A Flat Circle - Roland

"I have something that could help with that." Said Roland, pulling out one of his his disposable cell phones. "I managed to get their boss to give me his name and contact number." He said, handing it to Patchy. "With a bit of effort, we might be able to pin this whole affair on them."
 
Last edited by a moderator:
She smiles, but it's the kind of smile you see on baboons before they rip something apart.


"It'll probably help, but I think it might be a good idea to lay low a-"


She pauses.


"Did you check the money? Waltz, get the fucking Geiger."


One of her flunkies dashes to a corner of the room and returns with a Geiger counter.
 
Roland froze at the idea. In the rush to get away from the authorities and the desire to report the situation to Patchy, checking the money had completely slipped his mind. He kept his mouth shut, and only hoped that he would be lucky enough to avoid having marked bills on his person.
 
The device crackles as it passes over the money.


Patchy kicks her desk.


"Jesus. We've been had," she breathes. "We go underground, or we get put there. I can get these clean, but not fast enough."


She glances up at you, a sharp jerk of her head.


"You got a safehouse?"
 
"One. Not far from here." Roland said. It was a dinky apartment on the edge of downtown. Deliberately cheap to avoid questions or background checks. He hadn't had time to furnish it with the level of supplies he would have liked, but it had all the basics covered. "If we move now, we should be able to get there within a few minutes."
 
"Get your ass out there, then," she waves a dismissive hand. "You'll know when the heat's off, trust me - but it might be wise to leave town for a while if you can."


Her lackeys are already packing.


"I have my own holes to hide in."
 
Roland nodded and grabbed his things. "Got it. I'll head there now." He said, getting up from the table. "Good luck. See you when thing cool down." He said, moving to the exit.
 
"Yeah, maybe in your next life," she says, and laughs bitterly.


The time it took to say goodbye seems to have been a lucky second; you catch a glimpse of gun on the hip of a clean-cut guy at a slot-machine - one with a direct view of this door. You've slipped out and right, spotting him in the moment he looked away from the door to the machine, and so he can't make your face, at least.


But he's not one Patchy's.
 
Roland, torn between his desire to make himself scarce and make things up with Patchy, hesitated when he saw the man with the gun. Torn between the two conflicting goals (and not wanting to rouse suspicion) he opted for the middle ground and sent a Text to Patchy,telling her she may have trouble sooner than she thinks.


If he was lucky, she would get the text and get herself gone. If not, well, no one could say he didn't try.
 
Sending the text keeps your head down, which is good.


You're closer to the kitchens or storage or whatever the hell makes up the back of the venue that isn't the office when the front door bursts open and a riot squad fans out among the panicking patrons.


It is probably not surprising if most of her clientele have a record.


Still, cops are filling the way out front. If anyone could recognize you, they haven't yet, and you don't hear anyone coming in the back door.
 
Cursing under his breath, Roland stole a baseball cap off the souvenir stand. Pulling the cap down over his head and pulling up his coat to avoid being recognized, Roland tried his best to act casual and mosey on out the back.
 
You slip into a back corridor; musty and dim-lit with a faint smell of cat piss and stale beer. Three doors on your left, one on your right, and one right at the far end with EXIT bright lit above it.
 
Having managed to avoid detection, Roland now moved to get gone from the place Moving towards the exit sign as quickly as he could without avoiding suspicion, he hurried through it and in to the night air.
 
The door explodes inward before you reach it, black-clad police flooding through the smoking gap. The muzzle of a gun fills your vision and you barely hear the calls to get down, hands behind your head, get down now!


But someone is trigger happy. The report is deafening. The flash is blinding. The bullet is like a dark planet descending upon you.


Jagged mountains, deep and turbulent oceans, and thick, primeval forest...


You blink.


You are standing on a rough dirt path amid eerie silence, thorny vines surround you and block out most of the light. The path winds ahead into a fork, and is lost to sight in the twisting branches. Howls and bird-coughs echo in the gloom.
 
Roland panicked as the bullet rocketed towards him, reflexively trying to draw his own sidearm in turn. He knew he was dead, but his own instincts tried to make it so that he could at least go down swinging.


Then, he was standing in the middle of nowhere, gun in hand, and looking like a fool.


What the fuck?


No, seriously. What the fuck?


Spinning on the spot a few times to take stock of himself and his surroundings, Roland looked down the road he was. Going back meant going in to that thorny darkness, which was not his idea of a good time. The only way forward was to take one of the forks in the road.


Moving down the path, he hesitated slightly as he came to the fork. He had no idea which way would lead towards civilization, but he decided to pick the path to the left out of a whim. He had few better means of making a decision at this time.
 
The clawing thorns and twisting branches begin to open. Through the canopy you see stars in the wrong places and the moon like an eye. No, it is an eye; a feminine silver eye that gazes down upon you and... illuminates a tower.


A twisting and thorny pillar of silver capped by a spine like a crescent moon. The left path brings you closer.


Ahead you can hear faint music; thin pipes and gentle strings, and laughter, the rumble of a dozen conversations in a small place.
 
...well. It was shelter. Albeit really weird and kinda creepy looking shelter. Judging by the sound of laughter and music, maybe he was at some kind of burning man-esque renaissance fair.


God he hoped they didn't insist on talking all old time-y.


Of course, that didn't answer the question of how he got here. Honestly, Roland was completely flummoxed in that regard. Maybe he got hit with some drugs in Patchy's casino and this was all bad trip.


Resolving to forge ahead, Roland made his way towards the silver tower.
 
You enter a clearing ablaze with colour, the smell of delicious seared steak and some sweet liquor, not to mention incense or burning herbs.


A table has been set, groaning under the weight of plates and bowls. Some still steam, and most have had shares taken - yet even so, it's a lot of food.


And drink. Can't ignore the vivid colours suspended in increasingly fancy bottles, the pitcher of dark liquor with chunks of berries floating in it, the tankards and glasses and mugs in the hands of....


The revelers don't stop. A man on fire dances with another with skin like gold; a fucking dragon observes from a pile of pillows with a goblet in its claws. A glittering girl with the eyes of a cat reaches for your hand, a smile on her broad face.


A man with a crown of antlers and robe of new leaves on his broad shoulders stares at you from a throne behind the table.
 
Feeling very out of place in his baseball cap and overcoat, Roland cautiously approached the most benign looking person. The golden cat girl. How did she get her eyes like that? Surgery? "Excuse me. I seem to be a bit lost. I'm hoping you can tell me where I am." He said.
 
She takes your hand; twirls, laughs. Tries to lead you to the crowned man at the table.


"You've happened upon his Lordship's feast, stranger!" she says in reply. "You had better present yourself or he might take offense!"
 
Oh goddamnit they were Renfair actors. Fine, he could deal with this. Better to play along and keep things as smooth as possible for now. "Of... of course." He said, letting himself be lead to the big guy with the antlers.


When presented to the lord, he gave an awkward bow in greeting. "Uh, hail, lord of... the feast." He said, completely at a loss. "I am a humble traveler seeking direction. Wouldst thou-est know-ith thine path to..." He paused, debating on using the proper name, but decided against it. "The city of meadows?" he asked, using the Spanish name for Las Vegas.


He hated old time-y english. He hated it so much.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
The crowned man raises a bushy brow.


"This one mocks us, I see," he says, with a smirk, to a golden-skinned woman at his side. She laughs demurely, behind her hand.


"Guidance, is it, to your City of Meadows?" He adds, thoughtful. "This I might provide, in exchange for a service..."


There's a sensation in your chest like a wire drawn taut and thrumming; you can feel sweat on your brow, your breath quickening.
 
Roland caught his breath and tired composed himself as his instincts screamed a warning. Agreeing to a service for this guy was a bad idea. Every bone in his body told him so.


Taking a deep breath, Roland spoke once more. "No mockery intended." He said, trying to smooth over a faux pas he had evidently committed. "I am simply... unused to such company, and was unsure how to conduct myself." He said, getting back in to his normal groove.


"While I would not be opposed to an exchange of favors, I am, unfortunately pressed for time." He said. "However, I would be willing to pay you for your troubles."
 
"Pay me?" he asks, amused. He glances down at the table.


You realize that before him there's no food - but a tiny scale model of Patchy's joint, populated by chess pieces. The black queen has her face and a tiny stream of smoke trickles from her cigarette. The white queen appears to be an FBI agent.


"Perhaps you can win my aid, instead?"


His companion chuckles, hiding her mouth with her hand.


"As if this one could pay," she says, in a foreign accent - Irish or something?
 
"...What happens if I lose?" Asked Roland. Something was wrong, very very wrong. There was no way this renfair guy knew anything about what had happened at Patchy's. Even if they did, how in the hell did they manage to build a scale model like this, let alone make it smoke like that?!


He didn't like this one but, but from where he was standing, he didn't seem to have much of a choice.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 2 (members: 0, guests: 2)

Similar threads

Brianne13
ISO of RP Partner
Replies
2
Views
228
Brianne13
Brianne13
Back
Top