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Afraid?
You tell yourself you aren’t. A part of your mind scoffs. You can lie to yourself all you want but the writing’s on the wall. Quite literally-- someone’s written the question in formidable, red paint on the cracked mirror. At least you think it’s paint.
You grip the dirty bathroom counter tightly, staring at your reflection. You can still back out now-- Stumble home to your apartment in the slums where your cat is probably sleeping soundly on your bedbug infested mattress and forget this stupid idea. Thinking of cuddling her makes your chest tighten. You’d certainly rather be with her than in this loud, dirty club. But you can’t go back. Can’t and won’t. After all, even if you didn’t desperately need the Mora, you never were one to back down from a challenge. You’re stubborn, resilient.
…But that doesn't mean you have good luck and where you are going, you’ll certainly need it.
You glance at the yellow bottle of pills beside you. Your fingers clasp around the plastic, giving it a harsh rattle. Not many left but it’ll have to do. With one swift motion, you pop the child lock cap off, downing the rest before tossing the empty bottle at the bin. It misses.
You kick open the bathroom door. It slams against the wall but the clanging of metal against metal is drowned out by the loud techno music that plays in the club below. Your colleagues and neighbors would probably be shocked if they knew you were here on a Saturday night. This place is reserved for the lowest scum of Snezhnaya and there certainly isn’t any shortage of shady dealings, dubious individuals, or violent fights below. It explains why he decided to conduct business here.
A mysterious man leans over the rusted balcony railing watching the antics below. His face is obscured by a beaked mask. A lit cigarette sits between his gloved fingers. The silhouette of a crow curls around the shoulder of his cloak, its beady red eye glinting at you as you approach.
“And the banker finds yet another idiot.”
You don’t reply. He doesn’t acknowledge you as you walk past him.
Dust flies everywhere as you kick open a second door. A small table made of metal and rotting wood stands in front of you. Various machines whirl and beep around you with stray wires connected here and there entangling the already claustrophobic space. The room is more like a storage closet and the thick air and tightness suffocates you. Your heart jumps into your throat when you see two glowing, golden eyes appear from the inky darkness. A small chuckle fills the room as a figure reveals himself.
You’ve heard of the Regrator. Everyone has-- gossip about the Harbingers reaches even the lowest bowels of the slums. It’s how you found this place. You just followed the whispers of how the Ninth spends his weekends gambling away lives and Mora.
You examine the Harbinger. He’s a well dressed, bespectacled man. His long, black hair folds neatly down his handsome face. The Regrator pushes his glasses up against his tall nose as a dark smirk forms on his face.
You wonder if all demons are as pretty as him.
“Please sign the waiver.”
His voice is silky sweet, like poisoned honey. A paper is slid in front of you as you warily sit down. You type in your name without hesitation. There’s no use mulling over your decisions now. You knew what was to be lost when you came here.
And what is to be won.
He takes it, reading it over once before setting the contract down. The two spotlights behind him remain dark, both glass bulbs shot and shattered long before you started this game. A small compartment flips over revealing two blue shells and one red.
“1 live round. 2 blanks,” The Regrator states. “I insert the shells in an unknown order.”
The Regrator loads the shotgun with three satisfying clicks before setting it down in front of you. His fingers are clasped together as he carefully trails your every movement like a slinky, black cat watching a field mouse.
“After you,” He smiles.
With the gun in your hands now, you finally snap to your senses. Reality hits you like cold water. A bead of sweat dribbles down your forehead as you stare down the hollow barrel of the shotgun. The beating of your own heart mixes with the music pounding in your ears. Even here, that incessant music is loud and clear. No one will hear the gunshots over it and if you blow your brains out now, the night will carry on, business as usual.
“Well?”
You look up. The Regrator grins once more. You see his ringed fingers drumming methodically against the table’s surface. He licks his lips. He’s impatient.
No. He’s excited.
Your hands tremble as your fingers wrap around the trigger, pointing it at your face. You shut your eyes.
Click.
You breathe an audible sigh of relief at the sound. The empty round falls onto the table with a clatter. Your turn again. You steady yourself. 50% chance. You might as well take the risk-- that’s what this game is all about, right? Still shaking, you point the shotgun at him.
Bam!
Blood splatters onto the table. The shot recoils and your rickety chair jerks back, violently scraping against the wooden floor. For a brief moment, you’re afraid you’ve gone deaf from such a close shot near your ears, but the sound of clubbing and the creaking of the walls soon return to your ringing ears. A loud zap can be heard in the darkness. Defibrillators and blood transfusions-- they’ll keep you from seeing Celestia if things go awry. You hear a faint beep and glance at the digital scoreboard beside you. A small electro symbol shudders before dissipating from under the Harbinger’s name. Pantalone. A mysterious name for an even more mysterious individual.
You still have two charges, signifying a full amount of defibrillator charges left-- You’d like to keep it that way.
When the dust settles, Pantalone is back in his seat. His hair is a bit messy but that smile is unwavering. He doesn’t look even slightly unnerved despite the fact he’d just taken a shot to the face. Instead, he simply takes the shotgun, causally pointing it towards his face and pulling the trigger. It clicks once. He sets is down before gesturing once more to the compartment on the table.
“1 live round. 1 blank. They enter the chamber in a hidden sequence.”
Why won’t my hands stop shaking?
You hate that you’re so obviously afraid, especially in front of a Fatui Harbinger. How can he sit there so calmly while playing such a savage game? How dare he sit in pretty opulence while you’re forced to gamble with your life for a few pieces of Mora. You feel helpless, pathetic. You clench your fists, thinking back on your meager life. How did it come to this? Hell if you know.
You shake such thoughts from your mind. You need to focus. You need to win. Your fingers tighten around the trigger as you point the barrel towards your opponent.
Click.
Your heart sinks. You push the shotgun towards him, knowing what’s about to happen. You brace yourself, hoping that he doesn’t notice that your body is trembling like a leaf. The Harbinger silently takes the weapon, studying it for a slight moment before turning it on you.
“My turn.”
The sound of the shotgun firing is the last thing you hear before your vision goes dark.
Zap!
“Careful now…” Pantalone drawls.
Your eyes snap open. You’re still alive. You stumble as you get up from the floor, panting heavily. You quickly turn towards the scoreboard, watching the small electro symbol disappear under your name.
“Let’s make this a little more interesting, hm?”
You silently watch as Pantalone pulls out two boxes. You open yours, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a large pocket knife.
“Two items each. More items before every load,” He explains shortly.
You simply nod. You glance at the blinking electro symbols dancing scoreboard then at the blood speckled upon the wooden surface. It’s your blood. Your breath shallows as you fall into a dizzy haze. You're certainly feeling those pills now.
Pantalone reaches for his pack of cigarettes next to an identical knife as yours. He lights it, leaving the silver lighter on the table and lazily blowing the dirty smoke from between his lips. Suddenly, he leans forward, examining you with narrowed eyes.
“Very interesting…” Pantalone murmurs.
“What is?”
“Your presence. What’s someone like you doing here?”
You shift uncomfortably, looking at your lap. The awkward silence is thicker than the smoke that fills the room. Pantalone chuckles once more.
“Not much of a talker? Or too afraid to speak?” The Regrator stubs out his cigarette against the edge of the table, flicking it to the ground. “No matter, we aren’t here to get to know one another. This isn’t a date, after all.”
He pulls the trigger. It’s empty. That doesn’t mean that you didn’t flinch when you saw him point the barrel towards you, though.
Pantalone hands the gun back to you. You furrow your brow, thinking carefully about your next decision. You light a cigarette. It takes you a few tries as you fumble with the lighter. You need more time-- or maybe you’re just delaying the inevitable. A few puffs calms your nerves and you relax in your chair. You watch the smoke billow from your cigarette, floating towards the creaking roof. You finally muster up the courage to speak.
“Why do you do this?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Do what?”
You glance at him then the shotgun. Pantalone clicks his tongue.
“Ah. It’s all about fair trade, my dear,” He shrugs. “For me, Mora is my blood, my lifeline. I live and breathe money. If I bet my own life, my opponent should give something of equal value as well, no?”
“I suppose.”
The Regrator waves his hand dismissively.
“Besides, I’ve always been a bit of a gambler. the exhilaration of pulling the trigger, the thrill of walking on the edge of death-- it’s all very entertaining. And I am a man who enjoys being entertained.”
He laughs, steepling his fingers and leaning forward. The silver chain on his glasses swing daintily in front of his smirk.
“You would agree, yes? After all, you must feel similar considering how eager you were to play.”
You narrow your eyes. You open your mouth to deny him, but quickly shut it. You’ve lied to yourself too many times tonight. Besides, he already knows the truth. It’s written all over his smug face.
You pick up the shotgun and unload it into that shit eating grin.
He’s down to his last charge once again. Pantalone points the gun towards you. It’s empty. He lets out a sigh before pushing the gun towards you and you take it with relief. Your head pounds.
The last shell. It should be live. This is it. You've won. You’re still alive. You want to cry with happiness as you wrap your fingers around the trigger for what you believe is the last time.
Click.
You feel your mouth dry as the empty shell drops in your lap.
No, no, no.
You miscounted. Time stops as you see him take the shotgun.
“How unfortunate.”
With one swift motion, Pantalone cuts the barrel in half, aiming at you one last time.
Funnily, the last thing you think of is your cat. You wonder how long it’ll take for her to notice your absence.
Zap!
Your eyes fly open with a loud gasp. You bite back a groan as you get back up. The metallic taste of blood stains your mouth. Standing over you is the man from the balcony, holding a defibrillator in both his hands with a hard line pressed on his lips.
“Get up. The night is still young,” He grunts.
You shakily nod, getting up and dusting yourself up. You try to thank the man, but before you can, he disappears, closing the door with a quiet click.
“You’re lucky he left you a charge,” Pantalone muses. “The Doctor usually only cares about the corpses at the end of the night.
Fueled by your random stroke of luck and a sudden wave of frustration, you clench your teeth. You grab the shotgun and pull the trigger against your skull without hesitation. The empty click resounds and you instantly flip it around, unloading the last live shot into the Regrator.
The last electro symbol under his name disappears, yet he slides back in his chair. The scoreboard shuts off momentarily before coming to life once more. At first, you’re confused till you see the text scrolling on the dim screen.
CONNECTING WITH DEFIBRILLATOR BRANCH…
SOCKET CALIBRATION (1/ 2)
SOCKET CALIBRATION (2/ 2)
ALL SYSTEMS OK!
AWKWAITING REMOTE ACCESS…
There's a loud snap. The cords cut. You stare at him with wide eyes.
“Long last, we arrive at the final showdown. No more defibrillators. No more blood transfusions. Now, me and you, we are dancing on the edge of life and death. Are you ready?”
You nod once more. It’s all you can do at this point. Your head pounds as you try to swallow. Your throat is too dry. You don't even dare lie to yourself again. You don’t want to die a liar.
I’m afraid. I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
“You know the drill.”
You pick up the shotgun.