Play of Shadows

2.13 Run Boy, Run

The group hadn’t gotten far by the time Frances and Svetlan caught up. The dark was all-consuming, and many among the players had slipped into a somnambulistic state. They stumbled along like zombies, barely reacting to the calls of their companions. The ruckus they raised was enough to raise the dead. Yet, not a footstep escaped, every sound and breath swallowed by the shadows that had eaten the room.

Thankfully, Svetlan still had his sight. He and Frances were able to rejoin the others without incident and stopped the group from advancing further.

“You believe the exit to be above us?” Michael asked.

Frances nodded resolutely. The chimera myth along with the clues the game had provided through the woman in red were good enough for him and he said as much.

“It could be misdirection,” Michael warned.

“It’s not,” Frances said with certainty.

Michael frowned, unconvinced. Frances understood his friend’s mind; Michael expected subterfuge in everything. The simpler a game, the more the man raised his guard. His caution and sharp mind made him a great strategist but a poor soldier.

Frances was precisely the opposite. He made decisions quickly and decisively and didn’t much care for the subtleties of an obstacle. The Alexandrian solution suited him just fine.

“The woman in red,” Michael began slowly, “Did you see her face?”

The question was not unexpected. Frances shook his head and said, “You think it was her,” knowing that his friend had made the connection between the painting they had seen in Cicada Manor’s cluttered atrium and the strange etching.

“It should be,” Michael agreed.

Frances frowned. He was startled when he first laid eyes on that painting and recognized its subject – Ann Sufort, an infamous figure in the gaming industry and, unhappily, an old friend. He had wondered at the decision to feature such a thing so prominently then, but was all too happy to dismiss the object as a frivolous addition of little consequence. However, a repeated sighting hinted at something more than an especially provocative Easter egg.

The painting in the atrium featured a woman of Ann’s likeliness, wearing a red dress. They had encountered nothing like it since, which meant that if the etching was meant to resemble anyone, it had to be that particular painting. And that particular woman.

“If it’s her, then it could be a trap,” Frances said.

Michael smiled wanly. “Not necessarily. Perhaps the developers behind this project were fans of Annie’s.”

Frances’ frown deepened at Michael’s wistful tone. He wracked his brain for something comforting to say when a flicker of a motion had him dodging to the side, pulling Michael along as he went. A heavy stone crashed where they had been standing, sending a ripple of golden coins scattering with a clatter. Frances called out a warning for the others to be on their guard.

Several tense moments passed. When there was no further incident, the group breathed a sigh of relief. Frances kicked over the stone slab that had fallen down and tried to make out something of use by touch.

“It’s a carving of an ass,” Svetlan told them.

Franes raised his hands from the stone as if burned. Svetlan laughed, voice disembodied in the dark.

“A donkey, I should say,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you?” Frances snapped.

“Ass seemed more apt.”