One by one, the Red Queen knocked over the other players like chess pieces, right off the board. They fell ... until eventually they got caught up in her web. There, they were strung up inside their own psyche; manipulated like marionettes. Such a feat would have been remarkable at the hands of a normal telepath, but Rosemary was a master.
The pair of guards looked down at the unconscious bodies laid out before them—of which there were four, Ares included—and shrugged.
“Bring all of them to the thrown room,” Rosemary ordered over a walky talky.
The bigger of the two grimaced, throwing the elderly detective over his shoulder. He waved his associate over to Jackson Pride, “well you heard ‘er, Frank!”
The other mercenary gulped, “You wouldn’t happen t’ have a fork-lift, wouldja?”
---
Drip, drip, drip…
Oliver woke to the sound of water droplets against concrete. His eyes opened, but it was dark, probably night—and darker still in his current dwelling. Getting to his knees he identified the place as an alley; a street alley. The air was thick, as if it had rained only seconds prior. Feeling around, he marked a trash bin at his left and a bolted door beside it.
Finally, he stood up and corrected his posture, only to see a faint light pass through his open legs. Instantly, Oliver did a 180° turn to face the source: a street. A bulb was hanging over the sidewalk, and beyond that was a road. Passing vehicles were illuminated every few seconds, in no particular pattern. All of it was too strange, too … familiar. He felt around the walls of the alleyway as he made his way to the open city block.
Where the Hell was he? Had he not been on an island only seconds ago, participating in the game show: Friend or Foe? And if not, had it all been a dream? No, that didn’t make a bit of sense. If it was only a dream, he would have awoken to his rusty cage in Deep Blue; not here. There were too many questions and too few answers. Regardless of who or what had driven him from the island, he breached the darkness and stepped into the light, where he found…
“Phil’s Barber Shop,” in the Red Light District. South City.
The smell of the streets, which had once given him a feeling of comfort, now made him sick to his stomach. He wasn’t prepared to be back here. Not yet, not after what happened. It all felt eerie, like some kind of divine intervention by a twisted God. His mind ran in fifteen different directions, trying to make sense of everything, but to no avail. So lost was he, that he stood there on the busy sidewalk—cold and still, like an ice sculpture—for several minutes.
Until—crash!—a paperboy collided with him. The bicycle’s tire quaked against Oliver’s calf, sending the boy (and his bike) reeling. The hard working teen had scratched his elbow on the pavement, and was tending to it, when he looked up at the former detective. He was terrified and confused all at once, probably wondering why this old man was perusing the Red Light District shirtless.
“I... I’m sorry, sir. Clumsy, I am.” The paperboy stuttered at the old man. Oliver growled, but begrudgingly helped the courier up. “Watch where you’re going kid,” he barked, like any other cranky senior.
“Oh yes, sir, of course, sir!”
The teen, with his flustered cheeks hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, was about to peel away when the Wizard called after him. “Ay, boy! You got a smoke?”
The boy paced back towards his elder and forked up a half-empty package of Cicero’s. Oliver gladly claimed them. “Thanks… er … uh … keep off these things, they’ll kill ya. And you have no business being around here at this hour so get lost.”
“Yes, sir!” the courier chimed before departing for good.
Shaking his head, the Wizard lit up a cigarette and inhaled the sweet nicotine. It was amazing, really. That run in with reality had taken him away from his unending enigma and captured him entirely. This place felt real, smelt real, and looked real… so who was to say it wasn’t? Well, most would leave it alone but not Oliver Nash, who was once one of the greatest detectives in the city’s history. He ashed the death-stick and took to investigation.
He stepped forward, about to scope the city beyond the district. Maybe he would find some clues, if he snooped around the old neighborhood. And so, he took a second footstep, but this one was meant with the crunching of paper beneath his boots. Oliver glanced at the ground and noticed the boy had dropped a newspaper. Cocking an eyebrow the detective picked up the print, inquisitive as ever, only to be struck by awe-inspiring déjà vu.
“No … that—that can’t be right.” But it was. Staring him in the face in bold letters was the hand-written date: September 25th, 0093.
He was back. Back to when it all went wrong. The day that he lost his one and only love:
“Marion.”
The pair of guards looked down at the unconscious bodies laid out before them—of which there were four, Ares included—and shrugged.
“Bring all of them to the thrown room,” Rosemary ordered over a walky talky.
The bigger of the two grimaced, throwing the elderly detective over his shoulder. He waved his associate over to Jackson Pride, “well you heard ‘er, Frank!”
The other mercenary gulped, “You wouldn’t happen t’ have a fork-lift, wouldja?”
---
Drip, drip, drip…
Oliver woke to the sound of water droplets against concrete. His eyes opened, but it was dark, probably night—and darker still in his current dwelling. Getting to his knees he identified the place as an alley; a street alley. The air was thick, as if it had rained only seconds prior. Feeling around, he marked a trash bin at his left and a bolted door beside it.
Finally, he stood up and corrected his posture, only to see a faint light pass through his open legs. Instantly, Oliver did a 180° turn to face the source: a street. A bulb was hanging over the sidewalk, and beyond that was a road. Passing vehicles were illuminated every few seconds, in no particular pattern. All of it was too strange, too … familiar. He felt around the walls of the alleyway as he made his way to the open city block.
Where the Hell was he? Had he not been on an island only seconds ago, participating in the game show: Friend or Foe? And if not, had it all been a dream? No, that didn’t make a bit of sense. If it was only a dream, he would have awoken to his rusty cage in Deep Blue; not here. There were too many questions and too few answers. Regardless of who or what had driven him from the island, he breached the darkness and stepped into the light, where he found…
“Phil’s Barber Shop,” in the Red Light District. South City.
The smell of the streets, which had once given him a feeling of comfort, now made him sick to his stomach. He wasn’t prepared to be back here. Not yet, not after what happened. It all felt eerie, like some kind of divine intervention by a twisted God. His mind ran in fifteen different directions, trying to make sense of everything, but to no avail. So lost was he, that he stood there on the busy sidewalk—cold and still, like an ice sculpture—for several minutes.
Until—crash!—a paperboy collided with him. The bicycle’s tire quaked against Oliver’s calf, sending the boy (and his bike) reeling. The hard working teen had scratched his elbow on the pavement, and was tending to it, when he looked up at the former detective. He was terrified and confused all at once, probably wondering why this old man was perusing the Red Light District shirtless.
“I... I’m sorry, sir. Clumsy, I am.” The paperboy stuttered at the old man. Oliver growled, but begrudgingly helped the courier up. “Watch where you’re going kid,” he barked, like any other cranky senior.
“Oh yes, sir, of course, sir!”
The teen, with his flustered cheeks hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, was about to peel away when the Wizard called after him. “Ay, boy! You got a smoke?”
The boy paced back towards his elder and forked up a half-empty package of Cicero’s. Oliver gladly claimed them. “Thanks… er … uh … keep off these things, they’ll kill ya. And you have no business being around here at this hour so get lost.”
“Yes, sir!” the courier chimed before departing for good.
Shaking his head, the Wizard lit up a cigarette and inhaled the sweet nicotine. It was amazing, really. That run in with reality had taken him away from his unending enigma and captured him entirely. This place felt real, smelt real, and looked real… so who was to say it wasn’t? Well, most would leave it alone but not Oliver Nash, who was once one of the greatest detectives in the city’s history. He ashed the death-stick and took to investigation.
He stepped forward, about to scope the city beyond the district. Maybe he would find some clues, if he snooped around the old neighborhood. And so, he took a second footstep, but this one was meant with the crunching of paper beneath his boots. Oliver glanced at the ground and noticed the boy had dropped a newspaper. Cocking an eyebrow the detective picked up the print, inquisitive as ever, only to be struck by awe-inspiring déjà vu.
“No … that—that can’t be right.” But it was. Staring him in the face in bold letters was the hand-written date: September 25th, 0093.
He was back. Back to when it all went wrong. The day that he lost his one and only love:
“Marion.”
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
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