Chapter 5
Iwander down the deserted streets, past the crippled sidewalks and decaying buildings.
The Games are always held on the very outskirts of our small town, closest to the main roads that are used to come and go.
It's a long walk from our hovel, which is good, keeps all the questionable people who may come here away from innocents.
I'm careful to keep my hood up, and my improvised mask tight around my face.
Both help to conceal my identity and keep the dust from coating my carefully planned "disguise".
It isn't really a disguise, obviously. I can't afford such luxuries.
But I've cultivated a look deceptively different from the one I wear at the diner.
The fewer people who recognize me, the better.
There isn't a lot of loyalty left in New Providence between its residents.
If someone gets caught doing something they shouldn't, often the first thing they do is try to buy their way out of it with information.
The last thing I need is someone recognizing me and using it as a bargaining chip with government officials later on.
Call me paranoid, but I like being prepared for the worst.
At the diner, I stay as plain as possible.
I didn't even recognize what I was doing at first, but I have a day job that requires me to be approachable, unremarkable.
I wonder if people think I'm simple during the day, in my oversized box skirts and patchy aprons.
It used to bother me until I realized it works to my benefit.
Now I have a bit of an edge to my look, one I secretly relish. I have kohl lining my dark eyes. My thick hair, which had been in a braid all day, is curled and let loose under my hood, looking a little wild.
I've traded my loose-fitting clothes, which were all various tones of worn greys and greens, for tight, dark clothing.
It had cost me more than I've ever spent on anything for myself to get the fitted pants and low-cut black top, but I'd justified it because what I make at the Games is always worth it.
Especially if the men at the table are staring at my chest when they should be paying attention to their cards.
When I round the corner, I hear footsteps that make me pause. Officers, the rhythmic cadence of their choreographed steps giving them away, echoing through the empty streets.
My eyes dart around for a sufficient hiding spot, the flicker of firelight growing by the second.
My mind reels as I realize I'm in a terrible spot. The old industrial area of town leaves little to hide between unless I want to try to enter one of the buildings.
Shit sticks, I think. There's no real curfew in Strayton, but that doesn't mean I won't be questioned if caught walking around at this hour.
The street is far too long and straight to run back.
The sound of their footsteps creep closer as I run out of time.
My eye catches two concrete pillars close together outside an older building.
I dart between them, praying to the Gods that the officers don't come close with their lanterns, surely giving me away.
My heartbeat pounds in my chest, the steady sound of their approach making my breath ragged. We rarely have officers inspecting around here anymore, even on days when the Games are in town. I will my breathing to even. Get yourself together, Maple, I silently scold myself as I look around.
With only the moon to guide me, I hope this spot will be good enough, but as they near I realize I'm far too exposed. I hold my breath as the group comes into sight, quietly talking amongst themselves. An officer veers towards me and my stomach sinks.
One of the Gods must hear my desperate pleas and take pity on me because a shadow passes over the moonlit sky.
Maybe a thicker dust cloud, something that helps makes light unable to pierce the alcove I've stuffed myself into.
I let out a breath, slowly, as the shadows seem to wrap around me in a protective blanket with the lack of light.
The officer that had come my way seems to realize he can't see anything, and returns to his peers.
I listen as they continue past, and the moment of reprieve passes as the moon brightens the road once again. I wait an unnecessary amount of time in the silence, making sure it's safe to continue before doing so.
For a moment I stand on the road, looking both ways. I know that many would have seen that close encounter as a sign to turn around. An omen that tonight was not the night to test fate. But those people might not have a sick little sister at home who needs them. I don't have time for superstitions.
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 feels alive, 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.