demanding their say he couldn¡¯t tell them apart. Except for fear. Fear spoke to him in a distinct, clear icy-cold blue pitch, that matched the broken porcelain that lay powerless at his feet. ¡°...it can¡¯t be that easy.¡± ¡°Well, no shit, but you¡¯ve got a simple brain and I¡¯m explaining it simple-like for you. Look, we had a deal, that deal was that you trust me, so¡­ less grumpin¡¯, more jumpin¡¯.¡± He looked down at Teresa. She wasn¡¯t moving, but even prone and broken she was like a wall he couldn¡¯t see over. For years, he had either hated or tolerated her. The bridge between them now, built from the death of Juan, was as thin and fragile as glass. And yet, that somehow made it all the more sacred to him. The soft patter of rain was still hammering over the radio. ¡°Teresa¡­ um¡­¡± ¡°...you will die, Ture. Do not follow her.¡± More of her voice was breaking. He felt a pain in his heart, a pain he couldn¡¯t describe, but it was cold and sharp. He clenched his fist tightly, and fought back with passion and logic alike. ¡°But it¡¯s only a matter of time before Nikolay kills me.¡± ¡°I will protect you.¡± It sounded more like a plea than a promise. There was something underneath her shell after all. Something that hadn¡¯t been there before. Something she had been building slowly and carefully, but was forced to use now, despite not truly being ready to share. Ture looked up at Marie. She was tearing some skin off the tip of her thumb. She met his eyes briefly, and shrugged. She was either ambivalent or obstinate. It didn¡¯t matter which. ¡°You want to stay, that¡¯s your call, buckshot. But you don¡¯t get to keep the chip. You jump now, or you¡¯re pushed later.¡± Ture stiffened up. If Teresa was a cold, ethereal mist, Marie was the hard, blunt earth. Knowingly or not, her words dragged him back from being spellbound by Teresa¡¯s desperate plea. Which not only made him grateful¡­ it made him rather angry. ¡°...hey. Marie. Why are you letting Nikolay run the Silver Wheel?¡± ¡°Did you¡­ did you forget what we were talking about?¡± Ture tightened his grip around the chip until his fists were white. He was too weak to do any actual damage to it, however. ¡°Nikolay is your puppet, everyone here knows it. Why are you letting him do this?¡± ¡°Hm? Oh. That¡¯s easy. I don¡¯t care about the Silver Wheel anymore.¡± The sound of the rain stopped. ¡°...what?¡± ¡°Your chip is good for one trip back to the land of the living, not my goddamn life story, sugar. And as much as I want to respect that this is an emotional moment for you, I also have to respect the fact I don¡¯t care. So¡­ we¡¯re sort of stuck, you know? Clock¡¯s ticking.¡± Marie¡¯s words struck like a rock against the head. A wake-up slap that shook the clouds away. She was cruel, yes, and she was the enemy of the Silver Wheel. But she was also the winner, and moreover, his only hope. He couldn¡¯t let himself get sucked into Teresa¡¯s world of hope and magic again. He¡­ had to move. ¡°Ture. Do not leave the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t not try. Teresa.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to lose another one.¡± That cold pain intensified. He mustered up all his strength to grapple it, wrench it out of his heart, and move forward. ¡°...you were going to have to lose me eventually, right? You told me that was the point, was for me to leave.¡± Teresa, for the first time ever, almost sobbed. ¡°But¡­ not like this.¡± And she managed to trap him into one final spell. Ture didn¡¯t know what to say. He had imagined, for what must have been years, how he would quit the Silver Wheel if he ever had the chance. Thousands of what-ifs. But in all of those thousands, he never imagined, and thus never prepared, for this. For Teresa to be a broken shell, laying helpless on the floor. For some wealthy monster to be standing over her, ambivalent yet his only hope. And for a stranger to be sitting where Juan sat, nursing bruises with useless shots of booze. He couldn¡¯t possibly stay. He just didn¡¯t know how to leave. He closed his eyes. ¡°...I¡¯m sorry.¡± He forced himself to step over her, towards the door. He couldn¡¯t take another step, though, not when he felt the tiny pinch of Teresa¡¯s hand against his pant leg. A force that Marie had so easily ignored stopped him in his tracks. ¡°Please trust me.¡± Her cold voice had a too-familiar heat to it: and now he knew what had been hiding under her shattered shell: A single candle burning desperately in the wind. He could feel her fingers trembling as they started to slip. Too weak to even maintain their grip. He took a deep breath, and took his next step forward. Towards the open door. To the same edge where Juan had fallen. Staring into the same darkness that had tormented and crushed his soul this entire time. Into the same pit Nikolay had threatened him with. This void, his tormentor, turned into his only passage to salvation. He was trading that glass bridge for a plastic chip. And he had to swallow all the bitter tastes that came with that trade. ¡°Wow.¡± Marie Walker whistled as she walked up behind him, ¡°I am impressed. And shocked you would be stupid enough to trust me.¡± ¡°...wha-¡± And she pushed. Teresa had raised her head just enough to see the woman lay her hands upon his back, and shove him into the void. And her frozen eye, as blue as the void of the sea, caught the smug, irreverent glee on the woman¡¯s face as she turned back to face Teresa. It was victorious and vindictive. ¡°You take one of mine¡­¡± she licked her lips as Teresa remained frozen. ¡°...I¡¯ll take one of yours.¡± Teresa shot one arm forward, mindless of how her body continued to shatter, including the final shell of blue that covered her remaining eye. She dragged herself forward, the unblinking blackness behind her eyelid locked onto Marie as she moved, leaving increasingly large shards of herself embedded into the carpet of the Wheel as she moved. ¡°Marie.¡± The other arm shot forward. Her two remaining fingers curled into the carpet and pulled. More and more of herself was being left behind. Teresa was barely more than a fraction of a rib, a neck, a piece of head, and two skeletal arms. But it was enough. ¡°I will kill you Marie.¡± Marie laughed. ¡°K.¡± And hopped into the void. Teresa reached the edge of the open door. Teresa stared into the darkness that had so mercilessly swallowed Ture, and stole away the woman she decided she actually, genuinely hated. And she lay motionless for a long, long time. ~*~ Ehije really didn¡¯t want to get into Helmut¡¯s limousine, but he didn¡¯t really have much choice. Helmut had decided they needed privacy, and insisted,and Ehije couldn¡¯t think of a good enough reason to oppose the idea. The artist sat next to him, and ordered the car to simply drive in circles for a bit. The car¡¯s AI driver chirped in response, and the two sped off into the night. ¡°You know I always figured Marie¡¯s¡­ her shenanigans would grab someone¡¯s attention before long,¡± Helmut noted, pulling a white package from the side door. ¡°Want some cocaine?¡± Ehije really wanted that cocaine. ¡°...maybe later.¡± ¡°Whatever, whatever you want my man.¡± A cloud of white began to fill the limo as Helmut inhaled deeply and passionately into the drug, occasionally releasing a satisfied gasp of air before delving back into the murky smoke. He didn¡¯t so much breathe as he drank, eyes fluttering and limbs flexing, rolling into his seat with a satisfied and belligerent grin. ¡°Oh fuck. Mmh. Okay. Okay¡­ right. So. You were saying?¡± Helmut coughed, and squeezed the package close to his chest. ¡°...look, I-¡± ¡°-Wait, wait wait wait -¡± Helmut interrupted him, ¡°- let me guess let me guess. You want the pills, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°...I-¡± ¡°Oh my god it¡¯s so fucking obvious. So! Fucking! Obvious!¡± Helmut pounded his fist against the window three times with increasing vigor and enthusiasm, ¡°tell me I¡¯m right. Go on. Tell me tell me tell me!¡± ¡°I did want a sample of the pill, yes.¡± ¡°HA! Of course you do! Why else come to me?! I¡¯m not the one fucking¡­ fucking exploring the outer wilds. I¡¯m an artist. I¡¯m not even in Marie¡¯s fucking inner circle I¡¯m just a guy she trusts to care more about art than morals! She wanted my bodies did you know that? She bought every body I made for my last exhibit. Every single one Khaled. She bought them all it was amazing I have sooooo much money.¡± ¡°...um.¡± ¡°But you, you you you you can¡¯t go to Marie because she¡¯s basically this untouchable can I say goddess I¡¯m going to say goddess and the other guy with the pills is just a clich¨¦ asshole so you have to go to me. But. Why do you need the pills at all, huh? That¡¯s what I would be asking if I didn¡¯t already figure it out you want to stop me and Marie and the other guy I think his name is Nickleson from messing around with the Silver Wheel but I can tell you buddy it just won¡¯t work no sir not one bit. The pills just make it easy to go to the Silver Wheel and Marie is smart -- she is so goddamn smart ok like she genetically enhanced herself to make her smarter she¡¯s a fucking human singularity -- she¡¯s got a pin on the thing she¡¯s never ever going to let it go not until she¡¯s fucking fucking fucking done with it you get me my man? But who are you anyway?¡± Ehije waited for exactly a second and a half. ¡°You called yourself a friend earlier right you said you were on my side? But I don¡¯t have a side man. I¡¯m fucking Paul Philippoteaux at Gettysburg, I don¡¯t give a shit who¡¯s fighting or what they¡¯re fighting for I just want to make pretty pictures with what I fucking see you get me? I don¡¯t care if we get ¡®noticed¡¯ or whatever I¡¯ll fucking paint ankles crushing humanity if it¡¯s literally the last thing I do that¡¯s what artists do so unless you¡¯re like trying to hand me pigments or whatever you can¡¯t really be on my side I guess in this analogy you¡¯d be like Tipton or something how much do you know about the American Civil War and 19th century photogrpahy?¡± He started smoking again. Ehije capitalized on this brief respite. ¡°Maybe calling myself a friend wasn¡¯t quite right. You might instead call me a muse-¡± Helmut started coughing violently, a brutal hacking that spread spittle to the far end of the car. He spun to Ehije, and stabbed him in the nipple with his finger. ¡°Oh fuck off with that shit are you for real?¡± He laughed, but then stopped -- cut off by the ringing of his phone. He grunted irritably, and took it out. Giving Ehije a few more precious seconds to come up with a new plan. ¡°Who is it?¡± ¡°Gene Oberman. Marie¡¯s right hand in that he¡¯s always stroking her dick. Fuck him. Fuck him and the horse he fucked to get here, you were calling yourself my goddamn muse?¡± ¡°Not literally, just...listen,¡± Ehije continued as Helmut tried to go back to smoking his drug of choice, ¡°I didn¡¯t just come to you because you are arguably the most approachable. I came to you because you are an agent of chaos. You don¡¯t want things to be resolved. You want them to be interesting.¡± ¡°Oh man that is so true.¡± ¡°Right now, things are going to slow down. Nikolay has almost accomplished his goal, which will be very boring for you. It doesn¡¯t help that he¡¯s going to think of you as a threat before long and try to end you. At the cost of one, single pill: I can promise you things will stay interesting for much, much longer. And you¡¯ll be around to see it.¡± ¡°One pill, huh? My dude dudey dude Khaled, you are so fucking unlucky I¡¯m an asshole, because anyone else would just give you the pill, y¡¯know? You did a real good good good pitch. But here¡¯s the thing I¡¯m fucking bored and I heard the Silver Wheel is a gambling place, right? So let¡¯s gamble for it right here and now.¡± ¡°That¡¯s agreeable.¡± ¡°But what the fuck do we play? Are there any cards in here? Or dice or something? Oh I know we can go to a casino or something¡­¡± While he was rambling, Ehije took a look outside. It seemed fairly windy that night. And that¡¯s when Ehije saw an opportunity. And he smiled. ¡°Isn¡¯t that a little too pedestrian for you, Helmut?¡± ¡°Eh?¡± ¡°Tell your limo to take us to the Nigerian Cultural Center. I have a wonderful idea. Something more fitting for a man of your caliber.¡± ¡°Being all mysterious on me? Alright man. Nigerian Cultural Center! Let¡¯s go fuck up some art or something!¡± The Nigerian Cultural Center was originally supposed to be built in Abuja, in the distant years of the early 20th century. Those plans were postponed, and ultimately fell apart following some radical changes of leadership and shifting priorities as the polluted, engorged sea started eating up larger and larger chunks of what was once the coast. The new Nigerian Cultural Center, which was the vanity project of the Ilorin governor to kickstart his presidential bid, came about not more than a decade ago, and was far more reasonable both in cost and scale. Ultimately, the presidential bid went nowhere, but the Cultural Center was, regardless, completed a few years prior, and actually managed to get some acclaim for its modest collection of modern West-and-Central African art. It was still nearly bankrupt, though, so it didn¡¯t actually cost Ehije much to rent it out for the weekend. His original plans had been scrapped, but he could still make use of such a wonderfully secluded, tall building. The doors opened to them. No one was there so late into the evening. There was no need to secure the art: it was double-protected by the fact that 1) only Khaled could enter the building, and would thus be accountable, and 2) it wasn¡¯t really worth stealing anyway. The two men, puffs of cocaine smoke marking their trail, walked through the darkened halls, barely paying mind to the finely crafted yet inspiringly mundane paintings and statues on display. Rather, Ehije swept past them all, and walked straight to the emergency stairs. ¡°Here¡¯s what I propose for our game tonight, Helmut: Chicken.¡± ¡°Chicken¡± isn¡¯t so much a game as it is a model of game theory first called ¡°Brinkmanship¡± by John Foster Dulles, an American diplomat who lived between the late 19th and mid-20th century. The ¡®rules¡¯ such as they are, are simple: two parties engage in a risky, potentially mutually destructive activity, and the first to give up out of concern for their health and safety is the ¡°chicken¡± and thus, loser. In game theory, it¡¯s considered a quintessential anti-coordination game, a game where you are advantaged by playing a different strategy than your opponent, and harmed (often lethally) if you play the same strategy. It¡¯s also an example of a game that utilizes ¡°Nash equilibrium¡±, a state where both players have what is perceived to be a winning strategy and there is no ¡®benefit¡¯ (outside avoiding the gruesome consequences if both players commit) to changing your strategy, so they commit and enter an unending state of play. But practically, a game of Chicken is more of a test over who has the stronger nerves, and who wants it more. ¡°Hmmmm?¡± Helmut preened, leaning forward with widening eyes. ¡°Why Chicken?¡± ¡°I¡¯m surprised you ask, Helmut. Look at us!¡± He shouted abruptly, his voice echoing through the flat-walled stairwell, ¡°We¡¯re famous. We¡¯re rich. We¡¯re artists. Our lives are bursting with potential and opportunity. We have so much more to lose than the average man, and we have so much more to offer this sick world. The two of us, dancing with an impartial death while the whole of civilization, both ambivalent yet inextricably desperate for us, holds its breath, unaware of what hangs in the balance. Will that weight anchor our feet to the ground? Will it draw us away from danger? Or push us toward it? Our lives and legacies will hang on a narrow thread, and our raw determination, combined with the belief in our mission being greater than the others, will be the sole determining factor of victory. What could be more¡­¡± ¡°...artistic¡­¡± Helmut whispered with reverence, ¡°Let¡¯s¡­ let¡¯s do it! Let¡¯s fucking do it! This is the best night of my life!¡± He inhaled more cocaine. They went up the stairs. ¡°The rules are simple. We stand on the edge of the building, battered by wind. First man to retreat back to the roof loses. If I win, I get my pill. If you win-¡± ¡°-You will star in my next exhibit.¡± The look of extravagant madness that ignited in Helmut¡¯s eyes, more the product of the chemicals in his own brain than anything the drugs could have loaned him, paused Ehije¡¯s advance up the stairs. But he rose to that madness, and nodded with a firmness only possible with clarity and foresight. ¡°Alright.¡± They escaped into the cold night air. The city buzzed, lights over, around, and under them, yet not enough to completely illuminate them. They were standing on a small patio, a flat surface that allowed their feet purchase on the naturally slanted and steep roof of the artistically designed building. The drop was short, compared to the buildings that spiraled into the sky around them, but lethal. Unquestionably lethal. The wind buffeted them as they approached the edge. Ehije took a deep breath. ¡°I didn¡¯t think this is how the evening would go.¡± ¡°Me neither. Thank thank thank god!¡± ¡°You have the pills, right?¡± ¡°Of course! But you won¡¯t get your hands on them.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± His host smiled back. Ehije hoisted himself up onto the railing and he nearly shat himself. The railing was thin, an inch and a half at most, and while he was not a big guy, he was big enough that he wanted more than an inch and a half separating himself and a fall to his death. The wind, too, made a point to remind him how thin and frail he was, with even a slight breeze rocking him, forcing him to push back carefully against the breeze. Helmut laughed at this. Ehije was a good liar, but no man can bluff himself. He looked terrified up there, and Helmut delighted in that. His new friend here had pitched this as a battle between two determined men who had much to offer and a fear of the death that would stop them from doing that. But Helmut? He didn¡¯t fear death. And he proved it as he hopped up onto the ledge with the surefootedness of a mountain goat, and stood up straight, hands in pockets, while Ehije still crouched and kept his knees bent. ¡°A-aren¡¯t you afraid?!¡± Ehije gasped in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re scared enough for both of us!¡± Helmut shouted back over the wind and the traffic, ¡°But don¡¯t you dare quit on me, Khaled! I was promised art! And this performance is just starting!¡± Ehije slowly straightened himself up, flinching once as a strong wind howled past him, forcing both men to brace. ¡°How do you feel?¡± Helmut asked, leaning forward, ¡°Scared?! Alive?! Feeling the weight of your mission?! And tell me, what direction does it push you?!¡± Ehije shuddered, looking down at the ground far below¡­ then looked up at Helmut. ¡°...this way.¡± He put his hand on Helmut¡¯s shoulder. And he pushed. There would be time, later, for Ehije to consider the line he just crossed from con-man to straight-up murderer. There would be time for him to sit down and work through the twisted complicated webs that had spun their way across his mind as he watched a man, practically a stranger, roll against the steep slopes of the Nigerian Cultural Center and slam face-first into the pavement, fifty feet below. And there would be a time for him to feel a sickening disgust nip at his fingers as he remembered peeling back Helmut¡¯s flattened, blood-covered coat and gingerly pinching the hotel keys from his pocket. And there would be a time when he would think on the haunted beauty of stepping into the dead man¡¯s executive suite and seeing his two bags, recently unpacked, prepared for a weekend he would never get to enjoy. But that time was not now. Now, he had about an hour to pop some pills and do his job before he was arrested. It was time to go back to the Silver Wheel. Round Seven: Rock, Paper, Sissors Dr. Oberman kept the lights out in his personal laboratory. Only the dim white light of his computers illuminated the room, and kept him company. Helmut wasn¡¯t answering. He slowly lowered the phone from his ear, and let it rest next to his keyboard. His breathing nearly shook the room. ¡°Start recording,¡± he commanded the empty room. An audible, digital ¡®click¡¯ followed. Signaling that the recording process had begun. ¡°Helmut is not talking to me.¡± He stood up, his chair¡¯s wheels squeaking in light protest as he pushed against it. ¡°No. No, I think Helmut is dead.¡± He clarified as he started to pace, breathing growing faster and unhinged, ¡°He knew his place. He wouldn¡¯t ignore me. And he was always danger-prone. He is most likely dead. Which is a real shame.¡± He stopped pacing, and moaned. Loudly. High-pitched. Fluttering his eyes and opening his mouth wider than was healthy. ¡°...yes. A real shame. He was the only one in this world who could appreciate Miss Nine the way I do. He could have been a comrade or a friend. Or¡­ or maybe a rival no don¡¯t record that erase it.¡± The ceiling chirped in response. ¡°...or a friend,¡± he continued seamlessly, ¡°but I will not mourn his loss, no. Because I have decided I am afflicted with the same disease that Marie Walker suffers, in that we both think too small. It¡¯s not enough to¡­ appreciate or share or endulge or be consumed by or swallowed whole wiggling and warm and erase it!¡± The ceiling chirped in response. His breathing grew ragged. Hopping unevenly from lung to lung. ¡°...too small. Project 20:7 is too small for me now. Marie Walker is too small for me now. I had ambitions for opening up a portal to that dimension, taking command of the creatures that lurked there to, I don¡¯t know, kill all my staff, torment Marie into madness, inject them into the world and transform it into a modern elysium by way of some Cronenbergian fetishist, but on reflection that¡¯s the kind of baseless cartoon villainy that would be so easy to mock and deride. Because I¡¯m still coming at this from the mindset where this world and dimension even matter.¡± ¡°I know better than that, I know better than that Oberman you stupid fucking child- erase that.¡± Chirping. ¡°...I know better than anyone just how untrue that is. It¡¯s¡­ pointless. Just by having the idea, I¡¯ve already created countless dimensions where I¡¯ve failed, and others where I¡¯ve already succeeded. I can always just go to one of those worlds if I really wanted. Go there, and wait for the end.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°So anyway I¡¯m going to rape Miss Nine erase that.¡± He paused again. Chirping. ¡°...so anyway, I¡¯m going to rape Miss Nine erase that.¡± He paused again. Chirping. ¡°I¡¯m going to walk into Miss Nine¡¯s chamber, where it sleeps in self-pity and misery, I¡¯m going to walk up to it naked and glistening and unwashed, and as they cower away from me in fear and hate I am going to corner them, close the distance between us, kiss every eye I see while my feet kick one of its mouths open and crawl into it like a child re-entering the womb of his mother, and I will swim through its bountiful meat and insides until I melt within them and become one with it and they always feels me violating their mutated husk with my hideously unclean wholeness and they will hate me until the end of time itself.¡± His breathing was hard. ¡°...e¡­¡± His breathing grew harder. ¡°...¡± He curled up on the ground, and held himself in the fetal position. ¡°...erase that.¡± The ceiling chirped. ¡°...so instead of doing that, I¡¯ve decided I¡¯m going to tell Miss Nine Marie Walker¡¯s plan, and earn her¡­ cooperation. We¡¯ll come to a deal. I¡¯ll¡­ I¡¯ll¡­¡± He could feel saliva sliding down his cheek and pooling under his head. He closed his eyes. ¡°...I don¡¯t know anymore." ~*~ ¡°So¡­. just you and me, huh?¡± Ratna couldn¡¯t prepare a real drink and didn¡¯t bother trying. She just grabbed a few bottles from the bar and was drinking them straight. She didn¡¯t bother sharing them with the person on the other end of the table. She already knew they didn¡¯t drink. Mr. Eight nodded. ¡°That¡¯s cool. The two forgotten fucks. Finally get our day in the spotlight, eh? Now that the drama with Ture and Teresa is¡­ resolved?¡± Mr. Eight shrugged. Or at least approximated the motions with what he had on hand. ¡°Who cares. He¡¯s dead, Hakeem''s run off, Teresa¡¯s gone, and our boss is going to come back and beat the shit out of me again. Which, I don¡¯t mind telling you, is getting old. They don¡¯t know the first thing about how to be in an abusive relationship.¡± Mr. Eight looked dryly at her. ¡°...what? Look, it¡¯s about the effort. When I was married, I never raised a hand against my husband but I was still three times this abusive. You gotta control ¡®em, you know? Make them think they deserve the pain they get. Use guilt to cut through their concerns. Give them enough hope in you to keep them strung along. That¡¯s how you abuse someone.¡± Mr. Eight reminded her she was a bad wife but she wasn¡¯t that bad. ¡°Fuck off.¡± Mr. Eight reminded her that she was only manipulating her own narrative to feel less guilty about her suicide and the devastating impact it had on her husband''s life. She responded by emptying a liter bottle of Kingfisher in twelve seconds. Technically the alcohol burnt the cuts and bruises in her mouth and tongue, but it was a kind of pain she enjoyed. Or at least was growing to enjoy. ¡°You¡¯re not one to talk. You¡¯re a worthless bouncer.¡± Mr. Eight didn¡¯t respond to that. She jabbed a finger in their direction. ¡°You couldn¡¯t stop Ture or Juan or whoever from falling, you waited till, what, twelve people were killed by Nikolay before you intervened, you couldn¡¯t keep Teresa from getting nailed to the wall -- hell, a bouncer is supposed to keep people out, why didn¡¯t you stop Marie¡¯s people from even coming here in the first place?!¡± Mr. Eight tried to explain that their role was different: the way Teresa wasn¡¯t really a waitress, they weren¡¯t really a bouncer ¡ª more a guardian for the Silver Wheel to prevent it being used as a tool for destruction by humans and other lesser species: since Teresa wasn¡¯t considered a lesser species, nothing compelled them to interfere in her case because they had to trust she was operating within the confines of their mission. As for the other cases- ¡°-do you actually believe what you¡¯re saying?¡± They didn¡¯t reply. ¡°Ugh. Sorry. I¡¯ve got a bad case of the what-ifs. What if I had picked Jack Kelly? What if I didn¡¯t decide to make the last game Durak? What if I had lost my game against my husband -- hell, what if I hadn¡¯t decided to kill myself? I ain¡¯t exactly a bastion of good-decision making myself. But the funny thing about bad decisions is¡­ I dunno, you don¡¯t realize they¡¯re bad until after you make them.¡± Mr. Eight didn¡¯t think that was funny. ¡°You¡¯re right, it¡¯s not.¡± She started on another bottle of¡­ what was this, absinthe? Sure, she was chugging absinthe now. She immediately spat it out. ¡°Ah! Fuck! Fuck ow! Ow!¡± As it turned out, that burning she was enjoying so much had an upper limit of enjoyability, and the raw alcohol present in absinthe far surpassed that limit. Mr. Eight helpfully handed her a glass of water, which she immediately started chugging. ¡°What if I wasn¡¯t such a fucking idiot?!¡± She shouted between glasses. Mr. Eight patted her back. She finished three glasses and coughed for nearly ten seconds straight before she settled back down, and slammed her forehead against the barren poker table between them. ¡°...fuck this fuckhole,¡± she sighed, ¡°maybe I should do what Ture did and just end it. Non-existence was what I signed up for in the first place, after all.¡± Mr. Eight couldn¡¯t argue against the merits of simply vanishing from existence. As far as they were aware, it was a perfectly reasonable thing to want to do. Before she had the chance to meditate on the thought any longer, her ear twitched: the door to the Silver Wheel had just opened. She sighed, loudly -- Nikolay¡¯s trips here were like clockwork, so she knew it was him -- and rocked her head on the table for a little bit. Not even trying to make herself presentable: no point in it, she¡¯d be getting a thrashing no matter what she did. Although she was starting to suspect that Nikolay had realized his fists weren¡¯t doing their intended job of making them cower complacently at his feet. Maybe he¡¯d bring in bear spray or a taser or something to spice things up soon. The door to the parlor swung open. ¡°What exactly happened here?¡± She raised her head up. She frowned. ¡°...Hakeem?¡± ¡°Yes, it is me.¡± She blinked a few times. Then rubbed her eyelids a couple more times, as if he was just a smudge on her eyeballs. But he was still there. ¡°...the fuck? Are you stupid?¡± She broke out into a grin, ¡°the stupidest fucker on the planet?!¡± ¡°I would have to be, yes.¡± ¡°Oh man. Oh fuck. Okay.¡± She tried to stand up, but Nikolay had broken something there and she almost immediately fell back down into her chair with a hiss. ¡°...ah, right. Okay, you come to me.¡± ¡°Is this all¡­ Nikolay¡¯s doing?¡± ¡°Ah, yeah, turns out giving a megalomaniac the keys to the Silver Wheel? Not great. Ture¡¯s dead, Teresa¡­ well, she was nailed to the wall, I don¡¯t know where she is now. So it¡¯s just me and Mr. Eight. Sitting in the dark and drinking. Want some? We¡¯ve got...¡± ¡°I will pass, thank you.¡± ¡°You sure? This beer is only like half backwash, I promise.¡± ¡°...no. I am here to play Nikolay.¡± ¡°Pfft. You¡¯re serious. He¡¯s cheating, you know. If you couldn¡¯t beat him when he was playing fairly you¡¯re not going to stand a chance now.¡± ¡°Perhaps. But either way my life has been ruined. I may as well grasp whatever slim hope I yet have.¡± Ehije was not comfortable, and made no effort to hide it. The usual perfume that laced the air was entirely absent, now, as well as the music, which meant the place no longer felt mystical or ethereal. Now¡­ it was just a creepy, dark bar that smelled of blood. Sinister, was the word, and the dull light that flickered above Ratna barely protected him from the darkness in the four corners of the room, so alive it was almost breathing. ¡°...well, from one self-destructive person to another, cheers.¡± she raised a bottle of spit, blood, and at least some beer. ¡°No, it¡¯s entirely you and your establishment¡¯s fault my life was ruined.¡± ¡°Mhm. Well, he¡¯s on a schedule, and he¡¯s due any second now, so...¡± She drank. And the door to the Silver Wheel opened a second time. ¡°Tada.¡± ¡°...where¡¯s Teresa?!¡± He called out from the bar, each thundering footfall audible from the parlor as he stormed up to the door, ¡°I told her to be back by now-¡± He was too shocked to look angry. At first. He just stared, dumbly, as Ehije stood before him, trying to look cooly confident in the face of this tiny Russian. But then Nikolay started to laugh, the cartoonishly evil laugh of a villian who had finally managed to corner the pesky protagonists who had dogged him for three seasons and a TV movie. ¡°Well, well, well. If it isn¡¯t my favorite magic negro.¡± ¡°Nikolay.¡± ¡°Hey. Ratna. Remind me real fast, did this gentleman get an invitation to my establishment?¡± ¡°Nope, doesn¡¯t look like it.¡± NIkolay slammed the door shut. On his command, it locked with an audible and terribly finite click. Old demons, hibernating ever since his last game with Ehije, started to rouse awake within Nikolay, lavishly stretching out their long talons to catalyze his bloodlust and coil the muscles in his arms. ¡°You know what that means, Hakeem? That means you¡¯re an intruder here.¡± Ehije remained level-headed, despite giving a few anxious glances to the locked door. ¡°Don¡¯t you remember? Everything here has to be a game, even for intruders.¡± Nikolay spat to the side, but didn¡¯t stop smiling. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? But we¡¯ve got that all taken care of, don¡¯t we Ratna?¡± ¡°We sure do, boss,¡± Ratna unenthusiastically sighed. ¡°That¡¯s fine by me. I actually came here to play you, Nikolay.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Nikolay folded his arms across his chest, ¡°Well, whatever you were scheming, you may as well forget it. There¡¯s nothing you can offer me that I actually want anyway. All I want is for you to die, painfully. And that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m going to get.¡± ¡°Are you sure there¡¯s nothing I have you want?¡± Ehije took a seat at one end of the table, "Consider this: since becoming the master of the Silver Wheel, have you suddenly gained omnipotence?" "What the hell are you going on-" "-So aren''t you curious how I knew your fucked your mother?" NIkolay¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°The information is out there. But where? You don''t know. I do. And worse, I have a little computer program ready to go that will share that information with the world when I wake up. Or rather, will share that information with the world automatically if I don''t. If you understand my drift." Nikolay paused for a moment, his rage neither subsiding nor growing, kept in a healthy stasis as he considered what he was hearing. He already knew Hakeem was just a guy they hired, he had beaten that information out of his ''employees'' already. One thing he wasn''t able to beat out of them was how they figured out that particular piece of scandalous information, but he could guess one of the people he sent here might have betrayed it. That might have been the only way they could have known, since he did such a good job of cleaning up his tracks on that matter. In fact, the only person who''d have anything resembling evidence was the surgeon. Was it possible the surgeon had such evidence, and Hakeem was able to grab it? The odds weren''t good, but they weren''t zero, either. But then, why take the risk on it being a bluff? He was the owner of the place, he designed the game they¡¯d play, and he knew it was impossibly rigged. There was really no risk to him at all in just getting that information and then killing him slowly. Ehije looked nervous, and was occasionally glaring at Ratna. Momentary, betraying uncertainty and regret. ¡°...unfortunately for you, Hakeem, you make a good point. I''ll take your wager. But I want your soul, because I need a new bartender and a new punching bag for this little getaway of mine. So either agree to those terms, or you can be erased from existence here and now." Ehije paled as much as his complexion would allow, and swallowed hard. ¡°...I... suppose that''s the situation, yes. For the silver wheel... my soul." At their verbal agreement, two stacks of chips appeared on each side of the table: for Ehije, his chips were a shade of brown so dark it verged on pitch black. For Nikolay, the chips were made of pure silver, and were stacked in three equal piles. ¡°What game will we be playing, Ratna?¡± ¡°Tonight¡¯s game¡­ is Rock, Paper, Scissors.¡± Rock, Paper, Scissors is one of history¡¯s oldest games, with the first version, called shoushiling, having been played during the Han Dynasty in China, between 206 BC and 220 AD. The rules were exactly the same as they are today: players shouted shoushiling, huozhitou or huoquan, and picked between paper, scissors, and rock. From China, it spread outward: the Japanese played mushi-ken, which had slugs, frogs, and snakes, or kitsune-ken, which used mythical fox-demons kitsunes, village heads, and hunters instead of paper, rock, and scissors respectively. In the Mediterranean, it¡¯s believed a version of the game called zhot existed for several centuries. It wasn¡¯t until the early 20th century that the game showed up in western literature. A 1921 article about cricket in the Sydney Morning Herald mentioned it was a method to draw lots in lands across the sea; while in 1927, a children¡¯s magazine in France called La Vie au Patronage described the game detail, calling it an old Japanese game. While it was only one of many lot-drawing games from Japan to be noted in that era, its simple rules and universality meant it became the only one with any staying power, and it remains well-loved and well-known to this day. ¡°The rules are so stupidly simple it¡¯s a waste of time to even go over them, but here we are. At the game¡¯s start, I¡¯ll count to three. At three, you both throw either rock, paper, or scissors. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock. Y¡¯all are adults, you know how it goes.¡± ¡°Course, at the Silver Wheel, we like to mess with the formula. So to play each round, you¡¯ll need to ante ten chips. You don¡¯t ante, you don¡¯t play, ya lose. Also, non-owners have a special rule: before the count hits zero, you have to say what sign you¡¯ll be dropping. If you drop anything but the sign you say, you lose that round.¡± Ehije sighed, massaging his forehead wearily. Nikolay was smiling as if he had already won. In effect, he already had. ¡°All the other rules apply, no cheating, no leaving, etc. Any questions? No? Grea-¡± ¡°Wait, I have a quick question.¡± Ehije interjected, opening his eyes ¡°We have to throw our signs exactly at three, right? So, I¡¯m going to throw rock, I have to start making the fist right before three?¡± The corner of Ratna¡¯s lips twitched. ¡° ...yeah. That¡¯s¡­ how you play the game. You fucking idiot.¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Just making sure.¡± Ehije sighed, ¡°There¡¯s a lot at stake here, you know?¡± ¡°Sure, okay pal. No more questions, then?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Great. Let me know when you want to start the countdown. Usually there¡¯s some pre-match banter y¡¯all might want to get out of the way.¡± There is a lot of genuine strategy that can go into a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. While it¡¯s impossible to form a real strategy against a truly random opponent, like a computer, humans are not random creatures, and thus, the game becomes a psychological one. That said, all the deep layers of psychology and insight that could go into a truly competitive game of Rock-Paper-Scissors are thrown out the window in the Silver Wheel version, where one player is handicapped to such a dramatically stupid level. But, if there was one thing the Silver Wheel awarded more than luck, it was a profound understanding of the rules. Ehije knew that. And he knew Ratna knew that as well. And he was fairly certain he had found the kink in this game¡¯s otherwise impenetrable armor that she had designed for him to use. Or at least, he¡¯d better have. Because otherwise, this would be a quick and painful way to start his eternity of regret. ¡°No. Start counting. I¡¯ve been stuck in this body for far too long.¡± ¡°Alright, alright.... one!¡± Ehije sighed, and muttered under his breath ¡°paper¡±. ¡°Two!¡± ¡°Say it louder, won¡¯t you?¡± Nikolay preened. ¡°...I said paper.¡± Ehije repeated, both men raising their fists in anticipation for the final strike. Ratna paused, for effect, and her business-friendly scowl momentarily flashed into a smile. ¡°...three!¡± Each man slammed their fist into the table. Nikolay¡¯s fingers were split into a pair of scissors. Ehije¡¯s, however, was curled up into a solid fist. He had thrown rock. ¡°Pfft. Idiot.¡± Nikolay snorted, ¡°You said paper. Did you forget the rules already? Did you go mad with fear? Or are you just trying to annoy me?¡± He reached forward for the black chips, but Ratna, looking incredibly satisfied, gently nudged his hand away, and instead started sliding a pile of silver chips to Ehije¡¯s side. Ehije, who had been holding his breath since he called paper, exhaled suddenly and loudly. ¡°...Ratna. What are you doing?¡± Nikolay asked, finding it hard to look at her calmly when the demons were starting to gnaw at the veins behind his eyes. Their rage leaking into the whites, turning them an ugly shade of red. ¡°Hakeem won the round,¡± she stated, her voice cracking with worry despite her bold words, ¡°he did say ¡®paper¡¯, but he clearly stated beforehand ¡®I¡¯m going to throw rock¡¯. He did as he announced, and so, he won the round.¡± Nikolay blinked as the information sank in, and as his silver chips -- and thus, a portion of his ownership of the Silver Wheel -- transferred over to his foe at the other end of the table. An angry yet blank look had settled on his features, something close to shock, until it broke out into a bold, greedy smile and a loud, boisterous laugh. The laugh of someone who needed time to understand the joke, but found it no less funny for the analysis. In fact, it was maybe even funnier after marinating so. ¡°Ah!¡± he finally snorted, wiping some snot from his nose, ¡°Ah, I get it. You¡¯re both doing that thing. Where you use technicalities in the rules. That¡¯s cute. That¡¯s hilariously desperate. That was your game all along, huh? Think you could plot that one out behind my back, huh? Alright. Well. I¡¯m glad you two could have your little laugh, because it ends fucking here.¡± He stopped smiling. ¡°I. Own. This. Fucking. Place. Ratna, as your boss, I¡¯m ordering you to change the rules.¡± She shot a glance at Ehije, and her lip twitched again. Then nodded to Nikolay, subserviently. ¡°...okay. Um¡­ new rules, then. Now you have to announce exactly what you¡¯re going to throw at the count of two. Anything said before or after that is invalid.¡± She glanced at Nikolay. He gestured for her to keep going. She bit her lower lip. ¡°...and you have to say it loudly. No whispering or mumbling. Everyone has to understand what you¡¯ll be throwing. Got it?¡± ¡°Perfectly.¡± She turned to Ehije. Her eyes were wide, but not apologetic, or sad. It was as if she were trying to speak to him through the sheer brilliance of their color alone. Speak with a glance the way Teresa managed to. He stiffened up. ¡°...fine.¡± ¡°Great. Well¡­ let¡¯s start round two.¡± Ehije looked distressed, but it wasn¡¯t because this turn of events was unexpected. Even if Nikolay hadn¡¯t changed the rules in the middle of the game, Ehije couldn¡¯t have used the same trick twice. Nikolay would be wise to it. No, he looked distressed because this meant that there had to be another flaw in this game¡¯s design, a puzzle Ratna had designed for him to have suggested such a specific rule. There had to be. Nothing in this place was an accident. Every word spoken, and every word omitted, had a purpose, and she wouldn¡¯t have given him that second glance if she wasn¡¯t trying to tell him something. Hope had to be here somewhere. He had to think. ¡°Excellent. Begin the countdown, won¡¯t you Ratna?¡± He had to think quickly. Okay, well, one thing he knew for sure: she was trying to give him time to think, and less time for Nikolay to think. That¡¯s why the deadline to announce his throw was two instead of one. The way that she emphasized that ¡®everyone has to understand¡¯ was also probably a sign as well: that the way he said his throw was no longer a viable option. He shouldn¡¯t be looking for those kinds of ways to cheat the system. ¡°One¡­¡± But what other options did that leave him? If Nikolay was always going to know what Hakeem was going to throw, he would always win- -wait. Wait, that¡¯s it. The chink in the armor. ¡°Two¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m throwing scissors.¡± ¡°Good for you.¡± He licked his lips and took a deep breath. ¡°...three!¡± Nikolay threw rock. Ehije threw rock, too. ¡°...what the hell are you doing now?¡± Nikolay groaned, massaging his forehead irritably, ¡°Ratna, what fucking stunt are you two pulling?¡± ¡°None, sir. He didn¡¯t throw what he said he¡¯d throw, so he loses.¡± Nikolay looked on, suspiciously and expectantly in equal measure. ¡°...so¡­ hand me my chips, maybe?!¡± ¡°I would, but you didn¡¯t win. He lost, sure, but you lost too. It¡¯s called a tie.¡± ¡°You¡¯re shitting me.¡± ¡°Eh¡­ ties are a thing in Rock, Paper, Scissors, boss. It happens like one in every three times, normally.¡± He sighed. Loudly. Annoyed. Twitching as the demons continued to feast on his quickly dwindling yet inflamed nerves. ¡°...so, what, Hakeem? Is your plan to just keep us in a draw forever? Spend the rest of eternity with me, throwing down signs until one of us gets bored or our asses fuse with our chairs?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not possible.¡± Ratna, again, helpfully intervened, ¡°time is still passing in the real world, and eventually, he¡¯ll wake up. If the game¡¯s not resolved by then, it¡¯ll be a draw. Not that I¡¯ve ever seen that happen before.¡± ¡°...so he¡¯s stalling,¡± Nikolay loudly spelled out. Ehije looked away, trying to not reveal anything with an errant expression or poorly-timed look. ¡°He¡¯s stalling¡­¡± Nikolay repeated himself, ¡°because he realized he¡¯s in over his head and he can¡¯t possibly win this, is that right?¡± ¡°What are you going to do about it?¡± Ehije asked in a way that made it clear he had no plans to confirm or deny the accusation, ¡°You could always give up.¡± Nikolay twitched. ¡°...let¡¯s. Play. Again.¡± Ehije smiled, and they started once again. ¡°One¡­¡± ¡°Two¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯m throwing paper¡­¡± ¡°Three!¡± And the hands dropped: Nikolay threw scissors, and Ehije threw scissors too. ¡°Another tie! Real shocker there.¡± ¡°But it was a real close one,¡± Ehije licked his lips, ¡°almost got me. You¡¯ll get it next time, big guy.¡± Nikolay was a human being: a complex, complete, and whole being who was smart, proud, and clever. Normally, Ehije would never even try to con such a competent person, regardless of how evil they were. But while Nikolay was a complex creature, the demons that were gnawing at his insides were simple and basic. Instinctual. Primal. Animals. Their strings could be effortlessly pulled because they had only one string to pull: an insatiable and irresistible hunger to validate their own sense of importance. Power over others was the only food Nikolay could feed them, and they were demanding diners. The fourth round was a tie. They were growing hungrier and hungrier with each tie, and thus, more demanding, more active, and more violent as they thrashed about in Nikolay¡¯s body. Nikolay knew that playing to a draw wouldn¡¯t ultimately be a problem: he still had control over the Wheel. He still had pieces in motion that would get him more power, yet more control, and yet more ways to feed those demons. But the demons were not capable of such forward thinking, such detailed planning. They were simple. Instinctual. Primal. Animals. They wanted blood, and they wanted blood now, because each round, each tie, they were getting a frustrating reminder. The fifth round was a tie. They were reminded that they were losing. Maybe not the game, but losing in a match of wits. Hakeem had managed to find a weakness with the game¡¯s rules to take refuge in, and while Nikolay could change the rules, that would be an admission of defeat: that he couldn¡¯t think around the rules the way Hakeem had. That Hakeem was smarter. That Hakeem was the better manipulator. That notion was unpalatable to the demons, who grew more impatient and hungry as they failed, time and time again, to land a decisive blow. Which, in turn, made the complex and competent Nikolay think more desperately about a way to satiate them. To prove he was better. ¡°Sixth round. Maybe it¡¯ll end in another tie? Who fucking knows?!¡± Ratna goaded, ¡°Are you both ready?!¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Hakeem grinned, so¡­ certainly. So assured. And it was in that moment that Nikolay had a dawning revelation. Of course he was sure: because all this time, Nikolay had been so goddamn predictable. He always threw the hand that would beat what Hakeem announced. But all this time, the past four rounds, Hakeem had been predictable too: he was throwing hands he knew would end in a tie. The demons purred in his blood as they anticipated the upcoming victory. It was so simple he couldn¡¯t help but think it genius. ¡°One¡­¡± Nikolay actually smiled, and leaned forward: showing a real investment into the game once again. ¡°Two¡­¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be throwing scissors.¡± ¡®Which means I,¡¯ Nikolay thought, nodding silently, ¡®Will be throwing paper.¡¯ Ratna paused for dramatic effect, a habit she never tired of. ¡°...three!¡± Nikolay dropped paper. And Ehije dropped scissors. The demons went wild. ¡°...wow. The dude tells you what he¡¯s throwing and you drop paper? You hit your head, boss?¡± Ratna laughed, dragging ten more chips to Ehije¡¯s side of the table. Ehije, for what it was worth, felt a huge weight lifting off his chest: he only had one chance to time that right, and he was lucky the demons wouldn¡¯t let Nikolay put any space between the round he had his winning realization and the round he decided to utilize it. But then, the impatient rage of such basic creatures was never hard to read. But in the end, it was all thanks to Ratna. The wording was so precise -- but in a game like Rock, Paper, Scissors, the difference between ¡°Hakeem losing¡± and ¡°Nikolay winning¡± was enormous. But judging by the look on Nikolay¡¯s face, he was never going to get that chance again. ¡°...Ratna,¡± Nikolay spoke in a nearly even tone, the faint hiss of a kettle near boiling barely escaping his tongue like an undertone. His talons were dug into the table. ¡°I win ties now.¡± Ratna shot Ehije an apologetic look, and nodded. ¡°...right. New rules. In the event of a tie, the owner of the Wheel-¡± ¡°-NO.¡± She stopped. ¡°...no. No no no. He has two of the three stacks, Ratna. Did you think I wouldn¡¯t fucking catch that one?!¡± She froze a bit. Those reassuring glances, the ones she gave Ehije to assure him there was a plan, didn¡¯t follow. She remained motionless. A wolf caught in the sights of the hunter. ¡°Say my name, Ratna.¡± ¡°...new rule,¡± she repeated with no energy, no flourish, no hope, ¡°...in the event of a tie, Nikolay wins.¡± ¡°Very good,¡± Nikolay preened, turning to his opponent at the far end of the table. ¡°Credit where it¡¯s due, Hakeem, you were an annoying little turd. But I still hold all the cards here. I still run this game, and there are no more loopholes for you to hide in. You should really have savored your last win, it¡¯s the last you¡¯re ever going to get.¡± Ehije¡¯s mind was racing. He was close. He was so close to pulling out the victory. But just like last time, Nikolay wasn¡¯t a fucking idiot. He was just competent enough to be able to see through the final deception and pull out a victory. He was right. There were no other places to hide. No more chinks in his armor. If he couldn¡¯t hide behind ties anymore, there was no way to both honestly announce what he was going to throw and trick Nikolay into willingly throwing a losing hand. His eyes glanced to Ratna, whose bruised face was turned down, to the ground. His eyes scanned the room. It was hot from Nikolay¡¯s passionate rage. There were no ice-cold eyes to temper that anger. ...and he saw his chink. ¡°...Nikolay, it might be true that you won this game. It certainly seems like it,¡± Ehije started, his lips turned up yet not quite smiling, ¡°but I am not afraid of losing. I¡¯m sad about losing, yes, but I am not afraid of it. Nor am I afraid of you.¡± Nikolay¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Nikolay, I need you to understand: you are weak. You are so pathetically weak. I would call you a yapping dog, but even the smallest dogs have teeth. You want to control people using fear, but you are not scary. You lack the imagination and the cruelty needed to inspire true fear. But without fear, you have no idea how to control people. Which makes you the perfect lackey for people who do know how to use others, people who know how to play to your simple, stupid desires. People who give you the illusion of power by loaning you a fraction of their own, and use you until you¡¯re no longer valuable to them.¡± Ratna was looking up. She locked eyes with Ehije for a moment, before turning to Nikolay. Nikolay, whose demons needed satisfaction. Nikolay, who¡¯s hot, full-bodied rage had nothing to temper it. Nikolay, whose hatred of insults was matched only by his hatred of the truth. She could see the demons in his eyes. And the wolf began to salivate. ¡°Even now. You have nothing. Your power is borrowed from a higher power, who doesn¡¯t even acknowledge you exist. And you lack the importance and the strength to make anything useful of it. The best you¡¯ve ever done is cheat at a game of your own design because you¡¯re so incompetent you can¡¯t even win a rigged game.¡± Nikolay¡¯s fingers started to twitch. The coils in his legs, ready to lunge, tightened. ¡°I do not fear you, Nikolay. I pity you.¡± ¡°One¡­¡± Ratna muttered, leaning forward. Nikolay clenched his fist into a tight ball. The demons had completely taken over his body. They could be denied no longer. They were too short-sighted, too impatient to wait until the game had its victory to extract their long-overdue vengeance. And Hakeem¡­ Hakeem was too tempting a meal to ignore any longer. ¡°Two...¡± Ratna continued. ¡°Paper,¡± Ehije said. Nikolay lunged at Ehije. Ehije raised his hand. For the first time all game, Ratna did not pause. ¡°Three!¡± The slam of flesh on flesh, a shockwave strong enough to shake the entire Wheel. A black hand, cupped around a small white fist. Paper enveloping a hard stone. Paper beats rock. Nikolay looked shocked. At first, that someone would block his fist. But then, when his adrenaline and rage-clouded mind cleared, at what exactly had transpired. His eyes, wide and milky and staring a thousand yards away, slowly lowered to the fist he had made, and Ehije¡¯s victorious grin. ¡°...n-no. No, no no no.¡± He tried to pull his hand away. With trembling fingers, he made a peace sign, the sign of the scissors, and offered it to the empty air. Ratna, every single tooth in her mouth exposed to the bloodied air of the Wheel, shook her head, placed her hand on his, and lowered it onto the table. ¡°Nikolay.¡± He blinked away a tear. ¡°...you lose.¡± He gasped, and with a terrified yelp, tried to pull his hand away, to stagger to the door. But Ratna¡¯s grip was shockingly strong, and he was unable to pull away. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, and squeezed. Hard. ¡°Hey. New old boss.¡± She growled, her amber eyes nearly exploding with light out of their sockets, ¡°...is this bitch a guest¡­ or an intruder?¡± Ehije, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt, allowed his smile to turn cruel. ¡°...he is an intruder, my dear Ratna.¡± Nikolay turned around. His fear had merged completely with his anger, his adrenaline, the demons that leashed and clawed at everything, telling him to fight. But as he prepared to roar into battle, to fight tooth and nail to survive, his anger, and his hatred, and every demon that raced through his blood was tamed. Because behind Ratna was a towering, monstrous figure, and each and every eye was locked onto him. An absolute entity that no mortal passion could hope to overwhelm. And his weakness gave rise. ¡°N-no, wait, no, please, Ratna, I-¡± He tried, but Ratna closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, her lips pushed hard against Nikolay. Silencing him. And muffling his screams when her teeth started digging into his lips. Drawing blood. Tearing flesh. ¡°A-aah! Aaaah!!¡± She pulled her face away, taking most of his lower lip with her. She spat it on the ground. Nikolay, shivering and crying, dropped to the ground and staggered to the door, but when he pulled on the door, it clicked: reminding him in a simple tone that he himself had locked it. Ehije watched with a grim satisfaction as Ratna prowled behind her prey, limping but precise nonetheless, drew a large chunk of sharpened porcelain -- a chunk of Teresa¡¯s old body, turned into a shiv -- and gracefully plunged it deep into the back of Nikolay¡¯s neck. He stiffened, and as the blood poured over them both, Ratna wrapped her arms around the paralyzed, wounded soul, and dragged it away from the door. Away from the solitary light that hung over the door. And into the darkness. The demons would never get their chance to feed. But the wolf would. ~*~ ¡°Burn Bright¡±, by The Heavy, played on the radio. It had taken Ratna and Ehije almost thirty minutes to figure out how to make it work. ¡°Well, it took a bit¡­¡± Ratna started, pouring three beers -- even though Mr. Eight didn¡¯t drink -- and handing them out, ¡°But¡­ we got Nikolay and even Helmut. You did good, man. Real good.¡± They toasted without a word, and allowed each other a few moments to drink. ¡°That just leaves Marie Walker herself.¡± ¡°If I am not shot dead when the cops arrive,¡± Ehije sighed, the thrill of his victory not nearly as long-lasting as the realization of his current situation. ¡°Don¡¯t even worry about it, Hakeem. We¡¯ll make sure you live. And we¡¯ll even get you out of jail when we¡¯re done. Won¡¯t even cost you your wish.¡± Her bloody smile wasn¡¯t reassuring, but it was weirdly charming. He took another drink. ¡°By the way. I suppose I should tell you now that I trust you. My real name is not Hakeem. It is Ehije.¡± ¡°...weird thing to lie about, but alright.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Considering the circumstances I do not think it is that strange. The old stories say there is power in names. With a place as magical and ancient as the Silver Wheel, caution is reasonable.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t argue that, I guess.¡± She took a drink, ¡°Well, I¡¯ll tell Teresa that, if or when she gets back.¡± ¡°Yes¡­ I am curious, what your plan is right now.¡± ¡°Ugh, plans? I¡¯m trying to drink,¡± she rolled her eyes, but then paused for a thought. ¡°...well, I doubt Teresa¡¯s going to hire a new bartender until Marie¡¯s taken care of. Wouldn¡¯t want to drag another soul into this mess, I¡¯d bet. So when she gets back and gets the good news, she¡¯s probably going to want to clean up, then we¡¯ll have a¡­ all-hands or whatever to go over the final phase. Then you get your wish and this place goes back to however the hell it was supposed to run before this mess happened.¡± She took a long swig. ¡°...course¡­ we don¡¯t do so good with plans, y¡¯know. So probably? Something goes wrong and we wing it.¡± ¡°I was afraid you would say that.¡± ¡°But hey, hey, what about you?¡± She pressed, scooching a bit closer to him. He scooched away. ¡°Say this goes perfectly and we win. What ya gonna wish for?¡± He looked at the empty space behind the bar where Ture had been. Frankly: his plan had been to get the key back then take the bartender¡¯s deal. But with Ture out of the picture, he supposed he really did have nothing else to fight for than this wish. So he took a drink, and then made it longer to cover the fact he was still thinking, and when he came to an idea he settled on he slowly lowered his mug. ¡°Assuming nothing changes my mind in the interim, I would wish to become the new owner and CEO of Walker Industries and Bigger Skies. I may not know much about Marie Walker and her own plans, but I would love to get my hands on that technology. I would move myself to a better reality. I would use the money to rebuild it into a utopia and to become its king. And once I own this new reality completely, I would make sure it could never be soiled by stupid, ill-informed, and entitled people. Banish them to my current reality, where they¡¯ll be more comfortable¡­ and welcome to give me their money.¡± She snorted. ¡°Not trying to win any Nobel Prizes, huh?¡± ¡°Charity is largely nothing but wasted time and effort. I¡¯ll be a good person once I¡¯m in a world that deserves it.¡± ¡°Hey, it¡¯s your wish. I ain¡¯t judging.¡± He finished his drink, leftover alcohol staining his lingering breath, and felt a twitch in his arm. He glanced at it. ¡°...I think I¡¯m going to be woken up soon.¡± ¡°Seems like it. Wanna head for the door?¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll stay here a bit longer. Just to see what it¡¯s like.¡± He reached for Mr. Eight¡¯s untouched glass, but as his fingers wrapped around the handle, his eyes opened to a bright light and the shouts of some very angry armed men. He sighed, smiled, and sat motionless as the paranoid cops screamed orders at him, afraid perhaps that he had some kind of weapon under the blankets. It was going to be a long day. ~*~ ¡°And¡­ now.¡± ...Ture opened his eyes. He sat up, gasping. There were lights everywhere. He was sitting on something soft. There were people all around him. He was dressed in pink. The whir of electricity surrounded him, as well as hushed congratulations and a few applauding hands. ¡°Oh shit it worked.¡± He wheeled around. Marie was laying next to him, yawning as she eased out of bed. She was dressed in her pajamas. All pink. She even had bunny slippers on. ¡°What¡­ what do you-¡± ¡°-Oh, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face. And Teresa? That was great. I¡¯m great. Good, healthy sense of humor,¡± she smacked her lips a few times, locking eyes with Ture, ¡°Welcome to the real world buddy. Want some eggs?¡± He looked down at himself. He was not¡­ him. That made sense. He died in 1998, after all. Even if a version of him was still around he would have to be¡­ eighty by now. Maybe more. He didn¡¯t know exactly what year it was. His body was chubby, plump in the face, black hair, tanned skin¡­ without looking at his face, he guessed he was some Polynesian. With trembling hands, he grabbed his own throat, to feel his pulse. He put his fingers into his mouth, to feel the warm spit coat his fingers. And of course, he checked under his pants. A penis. After so long. ¡°...yeah, I want¡­ eggs.¡± ¡°Then buy some. I ain¡¯t your mom.¡± Marie flashed her teeth as a tray of eggs was put in front of her, ¡°you¡¯ll need money for that, though, and since a little birdie told me you lost your golden chips, you need a job for the green stuff. The way I figure, I could help you out on that front.¡± This was going too fast. He was dizzy. He wanted to throw up and pee and roll around on the grass. But he could barely find the mental capacity to stand, let alone keep up with Marie¡¯s spitfire mind. ¡°...a¡­ job?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I don¡¯t need a bartender. But you did come here at the perfect time, pal. An exciting time. Shit¡¯s about to go down. And I could use a man who¡¯s completely and impossibly indebted to me. Who also has a bomb in his stomach. Weirdly specific criteria, I know, but miracle of miracles: you check all the boxes! For now, anyway.¡± He blinked slowly. She laughed. Egg and spit flew into his face. ¡°You¡¯ve got a nomad soul. With that chip you can Sam Beckett between bodies all you want, as long as nothing¡¯s in there already. And thanks to a friend of mine, I have a lot of bodies with no souls in them and long, usually fatal to-do lists.¡± He sighed. ¡°So. Ready to raise some hell?¡± ¡°...after I get some fucking ice cream, fine.¡± ¡°Attaboy. Someone get this fat fucker some rocky road. Biggest bowl we got.¡± He sat, motionless, as reality washed over him. He could smell cleaning products, perfume, a thin layer of dust, and the sterile emptiness of a workplace. His tongue was dry and coarse, the air itself scratching and scraping as it traveled into and out of a parched throat. And his ears were serenaded with the sounds of people talking, machines whirling, and Dave Grohl making a very important observation over a distant cell-phone speaker. Keep you in the dark You know they all pretend Keep you in the dark And so it all began...