Dr. Oberman kept the lights out in his personal laboratory. Only the dim white light of his computers illuminated the room, and kept him company.

Helmut wasn’t answering.

He slowly lowered the phone from his ear, and let it rest next to his keyboard.

His breathing nearly shook the room.

“Start recording,” he commanded the empty room. An audible, digital ‘click’ followed. Signaling that the recording process had begun.

“Helmut is not talking to me.”

He stood up, his chair’s wheels squeaking in light protest as he pushed against it.

“No. No, I think Helmut is dead.” He clarified as he started to pace, breathing growing faster and unhinged, “He knew his place. He wouldn’t ignore me. And he was always danger-prone. He is most likely dead. Which is a real shame.”

He stopped pacing, and moaned. Loudly. High-pitched. Fluttering his eyes and opening his mouth wider than was healthy.

“...yes. A real shame. He was the only one in this world who could appreciate Miss Nine the way I do. He could have been a comrade or a friend. Or… or maybe a rival no don’t record that erase it.”

The ceiling chirped in response.

“...or a friend,” he continued seamlessly, “but I will not mourn his loss, no. Because I have decided I am afflicted with the same disease that Marie Walker suffers, in that we both think too small. It’s not enough to… appreciate or share or endulge or be consumed by or swallowed whole wiggling and warm and erase it!”

The ceiling chirped in response. His breathing grew ragged. Hopping unevenly from lung to lung.

“...too small. Project 20:7 is too small for me now. Marie Walker is too small for me now. I had ambitions for opening up a portal to that dimension, taking command of the creatures that lurked there to, I don’t know, kill all my staff, torment Marie into madness, inject them into the world and transform it into a modern elysium by way of some Cronenbergian fetishist, but on reflection that’s the kind of baseless cartoon villainy that would be so easy to mock and deride. Because I’m still coming at this from the mindset where this world and dimension even matter.”

“I know better than that, I know better than that Oberman you stupid fucking child- erase that.”

Chirping.

“...I know better than anyone just how untrue that is. It’s… pointless. Just by having the idea, I’ve already created countless dimensions where I’ve failed, and others where I’ve already succeeded. I can always just go to one of those worlds if I really wanted. Go there, and wait for the end.”

He paused for a moment.

“So anyway I’m going to rape Miss Nine erase that.”

He paused again. Chirping.

“...so anyway, I’m going to rape Miss Nine erase that.”

He paused again. Chirping.

“I’m going to walk into Miss Nine’s chamber, where it sleeps in self-pity and misery, I’m going to walk up to it naked and glistening and unwashed, and as they cower away from me in fear and hate I am going to corner them, close the distance between us, kiss every eye I see while my feet kick one of its mouths open and crawl into it like a child re-entering the womb of his mother, and I will swim through its bountiful meat and insides until I melt within them and become one with it and they always feels me violating their mutated husk with my hideously unclean wholeness and they will hate me until the end of time itself.”

His breathing was hard.

“...e…”

His breathing grew harder.

“...”

He curled up on the ground, and held himself in the fetal position.

“...erase that.”

The ceiling chirped.

“...so instead of doing that, I’ve decided I’m going to tell Miss Nine Marie Walker’s plan, and earn her… cooperation. We’ll come to a deal. I’ll… I’ll…”

He could feel saliva sliding down his cheek and pooling under his head. He closed his eyes.

“...I don’t know anymore."

~*~

“So…. just you and me, huh?”

Ratna couldn’t prepare a real drink and didn’t bother trying. She just grabbed a few bottles from the bar and was drinking them straight. She didn’t bother sharing them with the person on the other end of the table. She already knew they didn’t drink.

Mr. Eight nodded.

“That’s cool. The two forgotten fucks. Finally get our day in the spotlight, eh? Now that the drama with Ture and Teresa is… resolved?”

Mr. Eight shrugged. Or at least approximated the motions with what he had on hand.

“Who cares. He’s dead, Hakeem's run off, Teresa’s gone, and our boss is going to come back and beat the shit out of me again. Which, I don’t mind telling you, is getting old. They don’t know the first thing about how to be in an abusive relationship.”

Mr. Eight looked dryly at her.

“...what? Look, it’s about the effort. When I was married, I never raised a hand against my husband but I was still three times this abusive. You gotta control ‘em, you know? Make them think they deserve the pain they get. Use guilt to cut through their concerns. Give them enough hope in you to keep them strung along. That’s how you abuse someone.”

Mr. Eight reminded her she was a bad wife but she wasn’t that bad.

“Fuck off.”

Mr. Eight reminded her that she was only manipulating her own narrative to feel less guilty about her suicide and the devastating impact it had on her husband's life.

She responded by emptying a liter bottle of Kingfisher in twelve seconds. Technically the alcohol burnt the cuts and bruises in her mouth and tongue, but it was a kind of pain she enjoyed. Or at least was growing to enjoy.

“You’re not one to talk. You’re a worthless bouncer.”

Mr. Eight didn’t respond to that. She jabbed a finger in their direction.

“You couldn’t stop Ture or Juan or whoever from falling, you waited till, what, twelve people were killed by Nikolay before you intervened, you couldn’t keep Teresa from getting nailed to the wall -- hell, a bouncer is supposed to keep people out, why didn’t you stop Marie’s people from even coming here in the first place?!”

Mr. Eight tried to explain that their role was different: the way Teresa wasn’t really a waitress, they weren’t really a bouncer — more a guardian for the Silver Wheel to prevent it being used as a tool for destruction by humans and other lesser species: since Teresa wasn’t considered a lesser species, nothing compelled them to interfere in her case because they had to trust she was operating within the confines of their mission. As for the other cases-

“-do you actually believe what you’re saying?”

They didn’t reply.

“Ugh. Sorry. I’ve got a bad case of the what-ifs. What if I had picked Jack Kelly? What if I didn’t decide to make the last game Durak? What if I had lost my game against my husband -- hell, what if I hadn’t decided to kill myself? I ain’t exactly a bastion of good-decision making myself. But the funny thing about bad decisions is… I dunno, you don’t realize they’re bad until after you make them.”

Mr. Eight didn’t think that was funny.

“You’re right, it’s not.”

She started on another bottle of… what was this, absinthe? Sure, she was chugging absinthe now.

She immediately spat it out.

“Ah! Fuck! Fuck ow! Ow!”

As it turned out, that burning she was enjoying so much had an upper limit of enjoyability, and the raw alcohol present in absinthe far surpassed that limit. Mr. Eight helpfully handed her a glass of water, which she immediately started chugging.

“What if I wasn’t such a fucking idiot?!” She shouted between glasses. Mr. Eight patted her back.

She finished three glasses and coughed for nearly ten seconds straight before she settled back down, and slammed her forehead against the barren poker table between them.

“...fuck this fuckhole,” she sighed, “maybe I should do what Ture did and just end it. Non-existence was what I signed up for in the first place, after all.”

Mr. Eight couldn’t argue against the merits of simply vanishing from existence. As far as they were aware, it was a perfectly reasonable thing to want to do.

Before she had the chance to meditate on the thought any longer, her ear twitched: the door to the Silver Wheel had just opened. She sighed, loudly -- Nikolay’s trips here were like clockwork, so she knew it was him -- and rocked her head on the table for a little bit. Not even trying to make herself presentable: no point in it, she’d be getting a thrashing no matter what she did. Although she was starting to suspect that Nikolay had realized his fists weren’t doing their intended job of making them cower complacently at his feet. Maybe he’d bring in bear spray or a taser or something to spice things up soon.

The door to the parlor swung open.

“What exactly happened here?”

She raised her head up. She frowned.

“...Hakeem?”

“Yes, it is me.”

She blinked a few times. Then rubbed her eyelids a couple more times, as if he was just a smudge on her eyeballs. But he was still there.

“...the fuck? Are you stupid?” She broke out into a grin, “the stupidest fucker on the planet?!”

“I would have to be, yes.”

“Oh man. Oh fuck. Okay.” She tried to stand up, but Nikolay had broken something there and she almost immediately fell back down into her chair with a hiss. “...ah, right. Okay, you come to me.”

“Is this all… Nikolay’s doing?”

“Ah, yeah, turns out giving a megalomaniac the keys to the Silver Wheel? Not great. Ture’s dead, Teresa… well, she was nailed to the wall, I don’t know where she is now. So it’s just me and Mr. Eight. Sitting in the dark and drinking. Want some? We’ve got...”

“I will pass, thank you.”

“You sure? This beer is only like half backwash, I promise.”

“...no. I am here to play Nikolay.”

“Pfft. You’re serious. He’s cheating, you know. If you couldn’t beat him when he was playing fairly you’re not going to stand a chance now.”

“Perhaps. But either way my life has been ruined. I may as well grasp whatever slim hope I yet have.”

Ehije was not comfortable, and made no effort to hide it. The usual perfume that laced the air was entirely absent, now, as well as the music, which meant the place no longer felt mystical or ethereal. Now… it was just a creepy, dark bar that smelled of blood. Sinister, was the word, and the dull light that flickered above Ratna barely protected him from the darkness in the four corners of the room, so alive it was almost breathing.

“...well, from one self-destructive person to another, cheers.” she raised a bottle of spit, blood, and at least some beer.

“No, it’s entirely you and your establishment’s fault my life was ruined.”

“Mhm. Well, he’s on a schedule, and he’s due any second now, so...”

She drank.

And the door to the Silver Wheel opened a second time.

“Tada.”

“...where’s Teresa?!” He called out from the bar, each thundering footfall audible from the parlor as he stormed up to the door, “I told her to be back by now-”

He was too shocked to look angry. At first. He just stared, dumbly, as Ehije stood before him, trying to look cooly confident in the face of this tiny Russian. But then Nikolay started to laugh, the cartoonishly evil laugh of a villian who had finally managed to corner the pesky protagonists who had dogged him for three seasons and a TV movie.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite magic negro.”

“Nikolay.”

“Hey. Ratna. Remind me real fast, did this gentleman get an invitation to my establishment?”

“Nope, doesn’t look like it.”

NIkolay slammed the door shut. On his command, it locked with an audible and terribly finite click. Old demons, hibernating ever since his last game with Ehije, started to rouse awake within Nikolay, lavishly stretching out their long talons to catalyze his bloodlust and coil the muscles in his arms.

“You know what that means, Hakeem? That means you’re an intruder here.”

Ehije remained level-headed, despite giving a few anxious glances to the locked door.

“Don’t you remember? Everything here has to be a game, even for intruders.”

Nikolay spat to the side, but didn’t stop smiling.

“You think I don’t know that? But we’ve got that all taken care of, don’t we Ratna?”

“We sure do, boss,” Ratna unenthusiastically sighed.

“That’s fine by me. I actually came here to play you, Nikolay.”

“Oh?” Nikolay folded his arms across his chest, “Well, whatever you were scheming, you may as well forget it. There’s nothing you can offer me that I actually want anyway. All I want is for you to die, painfully. And that’s exactly what I’m going to get.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I have you want?” Ehije took a seat at one end of the table, “Look at yourself, Nikolay. Small body. Large breasts. Smooth, feminine skin. Is that the real you standing in front of me now?”

NIkolay’s eye twitched.

“You’ve seen it yourself, how the Silver Wheel will change you, here, as you gain or lose your opponent’s chips. You can change your body, Nikolay. You can become your real self here. All you need is for me to wager my masculinity.”

Nikolay turned to Ratna, who nodded.

“He’d become a chick, you’d become a dude.”

Nikolay snorted, and took a seat opposite him.

“Fine idea. I’ll be sure to make the next man I invite here make that wager. I don’t want or need your disgusting body.”

Ehije hadn’t thought that far ahead. Ratna interjected.

“Boss, are you sure? Who would really gamble their gender for you willingly? Besides: we need a new bartender. With Ture gone, you don’t have any leverage over Teresa anymore, and she cares about this guy -- she called him a champion, remember? Keep him around. Use your new dick on him. And give Teresa a reason to want to help you again.”

Nikolay was many things, but he was not the type to shoot down a good idea, no matter where it came from. He started considering -- he knew Ratna hated him, but she was also the first and only one to scrape and bow at his command. She, at least, knew her place, and it wasn’t unlikely she was trying to curry favor… or at least, give him a new punching bag so he’d leave her alone. It’s not as if she could have any trick up her sleeve: he himself designed the game they’d play, and he knew it was impossibly rigged. There was really no risk to him at all.

Ehije looked nervous, and was occasionally glaring at Ratna. Momentary, betraying shots of hate.

“...unfortunately for you, Hakeem, my dealer makes an excellent point. I’ll play for your masculinity, and your very soul. You’ll serve here forever as the bartender, while I hang you from the ceiling by a meat hook. I’ll rape you every day with your own black cock.”

Ehije paled as much as his complexion would allow, and swallowed hard.

“...all… all I want is ownership of the Wheel back.”

“Hardly fair, but fine.”

At their verbal agreement, two stacks of chips appeared on each side of the table: for Ehije, his chips were a shade of brown so dark it verged on pitch black. For Nikolay, the chips were made of pure silver, and were stacked in three equal piles.

“What game will we be playing, Ratna?”

“Tonight’s game… is Rock, Paper, Scissors.”

Rock, Paper, Scissors is one of history’s oldest games, with the first version, called shoushiling, having been played during the Han Dynasty in China, between 206 BC and 220 AD. The rules were exactly the same as they are today: players shouted shoushiling, huozhitou or huoquan, and picked between paper, scissors, and rock. From China, it spread outward: the Japanese played mushi-ken, which had slugs, frogs, and snakes, or kitsune-ken, which used mythical fox-demons kitsunes, village heads, and hunters instead of paper, rock, and scissors respectively. In the Mediterranean, it’s believed a version of the game called zhot existed for several centuries.

It wasn’t until the early 20th century that the game showed up in western literature. A 1921 article about cricket in the Sydney Morning Herald mentioned it was a method to draw lots in lands across the sea; while in 1927, a children’s magazine in France called La Vie au Patronage described the game detail, calling it an old Japanese game. While it was only one of many lot-drawing games from Japan to be noted in that era, its simple rules and universality meant it became the only one with any staying power, and it remains well-loved and well-known to this day.

“The rules are so stupidly simple it’s a waste of time to even go over them, but here we are. At the game’s start, I’ll count to three. At three, you both throw either rock, paper, or scissors. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock. Y’all are adults, you know how it goes.”

“Course, at the Silver Wheel, we like to mess with the formula. So to play each round, you’ll need to ante ten chips. You don’t ante, you don’t play, ya lose. Also, non-owners have a special rule: before the count hits zero, you have to say what sign you’ll be dropping. If you drop anything but the sign you announced, you lose that round.”

Ehije sighed, massaging his forehead wearily. Nikolay was smiling as if he had already won. In effect, he already had.

“All the other rules apply, no cheating, no leaving, etc. Any questions? No? Grea-”

“Wait, I have a quick question.” Ehije interjected, opening his eyes “We have to throw our signs exactly at three, right? So, I’m going to throw rock, I have to start making the fist right before three?”

The corner of Ratna’s lips twitched.

“ ...yeah. That’s… how you play the game. You fucking idiot.”

“Just making sure.” Ehije sighed, “There’s a lot at stake here, you know?”

“Sure, okay pal. No more questions, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Let me know when you want to start the countdown. Usually there’s some pre-match banter y’all might want to get out of the way.”

There is a lot of genuine strategy that can go into a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. While it’s impossible to form a real strategy against a truly random opponent, like a computer, humans are not random creatures, and thus, the game becomes a psychological one. That said, all the deep layers of psychology and insight that could go into a truly competitive game of Rock-Paper-Scissors are thrown out the window in the Silver Wheel version, where one player is handicapped to such a dramatically stupid level.

But, if there was one thing the Silver Wheel awarded more than luck, it was a profound understanding of the rules. Ehije knew that. And he knew Ratna knew that as well. And he was fairly certain he had found the kink in this game’s otherwise impenetrable armor that she had designed for him to use. Or at least, he’d better have. Because otherwise, this would be a quick and painful way to start his eternity of regret.

“No. Start counting. I’ve been stuck in this body for far too long.”

“Alright, alright.... one!”

Ehije sighed, and muttered under his breath “paper”.

“Two!”

“Say it louder, won’t you?” Nikolay preened.

“...I said paper.” Ehije repeated, both men raising their fists in anticipation for the final strike. Ratna paused, for effect, and her business-friendly scowl momentarily flashed into a smile.

“...three!”

Each man slammed their fist into the table. Nikolay’s fingers were split into a pair of scissors. Ehije’s, however, was curled up into a solid fist. He had thrown rock.

“Pfft. Idiot.” Nikolay snorted, “You said paper. Did you forget the rules already? Did you go mad with fear? Or are you just trying to annoy me?”

He reached forward for the black chips, but Ratna, looking incredibly satisfied, gently nudged his hand away, and instead started sliding a pile of silver chips to Ehije’s side. Ehije, who had been holding his breath since he called paper, exhaled suddenly and loudly.

“...Ratna. What are you doing?” Nikolay asked, finding it hard to look at her calmly when the demons were starting to gnaw at the veins behind his eyes. Their rage leaking into the whites, turning them an ugly shade of red.

“Hakeem won the round,” she stated, her voice cracking with worry despite her bold words, “he did say ‘paper’, but he clearly stated beforehand ‘I’m going to throw rock’. He did as he announced, and so, he won the round.”

Nikolay blinked as the information sank in, and as his silver chips -- and thus, a portion of his ownership of the Silver Wheel -- transferred over to his foe at the other end of the table. An angry yet blank look had settled on his features, something close to shock, until it broke out into a bold, greedy smile and a loud, boisterous laugh. The laugh of someone who needed time to understand the joke, but found it no less funny for the analysis. In fact, it was maybe even funnier after marinating so.

“Ah!” he finally snorted, wiping some snot from his nose, “Ah, I get it. You’re both doing that thing. Where you use technicalities in the rules. That’s cute. That’s hilariously desperate. That was your game all along, huh? Think you could plot that one out behind my back, huh? Alright. Well. I’m glad you two could have your little laugh, because it ends fucking here.”

He stopped smiling.

“I. Own. This. Fucking. Place. Ratna, as your boss, I’m ordering you to change the rules.”

She shot a glance at Ehije, and her lip twitched again. Then nodded to Nikolay, subserviently.

“...okay. Um… new rules, then. Now you have to announce exactly what you’re going to throw at the count of two. Anything said before or after that is invalid.”

She glanced at Nikolay. He gestured for her to keep going. She bit her lower lip.

“...and you have to say it loudly. No whispering or mumbling. Everyone has to understand what you’ll be throwing. Got it?”

“Perfectly.”

She turned to Ehije. Her eyes were wide, but not apologetic, or sad. It was as if she were trying to speak to him through the sheer brilliance of their color alone. Speak with a glance the way Teresa managed to.

He stiffened up.

“...fine.”

“Great. Well… let’s start round two.”

Ehije looked distressed, but it wasn’t because this turn of events was unexpected. Even if Nikolay hadn’t changed the rules in the middle of the game, Ehije couldn’t have used the same trick twice. Nikolay would be wise to it. No, he looked distressed because this meant that there had to be another flaw in this game’s design. There had to be. Nothing in this place was an accident. Every word spoken, and every word omitted, had a purpose, and she wouldn’t have given him that second glance if she wasn’t trying to tell him something. Hope had to be here somewhere.

He had to think.

“Excellent. Begin the countdown, won’t you Ratna?”

He had to think quickly.

Okay, well, one thing he knew for sure: she was trying to give him time to think, and less time for Nikolay to think. That’s why the deadline to announce his throw was two instead of one. The way that she emphasized that ‘everyone has to understand’ was also probably a sign as well: that the way he said his throw was no longer a viable option. He shouldn’t be looking for those kinds of ways to cheat the system.

“One…”

But what other options did that leave him? If Nikolay was always going to know what Hakeem was going to throw, he would always win-

-wait. Wait, that’s it.

The chink in the armor.

“Two…”

“I’m throwing scissors.”

“Good for you.”

He licked his lips and took a deep breath.

“...three!”

Nikolay threw rock.

Ehije threw rock, too.

“...what the hell are you doing now?” Nikolay groaned, massaging his forehead irritably, “Ratna, what fucking stunt are you two pulling?”

“None, sir. He didn’t throw what he said he’d throw, so he loses.”

Nikolay looked on, suspiciously and expectantly in equal measure.

“...so… hand me my chips, maybe?!”

“I would, but you didn’t win. He lost, sure, but you lost too. It’s called a tie.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Eh… ties are a thing in Rock, Paper, Scissors, boss. It happens like one in every three times, normally.”

He sighed. Loudly. Annoyed. Twitching as the demons continued to feast on his quickly dwindling yet inflamed nerves.

“...so, what, Hakeem? Is your plan to just keep us in a draw forever? Spend the rest of eternity with me, throwing down signs until one of us gets bored or our asses fuse with our chairs?”

“That’s not possible.” Ratna, again, helpfully intervened, “time is still passing in the real world, and eventually, he’ll wake up. If the game’s not resolved by then, it’ll be a draw. Not that I’ve ever seen that happen before.”

“...so he’s stalling,” Nikolay loudly spelled out. Ehije looked away, trying to not reveal anything with an errant expression or poorly-timed look.

“He’s stalling…” Nikolay repeated himself, “because he realized he’s in over his head and he can’t possibly win this, is that right?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Ehije asked in a way that made it clear he had no plans to confirm or deny the accusation, “You could always give up.”

Nikolay twitched.

“...let’s. Play. Again.”

Ehije smiled, and they started once again.

“One…”

“Two…”

“I’m throwing paper…”

“Three!”

And the hands dropped: Nikolay threw scissors, and Ehije threw scissors too.

“Another tie! Real shocker there.”

“But it was a real close one,” Ehije licked his lips, “almost got me. You’ll get it next time, big guy.”

Nikolay was a human being: a complex, complete, and whole being who was smart, proud, and clever. Normally, Ehije would never even try to con such a competent person, regardless of how evil they were. But while Nikolay was a complex creature, the demons that were gnawing at his insides were simple and basic. Instinctual. Primal. Animals. Their strings could be effortlessly pulled because they had only one string to pull: an insatiable and irresistible hunger to validate their own sense of importance. Power over others was the only food Nikolay could feed them, and they were demanding diners.

The fourth round was a tie.

They were growing hungrier and hungrier with each tie, and thus, more demanding, more active, and more violent as they thrashed about in Nikolay’s body. Nikolay knew that playing to a draw wouldn’t ultimately be a problem: he still had control over the Wheel. He still had pieces in motion that would get him more power, yet more control, and yet more ways to feed those demons. But the demons were not capable of such forward thinking, such detailed planning. They were simple. Instinctual. Primal. Animals. They wanted blood, and they wanted blood now, because each round, each tie, they were getting a frustrating reminder.

The fifth round was a tie.

They were reminded that they were losing. Maybe not the game, but losing in a match of wits. Hakeem had managed to find a weakness with the game’s rules to take refuge in, and while Nikolay could change the rules, that would be an admission of defeat: that he couldn’t think around the rules the way Hakeem had. That Hakeem was smarter. That Hakeem was the better manipulator. That notion was unpalatable to the demons, who grew more impatient and hungry as they failed, time and time again, to land a decisive blow. Which, in turn, made the complex and competent Nikolay think more desperately about a way to satiate them.

To prove he was better.

“Sixth round. Maybe it’ll end in another tie? Who fucking knows?!” Ratna goaded, “Are you both ready?!”

“Of course.” Hakeem grinned, so… certainly. So assured. And it was in that moment that Nikolay had a dawning revelation. Of course he was sure: because all this time, Nikolay had been so goddamn predictable. He always threw the hand that would beat what Hakeem announced.

But all this time, the past four rounds, Hakeem had been predictable too: he was throwing hands he knew would end in a tie.

The demons purred in his blood as they anticipated the upcoming victory. It was so simple he couldn’t help but think it genius.

“One…”

Nikolay actually smiled, and leaned forward: showing a real investment into the game once again.

“Two…”

“I’ll be throwing scissors.”

‘Which means I,’ Nikolay thought, nodding silently, ‘Will be throwing paper.’

Ratna paused for dramatic effect, a habit she never tired of.

“...three!”

Nikolay dropped paper.

And Ehije dropped scissors.

The demons went wild.

“...wow. The dude tells you what he’s throwing and you drop paper? You hit your head, boss?” Ratna laughed, dragging ten more chips to Ehije’s side of the table. Ehije, for what it was worth, felt a huge weight lifting off his chest: he only had one chance to time that right, and he was lucky the demons wouldn’t let Nikolay put any space between the round he had his winning realization and the round he decided to utilize it. But then, the impatient rage of such basic creatures was never hard to read.

But in the end, it was all thanks to Ratna. The wording was so precise -- but in a game like Rock, Paper, Scissors, the difference between “Hakeem losing” and “Nikolay winning” was enormous.

But judging by the look on Nikolay’s face, he was never going to get that chance again.

“...Ratna,” Nikolay spoke in a nearly even tone, the faint hiss of a kettle near boiling barely escaping his tongue like an undertone. His talons were dug into the table. “I win ties now.”

Ratna shot Ehije an apologetic look, and nodded.

“...right. New rules. In the event of a tie, the owner of the Wheel-”

“-NO.”

She stopped.

“...no. No no no. He has two of the three stacks, Ratna. Did you think I wouldn’t fucking catch that one?!”

She froze a bit. Those reassuring glances, the ones she gave Ehije to assure him there was a plan, didn’t follow. She remained motionless. A wolf caught in the sights of the hunter.

“Say my name, Ratna.”

“...new rule,” she repeated with no energy, no flourish, no hope, “...in the event of a tie, Nikolay wins.”

“Very good,” Nikolay preened, turning to his opponent at the far end of the table. “Credit where it’s due, Hakeem, you were an annoying little turd. But I still hold all the cards here. I still run this game, and there are no more loopholes for you to hide in. You should really have savored your last win, it’s the last you’re ever going to get.”

Ehije’s mind was racing. He was close. He was so close to pulling out the victory. But just like last time, Nikolay wasn’t a fucking idiot. He was just competent enough to be able to see through the final deception and pull out a victory. He was right. There were no other places to hide. No more chinks in his armor. If he couldn’t hide behind ties anymore, there was no way to both honestly announce what he was going to throw and trick Nikolay into willingly throwing a losing hand.

His eyes glanced to Ratna, whose bruised face was turned down, to the ground.

His eyes scanned the room. It was hot from Nikolay’s passionate rage. There were no ice-cold eyes to temper that anger.

...and he saw his chink.

“...Nikolay, it might be true that you won this game. It certainly seems like it,” Ehije started, his lips turned up yet not quite smiling, “but I am not afraid of losing. I’m sad about losing, yes, but I am not afraid of it. Nor am I afraid of you.”

Nikolay’s eyes widened.

“Nikolay, I need you to understand: you are weak. You are so pathetically weak. I would call you a yapping dog, but even the smallest dogs have teeth. You want to control people using fear, but you are not scary. You lack the imagination and the cruelty needed to inspire true fear. But without fear, you have no idea how to control people. Which makes you the perfect lackey for people who do know how to use others, people who know how to play to your simple, stupid desires. People who give you the illusion of power by loaning you a fraction of their own, and use you until you’re no longer valuable to them.”

Ratna was looking up. She locked eyes with Ehije for a moment, before turning to Nikolay. Nikolay, whose demons needed satisfaction. Nikolay, who’s hot, full-bodied rage had nothing to temper it. Nikolay, whose hatred of insults was matched only by his hatred of the truth.

She could see the demons in his eyes.

And the wolf began to salivate.

“Even now. You have nothing. Your power is borrowed from a higher power, who doesn’t even acknowledge you exist. And you lack the importance and the strength to make anything useful of it. The best you’ve ever done is cheat at a game of your own design because you’re so incompetent you can’t even win a rigged game.”

Nikolay’s fingers started to twitch. The coils in his legs, ready to lunge, tightened.

“I do not fear you, Nikolay. I pity you.”

“One…” Ratna muttered, leaning forward.

Nikolay clenched his fist into a tight ball. The demons had completely taken over his body. They could be denied no longer. They were too short-sighted, too impatient to wait until the game had its victory to extract their long-overdue vengeance. And Hakeem… Hakeem was too tempting a meal to ignore any longer.

“Two...” Ratna continued.

“Paper,” Ehije said.

Nikolay lunged at Ehije. Ehije raised his hand.

For the first time all game, Ratna did not pause.

“Three!”

The slam of flesh on flesh, a shockwave strong enough to shake the entire Wheel. A black hand, cupped around a small white fist. Paper enveloping a hard stone.

Paper beats rock.

Nikolay looked shocked. At first, that someone would block his fist. But then, when his adrenaline and rage-clouded mind cleared, at what exactly had transpired. His eyes, wide and milky and staring a thousand yards away, slowly lowered to the fist he had made, and Ehije’s victorious grin.

“...n-no. No, no no no.”

He tried to pull his hand away. With trembling fingers, he made a peace sign, the sign of the scissors, and offered it to the empty air. Ratna, every single tooth in her mouth exposed to the bloodied air of the Wheel, shook her head, placed her hand on his, and lowered it onto the table.

“Nikolay.”

He blinked away a tear.

“...you lose.”

He gasped, and with a terrified yelp, tried to pull his hand away, to stagger to the door. But Ratna’s grip was shockingly strong, and he was unable to pull away. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, and squeezed. Hard.

“Hey. New old boss.” She growled, her amber eyes nearly exploding with light out of their sockets, “...is this bitch a guest… or an intruder?”

Ehije, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt, allowed his smile to turn cruel.

“...he is an intruder, my dear Ratna.”

Nikolay turned around. His fear had merged completely with his anger, his adrenaline, the demons that leashed and clawed at everything, telling him to fight. But as he prepared to roar into battle, to fight tooth and nail to survive, his anger, and his hatred, and every demon that raced through his blood was tamed. Because behind Ratna was a towering, monstrous figure, and each and every eye was locked onto him. An absolute entity that no mortal passion could hope to overwhelm.

And his weakness gave rise.

“N-no, wait, no, please, Ratna, I-” He tried, but Ratna closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, her lips pushed hard against Nikolay. Silencing him. And muffling his screams when her teeth started digging into his lips. Drawing blood. Tearing flesh.

“A-aah! Aaaah!!”

She pulled her face away, taking most of his lower lip with her. She spat it on the ground. Nikolay, shivering and crying, dropped to the ground and staggered to the door, but when he pulled on the door, it clicked: reminding him in a simple tone that he himself had locked it. Ehije watched with a grim satisfaction as Ratna prowled behind her prey, limping but precise nonetheless, drew a large chunk of sharpened porcelain -- a chunk of Teresa’s old body, turned into a shiv -- and gracefully plunged it deep into the back of Nikolay’s neck.

He stiffened, and as the blood poured over them both, Ratna wrapped her arms around the paralyzed, wounded soul, and dragged it away from the door. Away from the solitary light that hung over the door. And into the darkness.

The demons would never get their chance to feed.

But the wolf would.

~*~

“Burn Bright”, by The Heavy, played on the radio.

It had taken Ratna and Ehije almost thirty minutes to figure out how to make it work.

“Well, it took a bit…” Ratna started, pouring three beers -- even though Mr. Eight didn’t drink -- and handing them out, “But… we got Nikolay and even Helmut. You did good, man. Real good.”

They toasted without a word, and allowed each other a few moments to drink.

“That just leaves Marie Walker herself.”

“If I am not shot dead when the cops arrive,” Ehije sighed, the thrill of his victory not nearly as long-lasting as the realization of his current situation.

“Don’t even worry about it, Hakeem. We’ll make sure you live. And we’ll even get you out of jail when we’re done. Won’t even cost you your wish.”

Her bloody smile wasn’t reassuring, but it was weirdly charming. He took another drink.

“By the way. I suppose I should tell you now that I trust you. My real name is not Hakeem. It is Ehije.”

“...weird thing to lie about, but alright.” She shrugged.

“Considering the circumstances I do not think it is that strange. The old stories say there is power in names. With a place as magical and ancient as the Silver Wheel, caution is reasonable.”

“Can’t argue that, I guess.” She took a drink, “Well, I’ll tell Teresa that, if or when she gets back.”

“Yes… I am curious, what your plan is right now.”

“Ugh, plans? I’m trying to drink,” she rolled her eyes, but then paused for a thought. “...well, I doubt Teresa’s going to hire a new bartender until Marie’s taken care of. Wouldn’t want to drag another soul into this mess, I’d bet. So when she gets back and gets the good news, she’s probably going to want to clean up, then we’ll have a… all-hands or whatever to go over the final phase. Then you get your wish and this place goes back to however the hell it was supposed to run before this mess happened.”

She took a long swig.

“...course… we don’t do so good with plans, y’know. So probably? Something goes wrong and we wing it.”

“I was afraid you would say that.”

“But hey, hey, what about you?” She pressed, scooching a bit closer to him. He scooched away. “Say this goes perfectly and we win. What ya gonna wish for?”

He looked at the empty space behind the bar where Ture had been. Frankly: his plan had been to get the key back then take the bartender’s deal. But with Ture out of the picture, he supposed he really did have nothing else to fight for than this wish. So he took a drink, and then made it longer to cover the fact he was still thinking, and when he came to an idea he settled on he slowly lowered his mug.

“Assuming nothing changes my mind in the interim, I would wish to become the new owner and CEO of Walker Industries and Bigger Skies. I may not know much about Marie Walker and her own plans, but I would love to get my hands on that technology. I would move myself to a better reality. I would use the money to rebuild it into a utopia and to become its king. And once I own this new reality completely, I would make sure it could never be soiled by stupid, ill-informed, and entitled people. Banish them to my current reality, where they’ll be more comfortable… and welcome to give me their money.”

She snorted.

“Not trying to win any Nobel Prizes, huh?”

“Charity is largely nothing but wasted time and effort. I’ll be a good person once I’m in a world that deserves it.”

“Hey, it’s your wish. I ain’t judging.”

He finished his drink, leftover alcohol staining his lingering breath, and felt a twitch in his arm. He glanced at it.

“...I think I’m going to be woken up soon.”

“Seems like it. Wanna head for the door?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll stay here a bit longer. Just to see what it’s like.”

He reached for Mr. Eight’s untouched glass, but as his fingers wrapped around the handle, his eyes opened to a bright light and the shouts of some very angry armed men.

He sighed, smiled, and sat motionless as the paranoid cops screamed orders at him, afraid perhaps that he had some kind of weapon under the blankets.

It was going to be a long day.

~*~

“And… now.”

...Ture opened his eyes.

He sat up, gasping. There were lights everywhere. He was sitting on something soft. There were people all around him. He was dressed in pink. The whirr of electricity surrounded him, as well as hushed congratulations and a few applauding hands.

“Oh shit it worked.”

He wheeled around. Marie was laying next to him, yawning as she eased out of bed. She was dressed in her pajamas. All pink. She even had bunny slippers on.

“What… what do you-”

“-Oh, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face. And Teresa? That was great. I’m great. Good, healthy sense of humor,” she smacked her lips a few times, locking eyes with Ture, “Welcome to the real world buddy. Want some eggs?”

He looked down at himself. He was not… him. That made sense. He died in 1998, after all. Even if a version of him was still around he would have to be… eighty by now. Maybe more. He didn’t know exactly what year it was. His body was chubby, plump in the face, black hair, tanned skin… without looking at his face, he guessed he was some Polynesian. With trembling hands, he grabbed his own throat, to feel his pulse. He put his fingers into his mouth, to feel the warm spit coat his fingers. And of course, he checked under his pants.

A penis. After so long.

“...yeah, I want… eggs.”

“Then buy some. I ain’t your mom.” Marie flashed her teeth as a tray of eggs was put in front of her, “you’ll need money for that, though, and since a little birdie told me you lost your golden chips, you need a job for the green stuff. The way I figure, I could help you out on that front.”

This was going too fast. He was dizzy. He wanted to throw up and pee and roll around on the grass. But he could barely find the mental capacity to stand, let alone keep up with Marie’s spitfire mind.

“...a… job?”

“Don’t worry, I don’t need a bartender. But you did come here at the perfect time, pal. An exciting time. Shit’s about to go down. And I could use a man who’s completely and impossibly indebted to me. Who also has a bomb in his stomach. Weirdly specific criteria, I know, but miracle of miracles: you check all the boxes! For now, anyway.”

He blinked slowly. She laughed. Egg and spit flew into his face.

“You’ve got a nomad soul. With that chip you can Sam Beckett between bodies all you want, as long as nothing’s in there already. And thanks to a friend of mine, I have a lot of bodies with no souls in them and long, usually fatal to-do lists.”

He sighed.

“So. Ready to raise some hell?”

“...after I get some fucking ice cream, fine.”

“Attaboy. Someone get this fat fucker some rocky road. Biggest bowl we got.”

He sat, motionless, as reality washed over him. He could smell cleaning products, perfume, a thin layer of dust, and the sterile emptiness of a workplace. His tongue was dry and coarse, the air itself scratching and scraping as it traveled into and out of a parched throat. And his ears were serenaded with the sounds of people talking, machines whirling, and Dave Grohl making a very important observation over a distant cell-phone speaker.

Keep you in the dark

You know they all pretend

Keep you in the dark

And so it all began...