Play of Shadows

2.3: Glass Houses

Time slipped away in pieces, sand grains shifting along a riverbed.

Ann propped her chin on the edge of the mural. She made an undignified picture, sprawled across the ceiling like a sloth bathing in the sun. Her jaw popped around a yawn every once in a while. Watching others play was not her idea of fun.

The players made good progress. Mr. Glasses’ group was behind, technically, since their path into the maze led into a branching sequence of dead-ends. They would have to double-back at some point and rejoin the other players in order to find the exit. Even so, Ann suspected that their winding journey would not be a waste.

The open exhibit tanks appeared at random among the tanks, but they did tend to cluster. Michael and his team encountered precisely one – a tall, rectangular aquarium the size of Ann’s studio apartment, lit from within so it shimmered like a pearl in the dark. Inside was a diner, of all things. The old-timey kind that only existed as tourist traps nowadays, worn booths and checkered floors and metal barstools topped with bright red seats. There was even a music box in a corner flashing multicolored lights. It might even be playing. The sound didn’t make it through the water that drowned the set, but the ripples that formed along the top danced to a phantom rhythm.

The players circled the tank. Someone discovered the plaque mounted at the side of the glass, and after comparing with the dark tanks nearby, realized that it was unique.

“The key really is in a tank,” one of the players said.

“Do you think there’s anything dangerous in there?” the man with the hurt companion asked, trying to peer behind the wooden counter.

“We will have to take the risk,” Michael decided. “We’re running low on time.”

The others didn’t put up a fuss. Michael was a natural leader, Ann gave him that much. It didn’t hurt that he had his reputation in the gaming world to smooth the way.

Frances volunteered to take the dive. He stripped down before climbing into the tank, flashing everyone watching enough skin to bump up the rating of the program at least a level had the game been streaming live. And everyone was watching. Ann snickered at the mixture of desire and envy, the red cheeks and glazed eyes. The funniest part was how oblivious Frances remained to the attention. The man was far from stupid, but he didn’t pick up on social cues well. Subtlety and nuance went over his head entirely.

The key wasn’t in the diner. Frances scoured the place top to bottom, rummaging through cutlery drawers and ducking under individual booths. Every bit of the diner was secured firmly to the tank. Even the pie slices sitting under a glass dome didn’t budge when Frances tried to lift them, as if glued to the tray.

The sole exception smacked Frances over the head as he was sifting through the many framed pictures hanging on the diner’s walls. Those did move, but just enough to slide back and forth. They couldn’t be pried off the wall – as Frances discovered when he tried to do just that, and the baseball bat mounted overhead as a tribute to some local youth team – broke through the rusted hooks keeping it in place. It sunk quickly, obviously heavy, but didn’t do nearly as much damage as it could have if there was no water to slow its descent.

Michael rapped on the glass, then, pointing at his wrist in a mimicry of a watch. Frances emerged from the tank, bat in hand.

“I think it’s a prop,” he said.

“You’ve got a shiner,” Michael told him. “Here.”

Frances shook his head at the offered shirt. “I’ll probably need to get wet again,” he said.

“You planning to walk around in your boxers until then?” Michael asked.

A few of the players perked up. Frances looked contemplative.