Adam Burke
Games of chance were never really in my agenda - of course, we had been playing them all evening, but there was a chance of math in poker, probability in blackjack. Roulette, however, was luck, and though I'd survived so far, I had a feeling my luck could run out.
My father had always loved numbers - of course, they were what kept him rolling in money. The big ones were his favorite, but he had other favorite. His usual password was 0621 - the twenty-first of June, his anniversary. It helped protect the jewels Mother kept in the safe and protect his ass from ever forgetting the date. Another favorite was 0904 - my birthday, September fourth. With all these numbers, it was a miracle he could remember his password to anything, let alone have time to run a company.
I hated numbers. Words were my strong suit - I did the talking in meetings and Father pulled up statistics. I wrote articles and descriptions for the websites, while Father would enter in numbers and impressive sales information from years before.
Of course, roulette was as much about numbers as it was about luck. You simply chose. There was a even chance of getting on any of the numbers, 1 to 36. It was purely random, unless Emerson, the Ace who was running this particular form of torture, had a few tricks up his sleeve.
"Ready to place your bets, contestants?" They rubbed their hands together and the group around me seemed even more nervous - Emerson was high-strung, and it seemed that if any of us did anything out of line, they'd break into a killing spree - not that there hadn't been killing sprees before. I had been utterly lucky to not be a part of them. "Who's going first?"
I stepped forwards. There was no point in going last. "I will."
"Ooh, good. Pick your poison, Mr. Burke."
September fourth, 1991. 09/04/1991. Add all those together, and you get 33.
"Thirty-three."
"Good. Spin, then. It's your game, Adam."
I'd always had the upper hand in games before, cheating at tennis, being able to guess how hard to putt the golf ball. Here, though, there was no way to guarantee a win, and the cost of losing wasn't something I wanted to chance.
I took a deep breath. My usual tactic in golf was not too hard, but enough that it would at least get to the hole. If it bounced over, as those tiny balls were wont to do, it was usually not further than it had been. The only cost there was possibly going over par, and losing to Barry.
Here, the cost of going over wasn't going to be a bogey.
I spun gently, the flick of my wrist sending the wheel clicking past the numbers in a blur, the black and red melding as the numbers whirled around.
26, 30, 11, 7. . .
The numbers spun on more than just the wheel, sending my mind spinning. When had I ever thought I could handle my own numbers? If I made it out alive. . .
1,000,000, 1,000,000, 1,000,000. . .
The wheel slowed, still clicking past the numbers, their black and red blur separating to reveal more of the numbers, and as it got closer and closer to my thirty-three, my breathing slowed as well, until I couldn't even watch for fear of suffocating myself with held breath.
Even the slightest exhale could cost me, and I wasn't talking about the million.
The clicking slowed ever further, finally stopping, and I still couldn't look. The room was pregnant with silence, until Emerson's slow voice said, just outside my line of sight, "Congratulations, Adam."
The tiny silver ball sat, shining, smiling at me, snug in the 33 slot, right where I needed it. For a second, I believed everything would be all right, until I turned to Emerson and saw the gun in their hand.
I stumbled backwards, awaiting a gunshot, praying that I would somehow be able to dodge the bullet, cursing myself for landing on thirteen. Of course winning meant dying. That was how these sick games worked, weren't they? They flipped the world as we knew it on its head.
I was nearly cowering by the time Emerson laughed. "Don't worry, Adam. I won't be shooting anyone today."
I still couldn't completely relax, though, not when he added, "You will."
I took the silver revolver he held out tentatively, and ran my fingers over the smooth surface. There wasn't a single blemish on the metal, but I was certain that before the game was over, there would be more than one person's blood on it.
"You see, there's more than one version of Roulette that we'll be playing today."
Of course. Russian Roulette, the most lethal game of chance. More luck. With the way I'd just "won", I wasn't sure I had any luck left.
"Pick one, Mr. Burke. Any player in the room, excluding us, of course. You wouldn't want to make any of the Aces angry. Your choice."
I glanced down at the heavy silver object, the weight nothing compared to the weight of the bullet. Such a small object that could incur such great suffering, and such guilt in whoever had pulled the trigger. There was only one bullet in the gun, but it was still chance - just chance.
I had control over one part, though - who would die, or at least fear for their lives. Could I forgive myself if I killed any of them?
There was only one person in the room I wouldn't feel guilty about shooting - because there wouldn't be any of me to feel guilty.
Not waiting for confirmation from the Aces, not even looking at them, I pulled the revolved up to my skull, and squeezed.
There was no gunshot, no staggering pain, no blackness. Only a soft click as the revolver turned to the next chamber.
My luck was still here - but for how long?
----------------------------
Blorange Orange
T I T L E = C H A N C E
The strangely heavenly burn of Terror
an Angel's wings
fluttering in my esophagus
Liquid lightning, striking
Almost blasphemous
A devilish game of Russian Roulette
Just one single click
One single second
And just one single chance
Is the judge, the jury and my defense
I wasn't afraid
This was just a game
A wicked game
This hellish war of death, hate and
Intoxicating fear
Put a beautiful curse on my mind
Sending shivers down my spine
Has never felt so
Divine
Because in the end we all loose the game of life~
----------------------------
Milo Periander
MIA
----------------------------
Rafael
EXTENSION
----------------------------
Ren Cayse
Perfection was a funny little thing, and Ren had every reason to accuse it of being so, for he'd gone over it time and time again, even held it in his palms every now and then. See, from a young age you are shown what is perfect and what is not, and if you are not, you're less likely to succeed unless some miracle is delivered to you. In Ren's case, he'd been the little delivery box sent and resent to others in attempts to make them perfect. To his mothers he went first, a little bundle of perfection that completed a perfect family.
Over the years he'd grown, an adorable mess of a boy, running around with the neighbours kids, playing soccer, playing nice, playing perfect. Little boxes sat upon the hillside and within them was a family of three, maybe four, sometimes five. All the lawns were green and manicured, all the houses were big and simple. All the parents would visit around and speak of the same things as they drank their martinis and lemonade. All the children were pretty, all of them were smart, and they came out all the same.
It was an intricately simple system of perfection. If you took a stroll down the street you would see exactly what Ren was soaking in now, a memory of simplicity that left no room for fault. Little boxes sat in rows, ticky-tacky little boxes, little boxes all the same.
That was what made perfection such a "funny little thing." There was a set rule, and if you wanted to achieve it, you had to be the same as the very model for it. The result left everything looking the same, indecipherable from the other. But if everything looks the same, it becomes a process of normalcy, and it becomes much easier to spot cracks in the little boxes. And as Ren toiled over this and a crack in the polished wood under his hands, he wondered where he'd gone wrong at sixteen.
Oh, I know this one! He smacked the table, pretending a button sat there. I didn't come out the same. Final answer.
Looks went his way but he ignored them, sighing in satisfaction at an imaginary round of applause. But I've got a little secret from one of those little boxes: the women who sent me away were far from the same. I guess it runs in the family, or wherever that donor came from.
He might've laughed at himself, had a warm hand on his shoulder not pulled him out of his mental spiels. A twitch settled in his bones and he jumped, a breath catching in his throat as he whirled on the person touching him. By then, they'd retracted their hand, but Ren still didn't appreciate the momentary panic he brought on.
When he saw that it was his new friend, his wide eyes settled down, and a smile replaced the worried frown. However, it wasn't that easy smile he was used to - it was forced, uncomfortable on his lips.
Milo caught on. "Sorry about that," he muttered, letting his hand drop completely.
Ren waved the apology away. "Not your fault. I'm just tired, I guess. Wasn't busy or anything, just thinking about where my sperm donor daddy might be."
Milo raised a brow. "Well o-kay."
A shared nod, a distracting scratch of the head, and then they were side by side, staring on at the Ace blabbering about something that nobody truly listened to. Ren was lost by "Hello, contestants," and was much more obliged to consider readjusting his junk.
It'd been a long night, but he still had his dignity. In public, anyways.
At some point an elbow nudged him and brought him out of his crotch-staring reverie. He glanced up quickly, looking for the lowdown on what he'd missed. Milo sighed. "Roulette."
With this knowledge, he scanned the crowd, a shrinking pool of volunteers that subtly left one young man standing upfront on his own; Emerson held an arm out and beckoned him forward. Adam was reluctant to step up, but he did it anyhow, and no sooner had he smoothed his magic tie of confidence was his bet placed and wheel spinning.
Ren watched with mock interest that covered genuine interest, not for the game, but for the silver ball and swinging colors. How the Aces managed such an elaborate plan to pick them off was unknown to him, but some part of him was intrigued, and as he stared at slowing reds and blacks, he figured that maybe someday he'd like to know. Ren was quite an expert at scheming - it was the equivalent of precaution, and he'd taken all measures to make sure he hadn't been found.
That was a story for another hour, however. The real story was the one about Adam cheering in success, getting a congratulatory slap on the back and his fingers pried open so something as silver as the ball could be placed there.
An odd black had won him the chance to pick off an opponent; a true win in the eyes of those simple-scheming Aces, particularly very bright green eyes.
Perhaps their plan had achieved perfection?
Ren was proven correct when he saw the flashy Ace lean into Adam's ear and whisper something he was barely close enough to hear: "Pick one."
Wandering eyes flicked from person to person, never lingering too long, for Adam had to focus on keeping his hands from trembling over the slick metal. He was horrible at it. Ren knew what sort of person Adam was when he averted his eyes and lifted the gun up without looking at who it'd landed on - he was, in short, a pussy. That or he had morals, but Ren was much more satisfied with his initial judgment, seeing since he stared down the barrel of a gun.
Not a muscle in his face moved - he kept his lips pressed tight and eyes focused on the dark circle. He was indifferent. If Adam really were what his judgments said he were...well, Ren dared to say he had hope. He wasn't scared, though. Never scared. Fear left nasty scars, marred perfection.
Adam's hesitation was taken note of, but at the end of reluctance came the end result.
A soft click vibrated in Ren's ears and he hitched in a breath, lips parting for air.
So we're playing two Roulette's. Damn Russians.
Adam lowered the gun with a mix of awe and relief, relaxing with the comfort he hadn't just killed someone.
Ren simply held up a finger. "Will you excuse me for a second?" Without permission, he began a calm, collected walk to the other end of the room, only pausing when his hands gripped the edges of a large trashcan. He leaned over, closing his eyes, inhaling. The acrid scent of abandoned cigarettes wafted up - the smell was quickly covered up by a violent heave and everything Ren had eaten earlier that night. He felt his chest tighten, then his throat, and he heaved again, acid picking and burning at his esophagus. Get your act together, Cayse.
He felt some pressure at the middle of his back but made no move to dodge it. Something about it reminded him where he was and that he was not the sort to linger on past events.
He turned his head the slightest bit to the right. "Thanks, Milo," he said.
Before he could deal with Milo's fumbled blubbering, he composed himself, straightening the lapels of his suit and taking deliberate steps to Emerson, the famed Ace of Spades. The taste of bile still lingered on his lips, and he made sure the Ace got every whiff of it as he leaned in and worded his bets, simultaneously placing chips on a board at 1-18 and red. "That's my bet," he breathed, taking hold of the wheel and giving it a violent swing.
Not once did he break eye contact with Emerson as it spun, and Emerson didn't show a single sign of faltering under his gaze. The click of the ball skidding over bumps came to an end, and only then did they glance down at the result.
"I always go wrong at sixteen."
At the end of his little inside joke he lifted Emerson's arm, gun still in hand, right at the man that'd almost killed him a few minutes ago. Then came a deafening bang, and soon a sticky solution was dripping down the left side of Ren's face for the second time that night.
"Don't worry, though," Ren said, voice laced with a sickly sweetness. "Even if you die, you won't have me to blame."
He released his tight grip on Emerson's arm and let it fall slack to his side, licking his lips as he took a few steps back. "Keep the money. I need a cigarette."
Nobody told him he couldn't smoke indoors that time.