The ground floor of Big Top seemed remarkably ordinary. Don’t get me wrong, the high ceiling was adorned with crystal chandeliers, abstract murals moved along the walls, and furniture was engraved with gold patterns. It was probably the costliest room I’d been in, but all that was happening was gambling.
It was just a fancy casino. Roulette and card tables made up the majority, with only a handful of slot machines.
“You don’t think this is all there is, do you?” Gus must’ve noticed my underwhelmed expression as we walked further inside.
It wasn’t until I heard his voice I realized a key difference: I heard his voice. Clearly. The ringing in my ears had kept me from noticing before.
Compared to the chaos outside, subdued conversations made up the ambient noise. Rave outfits were traded for suits, albeit some were still colorful. The exhibitionists were gone. It was like the building used a wall of absorption that kept out not only sound and vibration but also the loonies.
“Am I missing something?”
“Do you seriously not research anything?” He stared at me incredulously, then clicked his heel twice on the floor. “The main event is in the basement. This turns transparent one-way when it starts.”
“Ah.” It made me nervous learning we were going to be watched so closely.
“Drink for you, sir?”
A young lady dressed as a fortune teller carrying a platter of drinks approached us.
She’s cute.
While the guests were more formally dressed, the staff were less so. Lion tamers, clowns, and ringmasters worked as dealers, while fortune tellers, trapeze artists, and human cannonballs served food and drinks. Or at least those were the outfits I was able to discern.
“Sure, thank you.”
The platter had inlaid gemstone patterns. The pattern and type of gemstone varied for each row of drinks. I reached for the drink closest to me.
[41.28 Eumalian dollars]
My hand twitched slightly, then carried on.
Accept.
“How about you sir?” She turned to Gus.
“No.”
I took a sip as we kept moving between the tables. Scotch. My nose scrunched up. My body shivered. Gus was staring at my drink.
“Did you want some?”
“Are you trying to die again all because your last attempt failed?”
“No. I told you why I’m doing this already.” I worked towards taking another hesitant sip.
“If you really are prioritizing joining Circus,” he pointed at the drink in my mouth. “Then why are you drinking?”
“The server was cute.” His peeved look didn’t let up, so I continued. “Relax, I’m not a lightweight.”
Our destination landed in sight, causing Gus’ complaints to quiet. Opposite to the end we entered through was a wooden reception desk.
The desk only had one employee working it, a man dressed as a magician. In contrast to his mystique, his voice was flustered.
“Sir, you have to use your real name.”
Arguing across the desk from the magician was a familiar figure. His left, bandaged arm was outstretched at the receptionist.
“I have many true names. If The Dark Lord is taken, you can use Dark Horizon or Horseman of Dusk.”
He seemed settled on a dark theme. His trench coat and hood matches his black bandaging and nail polish.
“See, you should’ve gone with a theme as well.”
“I have shame, thank you.”
We continued to the desk, and I placed my free hand on The Dark Lord’s shoulder.
“Yo Alan!”
The spirits added some soul to my actions. We weren’t close enough to warrant this type of greeting, but my third sip of scotch begged to differ.
Alan turned around, seeming startled by our presence.
“Hey, Cash. Hey, Augustus. What are you two doing here?”
That didn’t sound very chuunibyou.
“The same as you. Trying out for Circus.”
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t surprised to see Alan there. I imagined you had to live one sheltered life to go without being bullied out of that character. Perhaps he fell too far into his delusions.
“His name is Alan?” The receptionist cut in.
“No! It is Lord of the Cursed Arm.”
“Okay, Alan. You are number 31. Please descend the stairwell.”
The magician gestured to a set of stairs to the side of the desk. Only the first couple steps were visible. A veil of darkness that absorbed the hall’s lights prevented us from seeing further.
After some fruitless protesting by Alan, he slinked down the stairs. It was our turn at the reception desk.
“Cash? Augustus?”
He seemed annoyed. His eyes narrowed on me.
Oh come, on. I set my ID to be visible for him. He scanned the empty air.
“Sorry.”
Is that pity? What the hell?
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Cash number 32, Augustus number 33.”
“I wanna be 33.”
Any semblance of pity was instantly lost. Hey, it was a lucky number. Gus had enough luck at his birth. He didn’t need any more.
“Leave, both of you.”
“Why am I being grouped with those two morons?” He sighed while we both made our way to the veil of darkness. “I guess we’re really doing this.”
I guess so.
Once we passed the initial shadow, the remainder of the trip down was well-lit. Torches lit up a stone stairwell that spiraled downwards. It gave off a medieval feel.
Our shoes hitting the stone and crackling of the torches were the only noises as we walked side by side. The doorways blocked the ambient noise.
Neither of us started a conversation.
The stairwell transitioned into a long corridor that ended with another shadow of a doorway. The person they hired for these must’ve been paid by the hour over per doorway. It seemed excessive.
There was another shift as we crossed the barrier. Conversations filled a barren chamber. I didn’t count, but, if I had to guess, there were 31 people in the room.
I scanned looking for Alan.
The bulk of the people, the ones I first noticed, looked nothing like Alan. Neither did they look like Gus and me. They were on edge, rough around all their edges, and in need of a straight-edge razor.
They were probably homeless or thugs.
The tough type of homeless. The ones who are attracted to Carnival of all places to get rich or die. The ones who trust themselves over shady studies, selling body parts, or I guess being a human punching bag.
This was one of the more flashy options Eumalia had in place to solve their money troubles.
Aren’t the homeless supposed to be starving? I had no doubt most of them could take me in a fight.
Fortunately in general, unfortunately for me at that moment, with virtual currency leading to safer storage of money, food wasn’t as large an issue. Demand for money came from other categories.
Whether that be from their addictions demanding money, shelter from the climate, or the yearning this glamorous city invokes, Eumalia brought it out. There were some protests calling on Eumalia’s ability to regulate its internal climate for the homeless’ sake, but I didn’t follow them.
Regardless. Most could probably take me in a fight.
Another type I spotted didn’t look wealthy. They lacked the weathered roughness the streets provided, had better hygiene, and their clothes lacked holes.
The debtors. They were likely in need of fast money for whatever their sob story was.
I gave myself a fifty-fifty against any one of them.
Then, there were the eccentrics. Colorful dots in the crowd of muted colors. They were the wild cards. Idiots…
Ah, there’s Alan!
… or barracuda.
When I got closer, I noticed someone talking to Alan, another familiar figure. A tan lady wearing a dress with varying shades between red and yellow making up patterns of fire.
“Meryl?”
“Cash? What are you doing here?” She seemed as surprised as me.
“Just having some fun with my buddy Gus.” I brought my arm holding my empty scotch glass around Gus. At some point that wasn’t noticed, I finished it. “You?”
Gus threw my arm away.
“Nothing much.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “On average, only a quarter of people survive this event though. You two should find somewhere safer to have fun.”
The same applied to her. She knew that, yet she still chose to be here.
“Thank you. Please talk some sense into him.” Gus chimed in.
“Don’t worry this isn’t the average night.” Even Alan turned from his own world to pay closer attention. “There’s 33 of us here tonight, so it can’t be average.”
Just then, the doors opened. Everyone instinctively turned their heads over. There was a brief lull of silence.
Three unkempt, sizeable men entered the room. They scanned the area and made their way to a group of similar men.
“You were saying, Sherlock?”
“Whatever. Top 25 percentile is easy peasy.”
“Maybe for me. You’ll need a miracle.”
Meryl pushed us further apart from each other and stepped between us. Her hand was soft.
“Guys, don’t fight. This event will be hard enough without you two fighting each other.”
“Hard? Maybe for Gus.” My voice was borderline a shout. “I can take down every one of these chumps in this room, easy.”
It was one of those moments when the room all randomly happens to go silent at once. All that was left was my voice. All that was left for me were murderous glares.
I didn’t mean to shout. I wasn’t worked up at all, only having fun. It’s just alcohol tends to raise your voice without you realizing, ya know?
Or can I blame the blaring music that blew out my eardrums? I only accept partial responsibility for my stupidity.
Once the moment passed and conversations picked back up, Gus finally retorted. “Smooth one. Meryl, do you have any red paint, so I can draw a target on his back for him?”
Minutes passed by with casual banter. No additional participants entered the room.
The threatening hand signs directed towards me went ignored.
Finally, the doors opened for their final time. The torch lights extinguished. Spotlights sped around the room, then converged on the new person.
The host arrived. Another familiar figure.
His hair was stripes of white and black. His suit was cashmere with jewels replacing each button. I looked over to Meryl.
She didn’t notice my gaze. Her eyes were focused on him.
Really?
The room lit up. Beside our host was a cart with 36 tubes. Inside each tube was a red liquid.
I guess the show’s begun.
“Welcome guests and participants. I am your host for the day, Dante. Above you are projections of the different participants.”
There were no projections or monitors above us. This information was meant for the guests above.
“This floor has been broken up into 81 different rooms. Groups of 4 will be divided between the 9 centermost rooms.”
Okay, so it sounds like a square grid set-up.
“Each adjacent room is connected with a door. Placing a hand on the door handle will trigger an event to open the door. Work through the rooms to find exits. A number will be engraved on each exit correlating to how many people it can take.”
Simple enough, open doors and find a way out.
“The total number of exit slots is 18.”
There was quiet chatter among the crowd.
I could instantly tell there was more being left out. Perhaps the challenges on each door were extremely life-threatening. Otherwise, there was nothing bringing the survival rate from 50 to the estimated 25 percent.
The detective work was only a justification for my hunch. My gut told me there had to be more conflict for an event like this.
That, and there was still the unexplained cart.
“Beside me is a cart of viruses. Well, they are more similar to a curse-virus cross. If you are infected by the curse you can transfer it to a healthy person via your DNA.”
Huh… My drunken brain couldn’t process his purposefully vague crap. Bet you feel so smug with your stupid hair you spend hours on.
“After the curse has grown for 90 minutes, it will kill its host. 24 of these vials contain the curse, while 12 of them are placebos. You survi-”
Achoo!
I sneezed into my pocket square. My cheeks were flushed from a mix of alcohol and embarrassment, an unlikely duo.
Death glares were sent at me for the second time today. Even Meryl gave me a harsh look for interrupting her crush.
“I’ll wrap it up there. It seems some of us are raring to go.” The target on my back grew larger, the stares more intense. “Everyone come grab a vial.”
Several men bumped my shoulder on the way over.
“You will need to take a sobriety pill before accepting the contract.”
Dante approached me individually. In his hand was the same white pill from the restaurant.
Meryl was giving me a jealous look. She seemed upset at herself for not getting drunk and having Dante approach her.
[Sobriety pill, 50 Eumalian dollars]
Overpriced.
There was a house rule that banned you from applying for Carnival again if you left at this stage. I needed money.
“Hey Gus, do you happen to have 39 dollars?”
My third death stare occasion of the night.
Alan ended up lending me the money. In exchange for vowing to a dark pact contracting my soul as collateral, he lent it to me.
After Dante approached a few others with the same pill, we all received a system message.
[Play a game… 50,000 Eumalian dollars pending. Pending 35,000 wealth]