Unearthing Universes

Three Crowns

A pallid hand was reduced to a streaky blur as Sol Orwell glared at the card with steely-grey eyes and muttered underneath his beer-breath. "This has got to be it. Come on. Please." 
The mantra was unceasing as the scratching of coin against card became so furious that Rosalyn was sure she could see grey wisps of smoke emanating from it. 
"You're not gonna see the result if you keep doing that, Sol. You'll just burn right through the card." She chuckled as she leaned back on the seat, pushing her mahogany strands of hair behind her shoulders and tipping the bottle up against her lips, sighing after the alcohol's burn against her throat. 
"Shut up, Rose." He hissed as his hand slowed, whisking away the shavings of the covering layer to see his result. A fist slamming against the cherrywood counter was an obvious enough indicator of his luck. Rosalyn peered at his card. Two crowns and a house. 
"That's as close as you're ever going to get." The brown-haired woman next to him only scoffed and raised a petite hand to the bartender. "Yeah, I'm sure he's gonna need another beer, Warren." Rosalyn smirked, glancing at her dim friend who sunk deeper into a vortex of fury, disappointment and inebriation. "Sol needs to drown his tragic yet completely foreseeable sorrows." 
"Another bust, Sol?" inquired the bartender with a receding hairline and a seemingly perpetual smile on his wrinkled face as he placed a bottle in front of the grieving man. 
"You don't understand, Ren. I need to get out of this hellhole. That ticket is well … my ticket out." Sol popped the bottle cap off and took a long draught, wiping his lip with his checkered sleeve as Rosalyn only rolled her sapphire eyes. 
She understood why. 
Great Britain both improved and degraded as years rolled on. Impressive advances in technology opened many medical doors to cures for diseases that were deemed terminal once-upon-a-time ago. Leukaemia was as curable as the flu. The death rates were lower than ever, or so Rosalyn read. This, of course, led to an overpopulating island with too many people and not enough homes, jobs and money. Yes, less people were dying but now, more people were suffering. Go 2037, she thought sarcastically. But something gave the population hope. The discovery of a new island off the coast of the Highlands earlier this year was the talk of the town for months. The government began building residential and commercial complexes and hosted a lottery to keep the public interested. Twelve tickets are scattered in shops all over Great Britain. Each one gives a person and their family an all-expense-paid trip to the island where they can lounge in the homes that resemble 5 star hotels. Rosalyn, of course, believed them to be nothing but … 
"Scams, Sol." She put down her now empty bottle on the counter and faced him. "Big Brother puts out a competition to stir the crowd and hires small-time, wannabe actors to go on camera with a winning ticket and flail their arms with excitement. The common folk don't get more than a tenner if they're lucky. Save your money, I advise you. You'll be broke because of those scratch cards before the night is out and I am not paying for your booze." 
She stood up, shrugging on a black leather bolero over her crimson top, as Sol took hold of her arm. 
"You do one card." He slurred. "I've gone through so many that I might have just bettered your odds." Shaking himself alert, he slid a two pound coin to Warren who traded the gold and silver for the lottery tickets that Sol depended his life on. 
Rosalyn yanked her arm away. "Get a job. Earn money and move to America or Mexico. Hell, go to the North fucking Pole, for all I care. Just don't waste your time with these goddamn hoaxes." 
"One card." Sol repeated. "You win and I'll find a job. If you're right, then I'll never work a day in my life."  
She sighed pressed her thumb to a panel on the back. 'Rosalyn Marie Bregans' blinked across the panel in pixelated letters as used her red-painted nails to scratch the surface on the flip-side. The finger scanner avoided false identities or someone stealing this golden ticket. One crown. 
"If you don't get a job, you're not gonna last the month. I can't keep loaning you money when I've got needs of my own!" Rosalyn explained as she moved her hand along the card. Two crowns. 
"Yeah, Rose. You /need/ to take care of me." Sol retorted with a smirk as he watched those petite hands inch their way along the card. 
"No, I don't. Work for a garage or something. You're not my pro-" Her silence was abrupt as she finished. "So … what were you saying about that garage?" Sol's gruff voice was no more than a hoarse whisper of disbelief. 
"What are you two gawking at?" Warren picked up the card from between the two people and froze in the spot. The card escaped from his grasp and floated to the ground like a feather. It landed, symbols up. 
Rosalyn breathed deeply, azure eyes never leaving that seemingly innocent rectangle piece on the ground. 
Three crowns.