Beneath the dimmed skies, the biting wind nipped at a hurrying man’s face as he weaved between the crowd such as a fish in the river does. A few worrying wrinkles graced his pointed face, and his narrow eyes quickly peeked back and forth between his wrist and the blue-light screen of his phone, shoes clicking against smooth concrete. The man cursed, then spun around into a cramped, dinghy alleyway, brows furrowed in consternation.
Victor Castillo was his name. As he unlatched himself from the masse and into the familiar dark, he relaxed as though his shoulders had borne the weight of the sky. He'd certainly felt like Atlas as he’d waded through the solid presences of the other people, each cradling their little stories bedecked with the lace of innumerable experiences. For none of them, he wanted to know what they knew.
The pervading, rancid scent of mold invaded his sinuses, and he wrinkled his nose at it. At that, he caught sight of the pronounced eyebags atop his high cheekbones in the shut-off phone reflection; he decided instead to give a cursory glance up at the roiling sheet of dull gray above.
This damn alarm, he thought to himself, cursing at whichever fate decided it was funny to push him off his usual schedule today. I’m going to get an earful from the boss. Ah, it doesn’t matter right now, I should focus on damage-control. He felt his feet itch to speed up.
When Victor brought his eyes down, he found himself in an ornate chamber with all the atmosphere of a mausoleum. Darkened shadows graced its corners, mahogany wood paneling inlaid with meticulous floral linings and wallpapers abound. Around and on the tables, cabinets, and plush chairs scattered about held various collectibles and gilded possessions and prominent antiquities of all kinds and places. There were randomized items and trinkets in the glass-covered bookcase: little dolls and silver watches, beaded bracelets and wrinkled journals.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes; blinked again. Then, he yelped, the sound of his voice a crashing cymbal in the silence.
"Quiet," a rough voice grunted behind him. It belonged to a sitting man that seemed similar in age to him, albeit with corded muscle that his shirtsleeves and ironed trousers did not hide. His face was covered by an oblong porcelain mask with a roughly painted blue "B" in the centre. Victor felt like a matador facing off an aggressive bull, with none of the courage of one.
"Where did you take me?!" He accused, gesturing wildly at the unfamiliar setting and completely ignoring the other's statement. "How did I end up here?!"
"Hell if I know," the other grunted again, shrugging. "One minute I'm walkin' through some alley, the next, I'm here. I didn't take you nowhere. Pray tell me, what's on my face currently?"
Only now did Victor notice the stifling presence enfolding his face as well. Intimidated by the other's notable presence, he answered quickly.
"A mask with a 'B' painted on it. What's on mine?"
"Same thing, but with 'A'."
"How long have you been here? Where is this? Where is the owner?" Victor continued, the questions spewing out his mouth with no thought behind them. It was a bad nervous habit of his.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Just before you,” B answered, irritation coming in waves off him from his corner spot. “No idea for the rest. How’d you get here?”
“Walked through an alleyway as well,” Victor explained in response, padding over to the massive double doors and tugging down at the golden handles. “It’s locked.”
“I checked everywhere else. Anything that can be opened is locked.”
“Is there any indication of wh—” A startling crash stole away their attention, doors slamming open to reveal a hulking figure—an executioner, by the looks of it, with a triangular black linen hood coating the robes tied at the bulging belly by a leather belt. A bear of a woman, too, the glint of a thick axe set upon burly shoulders. Victor immediately scrambled away from the doors back towards B, letting the shadow of a chair envelop him as his heart thundered in his chest rampantly.
B tensed besides him, head tilting up to rove around at the surroundings, before settling at the sash windows adjacent to him in the east corner. Victor grasped a jewel-encrusted chalice from the coffee table with shaking hands as the thumps of boots came ever so close to the both of them, echoing in the eerie air. It was all too silent; no birds chirruped in the forest seen through the windows, and no wind tugged whimsically at the trees.
“Takin’ this,” B suddenly murmured; he stole the chalice from Victor’s sweaty palms, hurling it at the window he’d put in his line of sight just a few seconds ago. The executioner paused to watch the spectacle with no hurry in her movements—it nagged at his consciousness more than if she’d simply rushed at them with the weapon.
To B’s chagrin and Victor’s horror, the chalice simply bounced off the window and thudded against the carpet flooring with a hushed clamor. The executioner turned towards the both of them; Victor felt as if his limbs had turned to stone, a thousand thoughts flitting in and out his mind.
Is this how I die? Without a clue of the situation? What is going on? I don’t want to die!
B rushed to the west wall, looping around and pumping his legs to its limitations at the open doors leading to what seemed to be the upper-floor hallway and main stairwell lined with balustrades. A heavy shame and regret welled up in Victor as the executioner stepped just in front of him with unbothered steps; he’d frozen up instead of grasping at the chance to escape, and that would cost him his life.
A burst of blinding white light like a flashbang exploded in front of B, barring his way; he instinctively closed his eyes, holding up an arm to soothe it. An animal—no, it seemed to be a creature of the supernatural, of noble mystique—unfurled its snowy wings with an arrogant elegance, razor-sharp claws leading up to a sleek, streamlined body covered in gold linings. Its eyes were hollowed with a yellow light; it had no legs, seemingly vaporizing into the quickly dimming glow below, as if a ghost.
Victor could only gape behind his mask, now thoroughly convinced he’d been dumped into a dream. It was the only explanation for his unlucky turn of events—just a few moments ago, he’d been a simple bartender burdened with failed hopes of a musician’s future, content to glide along anonymously for the rest of his life amongst the other fishes of the sea. Any moment now, he would wake up, and this feverish nightmare would fade away like all else.
He pinched himself on the arm. All his conjectures suddenly shattered when his nerves throbbed; this was real. He urged his wiry limbs to move instead of shake uselessly, standing up with the gaze of the executioner upon him. Then, she turned around, thundering back towards the doors to the side of the creature, and Victor breathed out a shaky sigh of relief.
B took a few steps back, seemingly uncertain. The creature let out a sharp cackle, wild and crazed, unbefitting of its appearance. Goosebumps erupted on Victor’s skin, and B shivered just a mote.
“Welcome to the Prisoner’s Dilemma game!” It announced with a spiked Cheshire grin that split its face in half, arms spread in welcoming. “I shall now announce the rules!”