2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
As Nickel entered the warmer air of the inn, a shiver ran over his scalp, slithering down his spine. Despite the musty heat of the inn’s gray-walled room, the sign of the ranch outside still sent a grave chill through him.
There was a group of men in large cowboy hats hovering around the front desk, haggling with an innkeeper who was speaking in frantic bursts, his stubby hands moving as furiously as his words in response to the taller, bigger men around him.
Beside Nickel, the throng of weary travelers moved through, mumbling quietly as they headed toward another innkeeper who guarded the entrance to a brighter-lit hallway—likely leading to the residential rooms.
Reserved and stooped over, people sat by the bar and the small diner area beyond the front desk.
The chill running over Nickel’s scalp turned into a queasiness the further he walked into the inn. He paused, perusing the inhabitants more closely, a growing suspicion gnawing at him. He was uncertain of his whereabouts, of the motives and worldviews of the people inside—both seen and unseen.
AND FUCK YOU IF YOU VOTED FOR HIM!
The words from the sign outside hung in his mind like a specter, shadowing his perception with fear.
“Where are you coming from, boy?”
Nickel almost didn’t notice the pasty man with bulging skin spilling out of a stained gray smock and apron, standing just to his left, barely behind him. Following the man’s craggy voice, Nickel met his eyes. He gulped but responded quickly.
“I’m from Merrix Depot,” Nickel said, furrowing his brows to feign resolve. He wondered what this man—or the others—would think of the Thraíha, but he wasn’t curious enough to find out.
The man’s brow pressed together, folding his blubbery skin and the scant wisps of hair on his forehead.
“Merrix Depot,” he rumbled through puckered lips. A woman with long brown hair pushed past him, carrying trays of food scraps over her head. “This is Merrix Depot,” he said. “Where were you before Merrix Depot, eh?”
“Uh—I don’t remember,” Nickel muttered. “I’ve been here my whole life.”
“Errrrr, Leuvisia!” the man called, twisting his torso to crane his neck behind him. “Come deal with this one. Looks like we’ve got another foreigner who can’t speak.”
The woman with long brown hair whisked her head to glance at him before returning her attention to the tray of food she carried. She stooped over an opening in the wall where a dish rack lay.
Leuvisia! the man called again. “Come here! I can’t deal with any more of these foreigners coming through.” He started toward her. “Hurry up!” he grated, coughing.
“Just a second,” she cooed from the back of the room.
“Hhhugh,” the smocked man rumbled once more. He turned his back on Nickel. “Understaffed—understaffed. What does it matter anyway, when everyone gets scared off by the farms…”
He walked away as the woman approached Nickel, asking him strange questions about his original language and what work he was here to do. Nickel remained vigilant, leaving most of her questions unanswered. When she asked if he was here for brickwork at the border between Merrix and the Wicked Woodlands, he said yes. When she pressed for more details, he pretended not to understand.
Eventually, she led him to a table where he was to be seated with residents of his assigned hall.
When he sat down, a bear of a man with a face crowded by a prodigious beard was seated across from him. A large hat and a hood concealed most of his features, save for the small dark pits of eyes warped through the grimy glass of a dark drink that he held by his face.
Nickel rummaged through Rishi’s sack, finding a thick pouch jingling with the firm, pocking edges and rims of coins. He sighed in relief. He would get to eat, after all. The relieved understanding was followed by a growing awareness of the hunger pangs gnawing at his stomach.
The same brown-haired woman returned, carrying a steaming tray of their starter meal. More men joined around the table, yapping amongst themselves, peering at and flirting with the woman—who ignored them. Her face had remained sullen the whole time, even when interacting with Nickel earlier. Her eyes carried a strange silvery glint, an almost glossed-metallic sheen that flickered under the dim, grimy yellow bulbs overhead. Her eyes reminded Nickel of the wares-seller he had spoken to briefly before entering the inn. But he never got a good enough look to study them, due to her fleeting appearances, the dim light of the room, and his own reluctance to meet her gaze for too long.
This place gave him the jitters, and he felt more comfortable keeping his head down, like the boorish man sitting across from him—still sipping from his large glass, still silent and reserved, leaving the large shared platter of food untouched.
The food’s warm, steaming aroma carried a salty touch that added an enticing contrast to the dusty, grime-filled mustiness of the inn.
Nickel stabbed at a bowl of dried fish, cutting into the caked, roasted flesh, through the flimsy bones of its ribcage. A cluster of murmurings and scraping chairs grew louder toward the rear of the diner, near the bar. Nickel looked up from his food, over the shoulders of the men sitting next to him, around their table, at a set of travelers perched on barstools. They were watching a large holo-screen projector, where a holographic newscaster walked across the holo-stage, using her fingers to pinch and zoom into the three-dimensional background behind her. The simulated imagery was splayed out from the back of the bar, next to the glass cupboards, drinks, and supplies.
Heads obstructed Nickel’s view of the News Deck, making it hard to see from where he sat, but he could still make out the flickering halos of violently shifting light and color. The background elements kept shifting, and the newscaster maneuvered the simulation with her hand, calibrating its movements to be as steady as possible. But there was only so much she could do for a shaky, handheld-recorded video—which was why the three-dimensional background proved useful. If only Nickel could see what was happening in it.
A red rectangle materialized from the back of the Holo-Deck, expanding as it moved forward to station itself at the bottom, merging with the newscaster’s legs. Words in all capital letters flowed across the rectangle.
Nickel wouldn’t stand up and walk to the Deck—he wouldn’t risk drawing more attention to himself. But he managed to make out three words:
IT., SOUTHSHORE, and RIOT
As more people joined the barstools or hovered around, the Holo-Deck became more obscured. The voices of the people originally seated at the bar hushed at the arrival of strangers, allowing the electronically configured flatness of the newscaster’s voice to drift further into the diner, making its way to Nickel’s ears:
“……………..with the election coming up, the Realms are coming outside more and more, leaving the Ether for the streets as pressure mounts to define the course of the next century……” The Deck was designed to project her voice into the room, filling it like a real person’s would, but the volume synthesizer adjusted dynamically based on the space of the room. Her voice quickly became muffled by the travelers huddling around the bar, breaking and interspersing among groups who knew each other and those who didn’t.
“……….while video footage is limited, the two-hour recording behind me has proven to us all that what the President claimed were just trolls threatening to create a new Ether Realm have shown that they can mobilize and stay true to their word…….”
A new holographic avatar appeared—an older, wrinkled woman being interviewed by the newscaster. Their voices sounded real, except for the nasally electronic twang filtered through the digital transmission. The men seated around Nickel grew louder, laughing and shouting at one another, overtaking the interview on the Deck.
Clacking footsteps behind him and the looming shadow of a tray announced the reappearance of the waitress. She asked if anyone was finished with their food. The men seated to Nickel’s left flirted with her, one of them calling her “sweetie” as she repeated her question about the trays in a cold, indifferent manner.
Nickel wasn’t done eating, so he kept his trays before him. The boorish man seated across from him handed his tray to the woman without so much as looking at her, then asked for another meal.
“Eh, hungry eyes,” one of the men jeered. “Haven’t had enough to eat?” He jostled the man beside him in the ribs.
“Shut it!” the man snapped before his friend could say more.
When the waitress asked for payments, Nickel offered her coins from Rishi’s pouch.
“Sorry, sir, we only accept digi-cash,” the waitress said, shaking her head.
Nickel looked around, mouth slightly ajar in surprise. He’d just barely started eating and had already checked in for the night.
“You can’t transfer the cash?” he asked, jostling the coins in his palm.
“No, sir. If you can’t make a payment in the next five minutes, I’m going to have to report you to Merrix Deputy.”
Many eyes in the diner turned toward Nickel, catching him off guard. This was a much bigger deal in Merrix than he had thought. Everyone at his table was watching him, anticipating his next move. Even the boorish man had looked up from his food, studying Nickel with small, pitted eyes.
“Pay up, kid,” came the grumbling voice of the smocked man from earlier. He emerged from the kitchen to the left, wiping his hands with a white cloth. His face beamed with sweat. He scowled. “Trust me, you don’t want an arrest warrant on your head… so pay up!”
“………….Finneban has promised to reward those who are willing to create a new Realm…………” The drifting voice of the newscaster became audible once again, save for a few seconds of hushed whispers and mutters.
Nickel sighed, closing his eyes and raising his brows in consternation, prolonging the moment before admitting that he didn’t have a digi-card and couldn’t pay.
A wooden chair creaked from the far corner of the diner behind Nickel, followed by a heavy rustling of thick clothes and a clinking of chains. The rustling softened, and heavy, padded footsteps approached.
Nickel turned to see a large figure with a strong, bearded face, shrouded by a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. The man pulled a card from his trench coat and placed it on the table, pushing it toward the waitress’s checkbook with a large, knotted, callused hand.
“No need for a commotion,” the man said in a cool, gravelly voice. “I’ve got the kid covered.”
Nickel looked up at the man, too flabbergasted to thank him. The man met Nickel’s gaze and smiled, giving him a wink.
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he muttered, just loud enough for those at the table to hear. “I’m a friend of Steve’s.”
G.R. Nanda 