Page 12 of Beyond The Maples
So I continue on my hapless way.
As I turn another bend, far from where I hid from the officers, I pick up the very faint sound of music playing, a telltale sign that an unsanctioned crowd has gathered. I come to a large concrete building, the top broken and brittle with age. Without the sun beaming through the dust, everything has faded to grey. The buildings have become shadows. No light trickles in other than tiny glints from cracks in houses further down the road. Most of the larger buildings are abandoned during the night, and even during the day there are only so many that hold businesses still.
I find the steps on the side leading down to the concrete basement, and knock four times on the door at the bottom. I wait, palms sweating, pulse picking up as the door creaks open. I've only been denied entry once, but the waiting still makes me nervous.
The blast of sound that hits me as the door opens almost takes my breath away. The doorman just stares at me, bored. I pull down my mask and utter the entry code:
"Where the dark dust settles."
I hold myself up with all the confidence I can muster.
He finally turns with a grunt and lets me in. I let out an anxious breath, slinking out of my jacket and hood as I push through the second doors. The light hits me, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
I'll never tire of this. The whole place feelsalive, teeming with people from all walks of life, trying to make it in a dying world.
Half-naked women dance on stages throughout the grand room as the music from the center stage echoes beautifully, the soft voice of the woman in the middle bouncing off the walls.
What used to be a large, windowless, empty concrete basement has been transformed into a glowing den of sin. There are fighting pits in the far corner, with people already lined up around to watch and bet. There are small booths set up along the exterior walls selling everything you can think of. Whether it's the sex trade, drugs, or simply good old-fashioned produce. All are illegal.
It sounds like the start of a sick joke when you think about it, that attempting to grow your own produce would be punishable, but here we are. It's almost impossible to grow anything, anyway. Apparently, the amount of equipment and water needed to sustain the smallest success is overwhelming. With water becoming more and more an issue, I do get that we can't have everyone trying to cultivate land. The aquifers around the continent are being drained, entire towns sinking because we're taking too much of the water that sits hidden underneath. The Council needs to regulate everything until either magic is restored or they figure out a way to mass produce without it.
I walk over to the bar and get a drink. I will absolutely stick to my three-drink limit tonight. I can't possibly handle another hangover.
Grabbing my drink, which tastes like what one can only imagine a musty shoe does, I start lazily walking through the crowded room, eyeing the gambling tables in the middle. They're already playing Games. My attention bounces between tables and players.
I watch as men and women flip cards and throw the coins around, some clapping in excitement. Heavy coin purses clank as they win, and others stumble away, furious. I watch the players eagerly. Gauging who's quick to anger, which ones make rash decisions, who's playing out of what seems to be desperation, and who was there for pleasure. I notice several familiar faces, but mostly it's just travellers. Soldiers on leave, people coming through on the way to The Centre, grifters.
As the energy picks up in the room, I make my way over to the tables, knowing exactly which one I'll with start with already. The last game ends abruptly, the winner eagerly taking off before anyone can question him. The dealer cleans off the table and prepares for the next game as I slink into an empty seat. Surrounded by men, I get several looks of interest, and one of pure annoyance.
There are women who take part, but rarely of their own accord. Sometimes they warm seats for their keepers. Skin-trade owners are a side of this I can barely stomach. The Games reveal many horrors, but the skin-trade is the worst; sex trafficking, slavery, and everything in between. Of course, there are other sorts of criminals: abusers, thieves, war criminals, and me. I'm not sure what that says about me.
Deacon was right. Maybe I get a sick sort of satisfaction here from beating these types of people. The control, the challenge, the anticipation.
The man closest to me grunts my way and mumbles something about easy money.Good, I think.Underestimate me, you prick.
Everyone settles in, and the dealer hands out cards. We put the coin in the middle, signifying how high the hands can go. The troll-like man across from me snickers at my measly contributions. I run my fingers along the grooved coins. Two coppers, one silver. I don't have any gold left, not that I'd bring it here, anyway.
"Are ya sure ya want to play? I can think of a few ways for you to earn easier coin," says the man across from me, old enough to be my father, licking his lips in what I can only assume he thinks is a provocative gesture.
"Oh, I'd rather play cards," I say sweetly, earning chuckles from around the table.
I purposely lose the first hand. Feigning ignorance, like I don't know what's really in my hand. At one point, I get scolded for leaning over to the young man sitting next to me, asking what one card means. Like I haven't been playing this game since I was five years old. I slowly start to win rounds, careful not to draw too much attention as my stack of coins goes up. I opt for a quick out for thisgame, not losing or gaining any money. The young man next to me wins, quickly scurrying away with his winnings, and I wait patiently for the next game to start.
To my dismay, the gross guy from before stays at my table, but I get the heavy hitters I want, so I make it work. I sit for one hour, then two. I keep passing and winning until my stack has tripled and several people are out.
I giggle and fake a big gulp of my drink as the game nears an end. The last man, whom I have namedtroll-manin my head, is clearly getting frustrated. Another hand plays, and he goes all in.
I bite my lip, watching his face as he nonchalantly looks around the room and at his nails, posturing boredom. I know he's bluffing, of course. He's avoiding eye contact, and his eyes dart to the floor every time they float to mine.
"Call," I say somewhat meekly.
The dealer flips the last cards over and they reveal I've won by a landslide.
"Beginner's luck," I hiccup, hoping he buys my exaggerated intoxication. The man, who is now a deep shade of red, stands abruptly knocking over his own drink in the process.
"Youbitch. You cheated! I know you cheated. I demand my coin back!" He turns to the dealer now, spit flying out of his mouth as he waves his hands wildly. "Do something! I'm going to report this to the authorities," he shrieks.
I almost roll my eyes. Reporting me here would be comical. Everyone makes a silent agreement when they sit down at these tables. The dealers are hired to mediate what happens here, but that's that. The only authorities willing to do anything about this would be the New Providence officers, and he'd be arrested right along with me.
