The Great Game

If you’re new to the Great Game, please have a quick look at the blurb to your left, where you’ll find a short catch-up introduction.

“Control verified that my pod was at that spot last night, whilst I was meeting with the Cadogan Place boys. It’s the right place. Half of the Cadogan Place officers are missing today, including the guy I spoke to last night. His home is empty, too.”

“No offence old chap,” said Travis, “but I want to get all of this verified. Control sent through a B-notice on you a few minutes ago. Why don’t you go and let the headhunters give you the once over whilst someone pieces your recent movements together. You know where medical is.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

“Good”, said Travis. “Off you toddle. We’ll see what sense we can make of things whilst you’re gone.”

I nodded, and made my way down to the medical centre. I tried to prevent myself fidgeting in the lift, but it wasn’t easy. Less than two minutes later, I was standing in front of the doors to the medical area. I took a couple of deep breaths to make sure I didn’t appear stressed, adjusted my tie so that I looked as neat as possible, checked under my fingernails for dirt, growled at myself for being stupid, and went in.

There was a tall, dark,  unfamiliar man at the attendant’s station. I went over to him.

“Can I help you?” He had a soothing voice.

“John Taylor,” I said. “I’ve been asked to report for psych screening.”

The attendant nodded. “This way.” He led me across the deserted ER to a small interview room. “If you’d just wait here, Lieutenant.”

I nodded amiably, and fought the almost-overwhelming urge to ask about the two women I’d encountered before. The last thing I needed right then was to add to doubts regarding my sanity. The attendant shot me a quizzical look, and then left.

A few minutes later, the pleasant-looking medic who had discharged me turned up, carrying a black medical bag. He smiled at me professionally, and closed the door behind us.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

I tried to smile back. “Hi.”

He nodded. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Taylor?”

“Control want me to have a psych screen.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice expectant.

I shrugged. “I suppose that she didn’t feel comfortable with my line of questioning.”

“Control is there to help, Mr. Taylor. They have your best interests at heart. Being difficult is never productive.”

“I wasn’t being difficult,” I protested.

“I see. You feel put upon.”

I knew the response to that statement, at least. “Of course not. I’m working on an enigmatic problem, and I’m sure my questions seemed nonsensical.”

“Yes,” the medic said. “Very well.”

He opened his bag, and withdrew an ugly metallic helmet. It was a boxy-looking thing, with a heavy visor, and a number of switches and dials. He handed it over to me, and I obediently put it on.

“Now, just try to relax,” he said.

There was a click, a sudden smell of violets, and then suddenly I appeared to be floating in the blackness of space. Stars surrounded me in the distance. I looked at one particularly bright one up ahead, and then it was a large sheep’s head just a few inches from me, gazing at me placidly. I jerked backwards with a surprised croak, and it was a star again.

I blinked, and realised that each of the stars hid a vision. I started looking at them, one after another, curious. A procession of images leapt out at me: a pot of blue flowers, a cork, the number eight, damp grass, and on, and on.  Eventually, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the stars winked out. A moment later, the helmet was lifted off.

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Today’s image is Steampunk Space Helmet by Foxtongue