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.
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“...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, beauté, 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 grâce, 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.”