Bruno Kelly’s nickname, although no one ever said it to his face, was ‘Fat Dog’. To date, he’d heard three contradictory stories behind why it stuck to him. After a few drinks, his secretary said it was just because he was fat, and he always seemed happy, like a dog. The CO of Engineering, Charlie Blake, told him while they were pissing it was because ‘he would agree to anything as long as you throw him a bone’. And his wife had suggested that it was because he was was fiercely loyal and very well compensated by CEO Marie Walker, who did seem to have a soft spot for him.
He didn’t mind the nickname no matter which of those stories was true. He was fat and he liked to seem happy. It might seem bad he had a reputation as being easy to please, but it could give him an edge if his partners expect him to roll over for anything. And he was, indeed, fiercely loyal and very well compensated by Marie Walker, a woman he considered both ahead of her time and very much a product of it.
But however he got the title, it was likely the reason the invitation on his desk had a rubber bone attached to it.
Flipping it open, he found it unsurprisingly light on details, listing only a time, a place,and a dress code: extremely formal attire. “If you’re wearing jeans or tennis shoes, you’ll be stopped at the door”, was at the bottom, and underlined twice.
Right next to Marie Walker’s signature. In pink. As was her way.
His only good suit was in Hong Kong, so he had to go shopping that evening, calling his wife so she could give him the fashion advice he desperately relied on. Men’s fashion had more-or-less been figured out at this point, of course, but his wife insisted the shade of black that looked best on him was very specific, and finding a tie that matched his unique shade of green-grey eyes was a task she only trusted herself with. She was very satisfied with her work as he walked out of the boutique, and he had to admit, he almost liked it better than his usual suit. Almost.
When he arrived at the selected location, however, Marie Walker wasn’t there. Just one of her limos, and a chauffeur who invited him inside without a word. A little dramatic, but he appreciated Marie’s eccentricities, so he played along, drinking champagne while watching Vancouver fly past him in a neon haze.
But his fondness for her eccentricities did not prepare him for drugged champagne.
And it certainly didn’t prepare him to wake up in a small, smokey, dimly-lit bar, filled with laughter, the clink of crystal glasses, and “Sympathy for the Devil" from The Rolling Stones.
“Ah, shit. Another one.” A surly blonde-haired bartender spat. “Party’s in the parlor, chubby. Try not to fall on anyone. And don’t ask me for any more fucking Himbeergeist. We’re almost out of fucking Himbeergeist. Christ.”
“W-where am I?!”
“Allow me to answer that.” A feminine but robotic voice came from behind him. He turned to see a white-haired young woman with narrow eyes and a stern but professionally acceptable expression. “I am Teresa, your waitress here at the Silver Wheel Gambling House. I understand you are here at Marie Walker’s… invitation?”
She said the last word with a certain acidity he couldn’t quite ignore. But he was comforted to hear her say a name he recognized, and he nodded his head once.
“Very well.” She bowed, gesturing to the door ahead. “Please join her in the parlor.”
A gambling house? That was somehow hard to believe. It’s not so much that he didn’t think Marie wouldn’t enjoy gambling -- quite the opposite, in fact -- but rather that it seemed strange she would feel the need to knock him out just to take him to something so mundane. That was the kind of thing you did in a drug trade, or… or some human trafficking thing. But this all looked very normal. And if it were some prank she probably could have done a better job of playing it up before he figured it out. At least put him in a basement.
The thought alone made him laugh. To think, he was working for someone who he thought would actually lock him in a basement as a prank.
Stepping through the door, he found himself in a very moderate-sized parlor, choked with tobacco smoke, the smell of alcohol, and shadow, as there was only one good light to illuminate the room and it unreliably flickered. But rather than a table, which he might have expected to find in a gambling parlor, the room instead hosted four dartboards, which hung from the far wall: each dartboard with twelve face-down cards pinned to them in a circle, like the numbers on a clock, with a thirteenth card in the middle, covering the bullseye. Standing before them, in a formal stiffness he would expect, was a dark-skinned man with beautiful green eyes and hair pulled back into a small braid.
But this host was far from the only man in the room. There were at least a dozen other people, dressed in their best suits and dresses, holding ornate glasses and chattering amongst themselves, cigars being passed around on a silver platter by the white-haired woman who… was just in the other room a moment ago? When did she slip past him?
Whatever. Among all the faces there, he only recognized Charlie Blake, who was uncomfortably chatting with a stranger, and… Marie Walker, who noticed him the same time he noticed her, and immediately waved.
“Ah, it’s our second guest of honor!” She announced fearlessly, cutting through the other conversations happening around her as she advanced on him. “Bruno! So glad you could make it!”
“Well, it was an honor to be invited to… wherever this is.”
“Ah, did Teresa not introduce you?” She asked, offended. Marie was a fan of pink, and everything she wore, from her shoes all the way to the bow atop her dyed hair, was some shade of it. It didn’t look good, but she wasn’t the kind of person who was ever ugly no matter how she dressed.
“I did, ma’am.”
“It’s the Silver Wheel Gambling House!” She laughed, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulder. “A class S-REM pocket dimension recently discovered by Rebecca Wu. I’ve been looking for it forever I’m so… freaking glad to finally be here!”
“Oh?” He blinked a few times, suddenly very anxious. Despite his job at Walker Horizons, he personally never had much interest in visiting the alternate dimensions his company had made its fortune mapping and exploiting. Until now, that had never been a problem, as the team dedicated to actually visiting these worlds had always worked as its own separate unit, Bigger Sky Labs, which was merely a subsidiary of Walker Horizons. But as far as he knew, this was the first time she had ever brought… or rather… tricked civilians into visiting a new reality…
The anxiousness must have bled onto his face. Because she started laughing.
“Relax, Bruno! It’s perfectly safe here! It’s very small, the locals -- well, most of the locals -- are very friendly, and-”
“-Most?”
“-And… well, yes, there’s the one called Mr. Eight, sent all the soldiers I sent in first packing, but as long as you don’t get too violent you don’t have anything to worry about, right?”
She paused, and turned to Teresa.
“...right?”
“That is correct, ma’am.”
“See? There ya go. It’s a dream world. The minute you want out, just walk out the door, boom. Ya wake up, you’re back at the limo, probably riiiight outside your house. So relaaaaax. Order something to drink. It’s all free. Network. Say hi to Charlie Blake. He’s our second guest of honor, y’know.”
She paused again.
“...first. You were the second. He was the first.”
He relaxed a little bit: regardless of what she was actually saying, she was a familiar face. And everyone else around here, sans Charlie (who always looked a bit on edge no matter the situation) seemed extremely at ease. He afforded himself a laugh, and plucked a cigar from off the silver tray, which was lit with one graceful motion by Marie and her pink, bedazzled lighter.
“Guest of honor, you say?” He mused aloud as he scanned the crowd again, but then leaned over to her to whisper. “I don’t recognize any of these other people… investors?”
“Sure, sure,” She whispered back. “They’re money. Big money.”
“I see. So… why am I the guest of honor?”
“Ah! The meat of the evening.” She suddenly shouted aloud, once again gathering the attention of all those in attendance. “Right, right, let’s get on with it! This is a gambling house! That means we need gamblers, players! That’s why you’re here! John! Take it away!”
“Heh, It’s actually ‘Juan’.”
“Right, John. Explain how this place works.”
The host slicked back his hair and loosened up his collar as Charlie was ushered towards them. Bruno had always admired Charlie, although it was one of those unspecific admirations that had neither form or function. He just seemed the admirable type. He was a younger man by at least two decades, having clawed his way into the company straight out of college and working up the ladder. He understood Charlie was far from the most gifted engineer in the team -- and he certainly wasn’t the most social -- but he had a genuine passion for his work and a creative mind that could find better solutions for seemingly solved issues. Marie once described him as a man who never empties his head: he’ll keep thinking about something even after it’s already been settled.
Charlie offered Bruno a curt nod. It was returned, although Bruno was actually smiling.
“At the Silver Wheel,” the host started, “You can wager anything for anything. Money, talent, health, fate… even your past. As long as you own it -- and if it isn’t the years of your life -- you can bet it! Think of this as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to change your life forever!”
Bruno whistled. Charlie hummed. Everyone else was murmuring excitingly.
“Both parties must agree that what they wager is fair before the betting can begin. Once the game starts, you can’t leave until the game is completely finished: if you can’t take the stress, the other player is the winner by default, and they take all the chips. It’s always all-or-nothing at the Silver Wheel!”
“And finally,” he broke out in a friendly, full-toothed chuckle, “Cheating is off-limits, of course. If you get caught cheating, you automatically lose.”
“Wow. What an utterly fascinating place,” Bruno marveled.
“It’s cool.” Charlie muttered between sips of his martini.
“And you said we can gamble anything we want?” Bruno looked to Juan… although it was Marie who stepped in and answered.
“Absolutely, anything at all! But I suggest you wager your weight.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” He laughed jubilantly, “I’m perfectly happy with my weight, and more importantly, so is my wife! But one thing I could stand is to get some hair back, if Charlie wouldn’t mind.”
“I wish I was better at talking to people, yeah.” Charlie shrugged.
But Marie just smiled.
“Because the bombs I’ve placed in your limos are triggered by weight, and can only be disarmed if you gain five pounds!”
Bruno was still smiling, but only because he wasn’t able to completely absorb what she said. She capitalized on their silence, and continued onwards, bobbing as she walked circles around them, swinging a champagne glass without a care for how often it spilled.
“Right now, the limos holding your sleeping bodies are cruising around Vancouver, locked from the outside so there’s no chance you can escape. In thirty minutes, they will both explode, and probably kill you both! The only way to disarm these bombs is to gain five pounds very quickly, and right now your only chance to do that is by gambling it!”
Finally, he stopped smiling. Confusion and disbelief took its place, and the first thing Bruno was able to stutter out was a half-formed and breathy ‘why’.
“For science! We need to understand how this place is able to manipulate fate if we’re ever going to do it for ourselves, and that means we need data. Right now countless instruments and cameras within the limos are measuring everything you can possibly imagine, and a dramatic, almost impossible bet like this, gaining or losing five pounds in less than half an hour, will no doubt unearth something.”
“But why me?!” Bruno shouted back immediately. Almost everything she said had gone in one ear and out the other. That wasn’t the “why” he was really asking about.
“...because you’re both predictable, of course. You both brown-nose me so I knew you’d accept the invite, and you’re both cowards so I knew you’d play. Neither of you will make the noble sacrifice of giving up his own life for the guy across the table: which is important, because everyone else is here to watch the show! Some good ol’ fashion bloodsports, y’know?”
He just now realized the only ones stunned silent by this revelation were himself and Juan. Everyone else in the bar, sans Charlie, was still chatting, laughing, watching the two men with eagerness and joy. They knew. They all already knew. And with that veil lifted he could now hear the sinister evil in their laughter, the malice in their chatter, and the bloodlust in their gaze as they waited for the wheel to spin. They wanted to see two gladiators fight to the death with nothing but their wits. And they were going to get it.
Charlie, though. He looked… not surprised. He had a look of fear and betrayal in his face, sure, but it was a very articulated expression, and it spelled “about time” very clearly. Almost as if he’d expected to be threatened by Marie at some point, and it was almost a relief that the moment had finally arrived. A relief that could almost be confused with calmness.
But it got Bruno to thinking that maybe Marie wasn’t telling the whole truth…
“Ma’am, I must protest.” Juan stepped forward. “The Silver Wheel has never allowed people to wager themselves to death. This is a clear violation of that law.”
“Then don’t let them gamble and they both die!” She retorted with a tap to his forehead with the glass in her hand. “It’d be a shame but, hey, you throw bombs in people’s limos you sorta have to expect this kinda thing will happen amirite?”
Bruno wasn’t saying anything. He was barely breathing. So she leaned over to him and whispered.
“Hey, fat dog. Now’s your cue to say something. Can ya speak, boy?”
He swung. Wild and undisciplined and terribly inaccurate. She stepped out of the way breezily, tutting all the while.
“Ah, ya shouldn’t do that, Bruno. Remember what I said about Mr. Eight?”
And suddenly, he felt a hand on his back. A long, formless, cold hand, more like a snake with five heads, each one hissing as it coiled around his spine, traveling up his back. He could feel talons, teeth, gingerly scraping against the skin on his back through his shirt, and he could feel his nerves burn everywhere they touched. He dared not turn around.
“...we don’t do violence here, Bruno. The only way out is through Charlie. Win, and you can go all John Wick on me if you want. But you have to win first. Right?”
Juan bit his lip. Bruno’s tension melted as the… thing that had reached for him slithered away. Only to re-stiffen when he remembered he was still very much at risk.
“...f-fine. I… I wager five pounds. And I swear to God, Marie, you’ll regret this.”
“Me too. The wager thing, I mean.” Charlie sighed.
There were, apparently, two small tables beside them. Either they had always been there and he hadn’t noticed, or they somehow materialized without warning. Atop the one next to Charlie were thirty blue chips. Bruno’s table had thirty red ones. They were cold, clean, and ready to be gambled.
“...the game…” Juan hesitantly started, “...is darts.”
It’s said that the game of darts can trace itself back to the reign of of King Henry VIII of England, in the late 15th century, by archers shooting at the rings that formed at the bottom of used barrels, although that story is saturated in rumor and myth. But it’s widely agreed upon that modern darts was first created in the 19th century, with an 1844 game called “Puff and Dart”, which was primarily aimed at children and played with a blowgun rather than with the wrists. The game was popular enough to earn some variations, but it wasn’t until 1896 that the modern version of the game was developed by a Lancastrian carpenter, Brian Gamlin, although even then the shape of the actual dartboard -- and how much each zone was scored -- was in near-constant flux. It wasn’t until 1924 with the foundation of the National Darts Association in London that the game got a standard set of rules, and started seeing international play.
“But darts is an entirely skill-based game with no gambling elements,” Juan stated unenthusiastically, “Which is why the variation we play at the Silver Wheel is different.”
He gestured to the far, now well-lit wall, where the four dartboards hung. To reiterate, each one had twelve face-down cards attached to their edge, going in a circle like the face of a clock, with a thirteenth card in the middle, over the bullseye. However, he noticed there were two other square boards, sandwiching the four dart boards, that were completely empty.
“At the start of the game, you will each ante six chips. This will get you five darts. You will each take turns throwing the darts at the boards on the wall. Hit a card, and it will be added to your hand, which will be displayed on the two empty boards next to the dartboards. This way, your opponent will always know the value of your hand. You continue to do this until all the darts are thrown, or both sides agree to end the round.”
“The goal, of course, is to construct the best possible poker hand. If your hand beats your opponent’s, you win the round, and the pot. Then, we’ll put the cards back on the dartboards in a new, random order, and the next round can begin.”
Bruno grimaced. He had never been good at gambling, but he had some talent for tavern games like these: he could routinely hit the bullseye of a dartboard three out of every five throws… it seemed Lady Luck hadn’t abandoned him entirely, if nothing else.
“Two more things to consider: at the start of each round, you can put two chips into the pot in order to get an extra dart. You can ‘buy’ as many extra darts as you like, so long as you have the chips to spend. At the end of the round, if you have six or more cards, you simply make the best five-card hand you can and discard the rest. Any darts you don’t use by the end of the round are returned to the dealer.”
“...and secondly, hidden on these boards are two Joker cards. If your dart lands on a Joker, you automatically lose the round. Furthermore, before the game begins, we will tell you each the location of one of the Jokers.”
“Now. Any questions?”
That was a lot to take in for the shell-shocked Bruno, who was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that somewhere in his home dimension, his unconscious body was trapped in a limo with a bomb. He was so overwhelmed that a thick coat of sweat had formed on his brow, but he had to prioritize his emergencies right now: compartmentalize, as his therapist often told him. So he tried his best to push that aside and focus on the task at hand.
In poker, there are nine valuable hands:
* A pair, or two cards of the same rank (2, 3, Jack, king, ect.)
* Two pair, having two sets of pairs.
* Three of a kind, or having three cards of the same rank.
* A straight, or having five cards in a sequence.
* A flush, or five cards of the same suit.
* A full house, which is a hand with both three of a kind and a pair.
* Four of a kind, having four cards of the same rank.
* A straight flush, having a straight and a flush at the same time.
* A royal flush, which was an Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and Ten of the same suit.
With no way to see which card was which, it seemed on paper that there was very little separating this game from normal five-card draw. But even without much poker knowledge, Bruno could see there were a few key differences: most obviously, without the proper skill, it was very possible to “draw” fewer cards than you needed, which certainly gave an advantage to people who knew how to handle a dart. But there were other things too -- knowing exactly what your opponent had made it easier to plan your hand: for example, he wouldn’t bother trying to make a straight with a two, three, five and six if he knew his opponent had three fours. Plus, there were still only 52 cards on the wall, which meant that the two Jokers must have actually replaced two other unknown cards-
“-You seem stressed.”
His train of thought was derailed. It was Charlie. Cool and collected, despite the excited, antagonistic jeers of their audience. In the few moments since Juan explained the game, it seemed he had calmed down considerably.
“And you’re not?”
“No. At the start, maybe. If this had been normal poker I might have been worried. But I can win this game. In fact…”
He shrugged as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“There’s a 100% chance you’re going to lose this, Bruno. Sorry.”
He said it with such assured certainly Bruno almost believed it, too.
“...you can’t possibly know that.”
“Mhm.” He hummed. “Are we starting now, John?”
“Juan. And yes. Please ante your chips to the pot. Once you’ve made your first wager, we’ll tell you each privately the location of a Joker.”
Bruno considered: he was pretty good at darts, but he couldn’t guarantee a hand better than a flush with just five darts. Eight… no, nine. Nine would give him a good hand with some leeway, especially if he hit with each one, while still letting him keep over half his chips. So it was six chips into the pot for this first five darts… then eight more chips for the extra four darts, giving him nine red-tailed darts, delivered on a silver tray by Teresa.
Charlie, however, dumped all thirty of his blue chips into the pot, prompting a surprised gasp from both the crowd, Marie, and of course, Bruno. Seventeen darts were handed to him, encased within an ornate silver box for easy carrying.
“B-but… why?!”
Charlie looked at Bruno dispassionately and boredly. Like a child staring at a stuffed animal they no longer loved.
“Because I’m going to win, obviously.”
The sweat grew heavier and hotter. There were so few lights in this bar, how the hell was it so damn warm in here? Clenching his teeth and his hands, his eye locked onto his nine darts, and then his wedding ring. Dammit. His wife was waiting for him in the real world, wasn’t she? And the kids. And his parents. And his brother, goddammit. He had to win this: for them and for himself. And so he could take Marie to court for every polished penny she was worth.
“Very well.”
Juan walked up to Charlie and leaned into his ear, to whisper the location of a Joker. Bruno was watching, waiting for his turn, and caught completely unaware when he felt a delicate hand brush up against his shoulder, and a feminine yet monotone voice whisper into his ear.
“Far left, at the 11 o’clock position.”
Bruno violently turned, but Teresa wasn’t where she should be: she was pouring another glass of brandy for someone on the other side of the room. He had more or less figured out she was some kind of ghost, but he still didn’t like it. When he turned his back to her, he felt an uneasy tickling against the base of his spine. He’d be a lot more comfortable if he knew where she was at all times. Or if he wasn’t here at all.
Goddammit.
“We’ll flip on who throws first. Would you be so kind as to call, Bruno?”
Juan was back at his place besides the boards, and there was enough of a lul following the question to give Bruno some much-needed space to think. Was there any advantage or disadvantage to going first? Going first would mean he’d have his “pick of the litter”, such as it was, and no cards could be claimed by his opponent first… but since he only knew what one card was (a card he should absolutely avoid), that didn’t give him an enormous advantage outside helping him start on his hand. However, for every card exposed, it did mean the odds of hitting the Joker by accident was technically smaller… so in that respect… there was a small, small edge given to the player who goes first.
Come to think of the Joker… he couldn’t imagine they were both told the location of the same Joker. That meant Charlie must have been told the location of the other one. Assuming that both Jokers weren’t on the same board, and that Charlie would avoid throwing a dart at a board with a Joker on it… maybe it would be better to let him throw first. In throwing at a dartboard, Charlie would telegraph one that was safe, and then Bruno could swoop in, pick it clean as long as the cards were easy to hit, then risk one of the other boards.
But then… Charlie had seventeen darts.
Maybe he needed to think of this differently. Charlie would have lots of opportunities to make a better hand than Bruno, but that also meant he’d have a better chance at hitting the Joker. But since Charlie knew where one was… his odds of hitting the second one, the one Bruno knew about, were extremely low. No, if he was going to win, he had to try to trick Charlie into hitting it.
...well. His opponent was smart. He would also likely figure that Bruno would avoid throwing darts at the board he knew had a Joker on it. So Charlie would probably throw his darts at whatever board Bruno threw at, both because he would figure it’s safe, and because it would deny Bruno any information on which of the other boards might be safe as well. It was a win-win from a strategic standpoint… unless he bluffed Charlie by throwing at the board he knew had a Joker on it.
But if Charlie threw first, that would change things. Since the natural strategy would be to throw at the board your opponent chose, throwing at a different board would look suspicious. So for this to work...
...Bruno had to go first.
“Heads.” Bruno finally said, remembering some old statistic that the heads was 1% more likely to land than tails.
Juan’s thumb popped from his closed fingers, and the coin spun wildly in the air.
And time, for its part, slowed to a crawl. The music, whatever the hell it was, dimmed until it was little more than a muffled whimper. It seemed every conversation around them, already hushed, had stopped on a dime to take a collective breath. Marie was leaning forward, watching the players while the world watched the coin. And Charlie… Charlie looked utterly and completely bored.
Juan snached the coin from the air.
“Shall I flip the coin before the reveal, Charlie?”
“Yes.” He replied immediately.
“Very well.”
And he slammed it against his closed wrist.
Bruno was still sweating, of course. Any man would, with such a spotlight on him. But he couldn’t reveal how much this flip actually mattered. If Charlie noticed something odd, he would think. And if he was thinking, he couldn’t be predicted. In that sense, his boredom, which should have been infuriating, was actually giving Bruno some hope: a man decided can be manipulated. But you can’t predict a man who was still unsure.
The coin was revealed. The tension had hit a new peak for the third time that night: if Bruno had any real hope of winning, he needed....
“Heads. Bruno, would you like to throw first?”
He had to roll an enormous amount of stress off his shoulders with what appeared to be little more than an indifferent shrug.
“...fine.”
“Good luck.” Charlie stepped aside, giving Bruno the floor to throw.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t want to hate Charlie, who was every bit the victim of Marie that he was. But he had no choice. If he didn’t hate Charlie, he’d have to pity him. And if he pitied him, he’d be weak. A mistake it was clear neither party had any intention of making.
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He stared at the dartboard on the far left, examining it carefully as he lifted his first dart. If this bluff was going to work, he’d need to do more than just hit a board with the Joker: he had to make a bet on his own talent and throw at a card near the Joker: at the one or nine o’clock position. Whatever he could do to make the Joker card look all the more enticing, and that part of the board safer.
That said, as he continued to aim, his tongue poking out and right eye squinted shut… he could feel his body quivering in fear. He could still only hit his targets in darts three out of five times consistently… not bad, but not great either. Plus, as the room had entered a hush in preparation for the first throw, he was forced to rediscover the simple fact that if he failed this, he would die. He had only grappled with his mortality once in his lifetime so far -- during the heart attack -- and he was incredibly unprepared to do it again, right now, when he needed to focus on throwing darts with pinpoint accuracy.
His breathing grew shallow. His skin, clammy. His fingers slick with sweat.
Compartmentalize… compartmentalize…
He remembered what he needed to live for. He remembered his family. He remembered his plans. And he imagined Marie’s too-smug grin twisting in despair when he got out of here. They might call him the dog, but he doubted Charlie would have the balls to try to take her down for this. Bruno wouldn’t. So he was going to win.
He exhaled the excess stress he didn’t need (keeping only a little to give him an edge), and threw the first dart.
Fourth board, 12 o’clock. Almost perfect.
“Two of spades. Great first throw, Bruno.”
“Thanks, Joh- Juan.”
The card was gingerly plucked from the dartboard and tacked onto the empty board on the left, the one closest to Bruno, for the world to see. There was a polite round of golf clapping as well, although the cynical hollowness of the gesture made it sting more than anything. Investors, Marie called them. Exactly what were they investing in anyway? He’d likely never know, so he simply tried to pretend they weren’t there.
He stepped aside. Charlie took the floor.
Bruno had expected some kind of hesitation or at least consideration from Charlie’s part, but there was none: he grabbed his first dart, aimed it as he pulled back his hand, and threw it: the blue-tipped dart soared in a perfect spiral, and landed on… the six o’clock card of the fourth dartboard. His bluff worked!
“Four of clubs. Technically… Charlie has a lead.”
The card was lifted off the dart board and placed on the empty board on the right. Each man had his own board, logically enough.
“A wonderful throw,” Bruno offered a shaky congratulations, but it was sincere enough to catch Charlie off-guard, “Do you play darts often?”
“...I… mess around with a lot of stuff when I think. Including darts.”
“Not bad… but I’m something of an old pro at these myself. If we weren’t already betting our lives, I’d bet that I don’t miss a throw before you.”
Charlie froze. He must have figured Bruno was planning something, and his always-on brain was trying to analyze exactly what it was. Poor thing looked trapped in the headlights, as if there were some kind of puzzle to decode hidden in his statement. Good. Maybe that’d throw him off a little.
Bruno threw again. Another solid hit, at the five o’clock card. A Jack of hearts.
Charlie appeared to shake off the taunt, although he took slightly longer with his next throw. Same dartboard, thank goodness, hitting the nine o’clock card. The two of hearts, and dangerously close to where the Joker was. With the twelve o’clock and the nine o’clock card gone, that meant only the 10 o’clock card was still adjacent to the Joker. Logically, Charlie would want to throw at where the largest clusters of cards would be, to avoid missing… so Bruno would have to make the rest of the dartboard equally sparse if this was going to work.
Because if it didn’t… he’d have to win through the quality of his hand, by some impossible method. And while two cards was still far too early to call, a Jack of hearts and two of spades did not build much confidence. Not when he only had seven more throws, compared to his opponent’s fifteen.
Hoo boy… here comes that sweat again. Compartmentalize...
“A towel, sir?”
“A-A-” He yelped, “D-don’t…”
He didn’t get the chance to finish. As he turned to face Teresa, who had helpfully delivered a towel to him on a silver platter, they both noticed that the audience was laughing. A long, dry, and terribly wicked laugh: at his sweating, and his nervousness, and now at the humiliated red that crawled up his face when they started calling him “fat dog”. He grabbed the towel, both to dab his face and hide his shame, if only for a moment, but then…
“I’d like to invite all our lovely guests to shut the hell up!”
Juan did not shout, it seemed he was incapable of that. But his voice was louder, somehow, as if he had turned up the volume of his voice without taking up more air. What’s more, it was dangerously cutting, and did an excellent job at least silencing some of the laughter. But since more persisted, he did as well.
“These two gentlemen are currently being threatened- they’re being forced to gamble their lives! Something we at the Silver Wheel do not endorse, and certainly don’t want to abide! It’s only natural that they should be nervous! However nervous they want to be!”
He was coming off as an overprotective mother, which actually made things worse. But as he returned the towel, Bruno could at least appreciate how irritated Teresa looked: either at the crowd, or at Juan, or maybe both. He couldn’t tell.
“Now I’m not going to pretend we’re noble,” Juan continued, “Gambling is not a… good thing, I guess, but it was always a choice! And someone always walked away with a better life by the end of a game here, and that, if nothing else, could be respected! But there’s nothing good about this! Not for the people who’re playing. Not for the people who matter.”
“Would you like some ice water as well, sir?” Teresa asked in a hush. Bruno nodded slowly. The laughter had turned into whispers. Maybe not for the content of Juan’s speech, but the mere fact it was happening was proof to some that perhaps Marie didn’t have the full control over this dimension as she might have claimed before inviting them here.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves… but I know you’re not. So since I can’t shame you, I can at least warn you: as the operator of the Silver Wheel, I also decide what’s a bannable offense. And if one more of you laughs at these two poor souls, I’ll be more than happy to have Mr. Eight not-so-politely escort you outside. Do you understand me?!”
A few people turned to Marie, as if they expected her to be responsible for this wet blanket over their once-enjoyable cocktail execution. All she could do was shrug.
“People. Can’t get away from unknowns in any dimension. Just stuff your faces, cram those smile-holes and you’ll be fine. Or just go out the front door, I don’t care. It’s not like any of you are sleeping on bombs. That I know of.”
She paused.
“...I need to make a few calls, actually. Don’t freak out.”
And she briskly stepped to the bar, leaving the room completely subdued by Juan’s threat. No one was leaving, but no one was laughing, either.
“Now. Gentlemen. I believe it’s Bruno’s throw, still?”
Bruno hadn’t been paying attention to Charlie at all during that speech, and if he had any emotional response to it at the time, he certainly wasn’t showing it now. But he knew enough tact to offer the host a polite nod -- perhaps thanks, perhaps mere acknowledgement -- before stepping aside for Bruno again.
Alright. There was some much needed and appreciated silence now. Bruno carefully lined up his dart with the three o’clock card… and with a flick of the wrist…
Ah, he was off. But he still hit the center card, which was actually a Jack of spades. Not bad: he technically had the lead, although it was the very definition of tenuous.
Regardless. The board was getting empty. A little too empty. Fewer cards meant he was more likely to hit the Joker, but it also meant he was more likely to move to another board, to minimize the odds of just missing. And Charlie was actually thinking before he even picked up his dart, pulling at the thin, reddish strands of hair that grew unevenly along his chin.
But then he picked one up, and threw it at the fourth dartboard again, landing at the one o’clock position. It was a Queen of spades.
Bruno hit at two o’clock, getting the seven of clubs.
Charlie hit at eight o’clock, getting a three of spades.
There were only five cards on the board left. One at three o’clock, one at four o’clock, one at seven o’clock, one at ten o’clock, and of course, the Joker at eleven. If Charlie intended to empty this one dartboard clean before moving on to the next, he would likely aim for one of the clusters, which meant Bruno would have to hit the three or four o’clock card. He liked his odds: they had astonishing luck hitting cards so far… Bruno hadn’t always got the card he was aiming for, but he was always able to somehow get something… which, so far, had been an immense relief. He also had the lead with a pair, another small relief, although he still had five darts to throw… while Charlie had thirteen.
Of course, it was always possible to get thirteen cards and lose to a pair. It just isn’t odds Bruno felt comfortable betting his life on. Particularly when Charlie was only two cards away from a straight.
He didn’t want to pause too much. It would reveal something he didn’t want, and it was making him realize that “Everlong” was playing on the radio, a song he always hated for every reason other than its actual quality. So he simply threw, aiming for the three or four o’clock card, and landing squarely on the three. He allowed himself a sigh as the eight of diamonds was revealed, and placed on his board.
But this was it.
It was now or never.
Charlie stepped up, and seemed to examine the board with a casual disinterest. He put his feet in position, lined up his shot, and then threw the dart.
It hit the card at eleven o’clock...
...on the center-left board.
Bruno was heartbroken, nearly falling to his knees in defeat as the revealed Ace of diamonds was placed on Charlie's board. That was it. That was game. There was no way he could naturally trick Charlie back to the far left board with the four darts he had left. And attempting to goad him there would no doubt lead to failure: pride could move mountains but when they were both being silently mocked by a bloodthirsty crowd it was hard to rouse one’s sense of ego.
Dammit, what was he going to do now?! Win by the better hand?! Right now, he was “winning”, with his hand consisting of a two of spades, a Jack of hearts, a Jack of Spades, a seven of clubs, and a eight of diamonds. Effectively, a pair of Jacks. Charlie had the weaker hand, with a four of clubs, a two of hearts, a Queen of spades, a three of spades, and an Ace of diamonds, but the number of extra draws he had at his command… and neither of them had missed a single time! It would be unreasonable to expect him to start now.
A better hand. It was literally his only hope as he stepped up and stared at the board with clenched teeth.
He threw at the same board Charlie did. A five of clubs, and three darts left.
Charlie got a six of hearts. One card away from a straight, with eleven darts left to throw.
Bruno bit his lip as he approached the dart board again. He was an idiot. He should have thought of buying all the darts in the first round too. The advantages it gave Charlie were obvious, and if Bruno had thought things over with a clear head for five seconds, he could have come to the same conclusion. He couldn’t let this one stupid mistake cost him his life.
He was sweating hard again. He felt a towel dab across his forehead. At least no one was laughing this time.
He threw. The Jack of diamonds. Three of a kind. He had three of a kind. Good. But not good enough to beat a straight. His happiness was short-lived.
Charlie threw. The Queen of hearts. He had a pair, and finally a good hand. Hell, there were no other Queens showing: now all Charlie needed was another Queen or a five and he’d win. This was hell. This was literally hell. He only had two darts to get a hand that could do him any good.
He wanted to sit down with a drink and think about this. Take a moment to breathe. Maybe call some people. His therapist. He was having a hard time compartmentalizing this all. Hell, he was having a hard time breathing, but he only realized it when he stopped to think about it. He had not come here planning to die, he was just supposed to meet Marie, have some drinks, go over a new project… this wasn’t right, this wasn’t fair!
He threw at the center-right board in a sudden fit. It hit straight in the middle.
“A five of hearts. Full house.”
He stared at his board with disbelief. Three Jacks, and two fives. That was, indeed, a full house. And perhaps more important was the fact he had two fives. Two of the fives Charlie would need for his straight… a straight that wouldn’t even win him the game anymore.
He still only had one dart to Charlie’s ten. But...but it wasn’t… impossible… he could win with that hand…assuming he didn’t hit any Jokers with his last throw...
Charlie seemed entirely unphased, throwing his dart at the same board to reveal a seven of hearts, giving him one shy of a flush. Nine darts left. And Bruno had one throw left.
He stepped up.
He exhaled slowly
And threw his dart clean.
It landed, and when he flipped it over, he revealed…
...the three of clubs. Worthless. But he had his full house. If he could somehow survive nine more throws, then it was possible, just barely possible, that he-
“-Alright.” Charlie… laughed? Snorted? Coughed? “I think that’s enough theatrics. Let’s end the game.”
He threw, and his dart landed squarely on the five of hearts.
In Bruno’s hand.
“...w-wait, you can’t-”
“Says who?” Charlie sneered, adjusting his glasses as the snickering of the crowd started to emerge once again, the infectious, joyful cruelty unable to be repressed. “They said I could throw at any board on the wall. That includes yours.”
The card was lifted dutifully by Juan, placing it on Charlie’s board. His full house had become a three of a kind again. And Charlie… Charlie had his straight. He had won.
“And that’s the round. If you had more darts, you could take it back, but you don’t. So there’s no point in continuing.”
“...w...w…”
Bruno was still reeling. He had been catapulted into orbit, and he was still tumbling through the black cold of space. How… how was that legal? How was that allowed?! This game was broken, if you could throw at your opponent's hand! This time, he did fall to the ground, sweat falling onto the carpet like tears.
“Try to not take it personally.”
“...Bruno?” Juan stepped forward. “...do you… do you want to end the round?”
Bruno slowly nodded. There was no point. The round was over.
“...alright. Then the winner of the round… is Charlie. Please excuse us while we prepare the boards for the next round.”
Bruno knew he had to stand up. But he couldn’t. The weight of things was just too damn heavy. He had made a stupid mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake, and even then, he had almost won: if any one of the first few shots hit the eleven o’clock space, Bruno could have won. That’s all that had needed to happen. But it was too late for that now. Charlie had won the pot, and taken fourteen of Bruno’s chips.
...which… which meant…
“-The board is ready. Please buy your chips and we’ll tell you each the location of one Joker.”
This was going too fast. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to be here. But if he didn’t, the jeers would get louder, and he.. he really would lose. So Bruno slowly dragged himself to his feet, shoving all sixteen of his chips into the pot. Earning him ten darts, delivered on a tray by Teresa. Unsurprisingly, Charlie once again bet every chip he had, and got himself twenty-four darts. Two trays were needed to deliver the whole set to him, which were placed on the table where his chips would normally sit. The difference in darts was staggering.
How could he win like this?!
“Far right, center card”
Was whispered into his ear, but he barely registered it.
“Bruno, would you like to throw first?”
“...n-no.”
“Charlie?”
“I don’t mind.”
He took the center stage, aiming at one of the cards while Bruno was left racing for something, anything, that could turn this around. But there wasn’t a solution he could think of: not before Charlie hit the seven o’clock card on the far right board, drawing a four of clubs.
Bruno stepped up, fingers pale and cold. His hands shook as he tried to aim. He closed his eyes and focused, slowly counting, breathing softly, whatever he could do to get his hand to stop quivering… but it wasn’t working.
So, he just threw, hitting the three o’clock card on the center-left board. Drawing the King of hearts.
He stepped back. And Charlie rather casually threw his dart at the very same king. Completely emptying Bruno’s hand.
“...wait... “ He blinked as the card was taken from him, “Wait, h-how… how am I supposed-”
“You’re not.” Charlie answered curtly.”I won the first round. Which means I have more chips than you. Since I have more chips, I’ll always have more darts. Since I have more darts, I can always have more cards and I can always steal yours. The only way I’ll lose is if I miss, which won’t happen, or if I hit a Joker, which will never be a risk as long as I always steal your hand. You lost the moment the game started.”
The words were just so much empty air. He couldn’t accept that. Bruno couldn’t just… let things end. Seized by a sudden terror, he pushed Charlie aside, throwing a dart at the center-left board again. It hit at seven o’clock, and he drew an three of spades… but Charlie pushed back, sending Bruno to the ground despite the differences in their size, and simply stole it again. He had three useless cards, but three cards would beat an empty hand any day.
“So. My condolences, Bruno, but shall we end the round, and this game? You might still have time for a few drinks before we have to wake up.”
Bruno heaved, verging on hyperventilating, as he lay on the ground. The laughter grew a bit more bold, more open, until Juan loudly coughed, reminding them of their place. It was a noble effort. Wasted on a man gripped in the jaws of defeat and death. He had eight darts. How, how could he possibly win with eight darts?! It was impossible. His mind went over the rules, again and again and again, looking for some kind of loophole or flaw or something he could exploit, but time and time again he realized his options were gone. Anything he could have done, he should have done earlier. Now… with no chips, and eight darts left… all he had...
...all he had…
He again dragged himself up. Face red, but eyes tightly clenched shut.
All he had now was one word.
“...no.”
“...what?”
Juan, for the first time that night, actually cracked a grin.
“I don’t agree to end the round.”
The room had gone dead silent. The only noise, “Emperor’s New Clothes” by Panic! at the Disco. Soon, it was accompanied by a few whispered murmurs. Some even verging on excitement. Could this beaten dog have one last trick hidden in his collar?
“...alright, so we’ll play. Take your throws.”
Bruno had done this all wrong, he realized as he took his first throw. Seven of clubs.
It was stolen by Charlie.
If he had been calm and smart at any point, he could have won. Five of spades.
Stolen by Charlie.
But he made mistake after mistake. Even at the start of this round, he made a mistake. Two of clubs.
Stolen by Charlie.
He knew this wasn’t much of a last resort. Three of diamonds.
Stolen by Charlie.
He had thought about stalling forever. Keeping them both stuck here out of mere spite. But Marie wouldn’t have had patience for that. She knew where his wife was. She knew she could motivate him. Six of spades.
Stolen by Charlie.
So instead all he had was this. Jack of diamonds.
Stolen by Charlie.
It was a desperate hope. Jack of clubs.
Stolen by Charlie.
But it was hope.
King of clubs.
Stolen by Charlie.
“And you’re out of darts, with an empty hand.” Charlie sighed, clearly annoyed by the little show Bruno had put on. “You’re unable to throw. Surely now you agree to end this game.”
“No. I do not.” Bruno replied.
“...but why?” Charlie tilted his head. “You can’t play. It’s over.”
“Juan said the round only ends when we run out of darts, or we agree to end it. And I don’t agree.”
Charlie swallowed. He knew what this meant. He knew what was coming. And that icy mask of indifference was starting to show some cracks.
“So keep throwing.”
His opponent paused for a moment longer, glancing at the huge stack of thirteen darts still in his possession… his mind was racing, Bruno could see it in his eyes… although his last-ditch hope seemed to vanish as Charlie let out a half-insulted snort.
“I’ll admit you had me going for a second, Bruno, but your strategy isn’t a strategy at all. All I have to do is miss.”
He picked up one of his blue-tipped darts and casually tossed it over his shoulder.
“But I can understand why, in your desperation, you’d think-”
“Ten of hearts.”
Both men turned: despite the dart being lobbed carelessly in the opposite direction, it had somehow managed to squarely land in the center of the center-right board. Juan bowed his head, to address Charlie’s confusion.
“At the Silver Wheel, we strive to keep things as fair and fun as possible. To allow our less-coordinated friends to enjoy their time here, we offer a little bit of assistance to assure that every dart hits a target, every time.”
“...what is this bull-”
“-You didn’t notice?” Bruno pushed in a cold sweat. “I’m pretty good at darts and even I thought it was strange I was hitting a card every time I threw. I realized pretty fast this stupid fucking gambling house must have been responsible some way or another. You probably would have noticed, too, if you weren’t so full of yourself you assumed you could never miss.”
Charlie furrowed his brow and pulled his thin lips back into a nearly cat-like hiss.
“But now it really does come down to chance, doesn’t it? If you hit the Joker: I win. If you don’t, I lose. Odds are still in your favor, asshole, so try to not look so indignant about it.”
Of course, Bruno knew why Charlie was so clearly peeved: it wasn’t that he might lose, it was the fact that he had been so confident in his victory and his strategy, only to be so narrowly out-maneuvered at the finish line. It was a blow to his pride more than anything else, and Bruno breathed that in like a drowning man pulling above the rolling waves of a tumultuous sea.
And Bruno’s odds genuinely weren't terrible. There were forty cards left on the wall, and Charlie still had twelve darts to throw: even knowing the location of one of the Jokers, that gave Bruno a slightly better than one in four chance of winning. He was able to turn Charlie’s strategy against him, in some small, last-ditch way.
Bruno still might lose, god forbid, but at least he’d leave a scar to remember him by.
The audience wasn’t terribly impressed. But Marie, at least, was doubled over like a gleeful child at this sudden reversal. “Good boy!” She called over to Bruno, “Good dog!” over and over, but he ignored it. It was impossible for him to hate her more than he already did. And this particular middle finger was aimed squarely at Charlie: a man he had once admired from afar, who had revealed himself to be callous, plotting, and wholly unsympathetic.
Charlie looked between Bruno and the darts. And he snarled.
“Fine.”
He grabbed his first of twelve darts, and actually aimed it at the board this time: if he threw without aiming, he would turn Bruno’s one-in-four odds of winning into a one-in-two, since it would double the number of Jokers he could accidentally hit. But this time, for the first time since they started… he seemed to hesitate. As if suddenly, the number of darts and cards had become a genuine concern.
As they should. Bruno had made his last eight throws as random as possible, two from each board. He communicated as little as possible about his Joker’s location. And with skill being removed from the equation, it all came down to luck.
Charlie loosed his first dart. The card on the other side didn’t matter anymore, and everyone knew it. When they saw it wasn’t the Joker, everyone else in the room - even Charlie - visibly relaxed.
Until the next dart was picked up, and the tension returned.
Twuck. Twuck. Twuck.
Each throw came, slowly revealing more cards, and increasing his chance of hitting the Joker. He was throwing in a pattern, each of the four darts aimed at one of the four boards: including the board Bruno knew had a Joker. Far right. Right in the middle. He didn’t hit the card, but he felt the thrill of anticipation rise in his throat as it landed at the 12 o’clock card. He had eight darts left. If he continued throwing them in this pattern, one at each board, then Bruno would get two more chances to survive.
Charlie was starting to show the faintest signs of stress. He swallowed the empty air as he scooped up his next batch of four darts.
Twuck. Twuck. Twuck.
Three darts for the three “safe” boards. And then he lined up his throw for the fourth. Bruno had been watching his eyes, the way they twitched, darting across the board as they hunted for a target. His eyes would dilate every time he found a card he ‘trusted’, and his tongue would prod at the edge of his lips as he tried to line up his shot. As if it wanted to slither out, but he actively worked to keep it contained in his mouth.
He threw. It spiraled high, creating a tall arch, and landing with a Twuck at the 10 o’clock position. So close. But Bruno wouldn't let his disappointment show.
The final four darts were scooped up. The final four before the end of the game. Before this was all finally decided, and the winner -- the survivor -- could hold their head up high.
He threw the first dart to the board on the far left.
He threw the second dart to the board on the center-left.
He lined up his dart for the board on the center-right. But he paused, glancing at Bruno. Bruno only now realized he was licking his lips, and shaking especially hard. It was the last two throws, it’s only natural he would be anxious… but it seemed as if Charlie had mistaken it for some kind of tell. Maybe all the pressure was finally getting to him, as well.
He shifted his feet. And his eyes. He threw his second-to-last dart at the 5 o’clock position on the far right board. Twuck.
One dart left.
His eyes, and his feet, were still pointed at the far right board. There were still seven cards left on that board. A one in seven chance of survival.
Charlie threw.
----------------------------------------
When Bruno woke up, the very first thing he did was finish the bottle of champaign. He had corked it before he was knocked out, so there was still plenty to down, which he did with a few, whale-sized swallows. When the bottle was as dry as he could make it, he dropped it to the ground with a graceless thud and tried, very calmly, to open the door of the moving vehicle.
It was locked.
He tried again a few more times, throwing his entire body into the effort, but it was stuck fast. So he crawled to the front, where the driver would be, and slammed his hand against the one-way mirror at the front, demanding to be let out. But at this point, his chauffeur had been replaced with the limo’s auto-drive feature, and he was screaming at no one. Typically, that would mean he could hit the auto-stop button, but it seemed to be broken in this car. A fact that made him laugh, hysterically and bitterly, as he slammed his palm into it the fourth time.
He threw his body against the one-way glass, but of course, even if it broke, he was too big to be able to fit through. So he threw himself against the door again, making the whole limo rock violently as it tried to stay roadbound with three hundred pounds of human meat slamming into its insides.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Charlie was waking up too. He, unlike Bruno, didn’t drink the champagne, and merely looked out the window soberly. He waited for a couple of minutes, before he started to realize that nothing was happening. He stood up, and tapped on the one-way mirror, but of course, he also had a self-driving car that had no ability to understand his desire to leave. And as he suspected, when he tapped the emergency stop, the car continued to speed along comfortably, the button firmly and absolutely broken.
Charlie sat back down and continued to wait. He was due to gain five pounds very quickly but he wasn’t feeling it happen. And since nothing else was working, all he could do was hope that the Silver Wheel would ultimately deliver on its promise.
After twelve minutes, both cars exploded in the outskirts of the city.
Both men were instantly killed.
When first responders arrived to Bruno’s car, they found it engulfed in flames. They put it out and pried open the door, finding his charred husk laying on the floor, still burning in some places. By the time he was fully extinguished and being rolled off in a body bag, he had lost exactly five pounds of fat, consumed by the flames.
Meanwhile, when they reached Charlie’s car, they found that it was not engulfed in flames: the explosion had been smaller due to some malfunction, and the limo had veered off-road and crashed. They found Charlie mangled in the glass and machinery of the car, attempting to fix the emergency exit button. An enormous amount of shrapnel had embedded itself into his corpse, adding five pounds to his weight.
Both men had fallen victim to their employer’s sick game.
And yet, both men had still, indisputably, won their just prizes…
...At the Silver Wheel.
----------------------------------------
The halls of the Silver Wheel had finally gone quiet, although it still bore the marks of this… “party”. Broken glass, spilled drinks, and dropped food littered the ground, while empty bottles and half-filled glasses of melted ice covered nearly every flat surface. And of course, not a single person there had used a coaster. So it was, in short, a mess. And both Juan and Teresa were in the process of cleaning. Teresa did her work quietly. Juan did not.
“I hate that woman.”
Teresa didn’t answer.
“She killed two men tonight and no one batted an eye!”
Teresa didn’t answer.
“What is the world coming to? That kind of sick behavior… and people were… and I…”
“-You enabled it.”
“It’s my job!”
“And it was theirs.” She replied brusquely, ending the conversation.
He looked away. The sound of clinking glass and "Dancing Days" filled the empty space instead.
He stopped, and looked at the back of her head while she swept.
“...they also didn’t tip.”
This made her pause.
“...were they supposed to?”
“It’s rude, is all. Not a single one of them tipped for all the work we did.”
“We have no use for their money.”
“Well they don’t know that.”
She actually rolled the thoughts around in her head a bit.
“I suppose that was rather rude,” She finally concessed. “And they made a mess. That was very inconsiderate of them.”
“Exactly.”
“And only half of them ever thanked me,” She continued. “And one man called me ‘doll’. Unironically. Doll. I thought we were past that.”
“I know, right? Someone even pinched my ass.”
“That is very rude.”
"Super rude.”
She turned around and looked at Juan. He was smiling sadly.
“You know they’ll be back, right?”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“If they come to realize you can’t control Mr. Eight, we’ll be in trouble.”
“Yeah. I figured.”
“Maybe it would have been more prudent to save that threat for later, then.”
“I guess.” Juan sighed as he went back to stacking glasses, “I just… couldn’t stand it. This is a personal place, y’know? When we have guests, the whole world here revolves around them, and their struggle, and their sacrifice. It’s supposed to be intimate and small, and we’re just supposed to… well, like you said, ‘enable’ it.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t start sweeping again either.
“Having other people watch and gawk just feels like a violation of everything this place was created to do. I still don’t like the murder. But I’m not so naive as to think we haven’t caused death before. But… the laughing, the mockery, the… the... “
He sighed. He stopped sweeping again.
“It just feels wrong.”
She paused for just a moment longer, before she turned around and went back to cleaning.
“It seems even we can’t escape progress.”
The door to the bar swung open with a loud, obnoxious bang. It was Ture, of course.
“We still have a swallow of Himbeergeist left. Who wants it!? Me? Damn right!” He chugged the bottle, throwing it to the ground for effect when he was done. “Fuck me what a night, right guys? Place actually felt alive for once!”
“I’m glad you had fun, Ture.”
“Fuck, who said I had fun?” He snorted. “Now I gotta do dishes. It’s been fuck knows how long since I’ve had to actually do dishes. And there were so many people ordering drinks I didn’t have time to properly insult their choices. Because they were all shit choices. Who actually wants to spend a night drinking fucking Himbeergeist?!”
“I hope you intend to pick up that bottle.” Teresa glared.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck off.” He flipped her off casually. “You idiots want anything before I absorb myself in the goddamn sink?”
“A water, thanks.”
“I think I could use a beer, thanks man.”
“Piss n’ vinegar, comin’ right up.
He shambled back to the bar, where the drinks were stacked almost to the ceiling. The radio clicked off.
And Juan stared absently at the door to the void for a moment too long.
----------------------------------------
He gasped. Coughing once, twice, and immediately he screamed.
There was an explosion. Fire. Everything spinning. Heat like he had never before imagined. The horrible sting of steel as it drilled into his body. The feeling of his life… ending. He had died.
And yet, Charlie was back. Laying in a warm pool, machines latched onto his head. Holding him still like a vice.
“Look man I feel really bad. You weren’t supposed to die, you really weren’t. But turns out Silver Wheel is tricky about how they do shit, and… well… it was poorly planned on my part. My bad. You won your alive-ness and I’m a woman of my word, so… you’re back.”
He tried to stand up. The machines jostled from the effort.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down there champ. You need some time. This operation was very experimental, it’s for this new… thing we’re planning. I didn’t intend to use you as a guinea pig, but… life gives you lemons, yadda yadda, blah blah.”
“...how?” He asked, his voice raspy and new.
"Oh, it was fucking nothing. I just found a version of you in an alternate universe, some sad fuck with no life or family or whatever, stole him away, replaced his brain with yours. He’s a bit skinnier, probably got some diseases or whatever, but we can fix those no problem.”
He paused again.
“...why?”
“I told you, because you won-”
“-Bullshit.” He glared into the darkness. “I know Bruno was skimming money. And I was selling inside information to HighMind. That’s why you picked us for this sick game. You wanted us dead, so… why bring me back?”
"Heheh, was I that obvious?”
His throat was sore from all that talking, so he made due with a glare into the darkness.
“Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But plans change. And now I have an offer for you.”
“...what.”
“Watching you work in the Silver Wheel was… inspired. You broke that game at a glance and you made it fun to boot. I need that. I haven’t gotten nearly as much data as I’d like from that place, and I want someone I can trust to go back there and win a couple more games. You can bet with company assets, gamble for whatever you want, and keep whatever you win. Fashion yourself into whatever superhuman freak you fancy. All I want is to study the whole thing.”
He paused.
“...what if I die again?”
She laughed.
“Buddy…”
She leaned forward. And for the first time since he’d woken up, he could see her face, illuminated by the dull pink lights of his pool.
“...you have a lot of backups out there.”