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.

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.

“Quick,” said the medic. “Tell me the first adjective you think of.”

I stared at him for a long moment, whilst my mind refused to play along. “Striking,” I finally managed.

He looked at me impassively. I tried to look back in a pleasant sort of way, without seeming like I was either being evasive or trying to stare him down. My eyes started to prickle slightly.

“Noun,” he suddenly barked.

“Plaster,” I said immediately, and then wondered where the hell it had come from.

He eyed me suspiciously. “Very well. Now, describe, in single words, only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.”

“Um,” I managed. “Generous. Protective. Blonde.”

“Alright, that’s sufficient. I’m a little concerned about you, Mr. Taylor. You don’t appear to be delusional, but your responses do seem a little… eccentric. That sheep’s head, for one. And according to FUNG, ‘plaster’ only occurs as an image within six standard deviations. Combined with other factors, it’s assessed you as having a 63% factor of sublimated violence, along with hightened narcissistic paranoia and marked tendency for fantasisation. If you were in a customer-focussed role, we’d have to take you in for treatment.”

“Oh,” I said uncertainly.

“However, it shouldn’t impair your current functionality too much.”

“It shouldnt?”

“Well, no. The chances are that implausible things really are out to get you, from what I understand, and wanting to hit something seems like a reasonable response. Just try to make sure that you are not losing your grip on reality, eh?”

I frowned. “Thanks. I’ll try.”

“Good.”

“So are we done?”

The medic nodded. “Yes, yes, off you go.”

“Okay.”

I left the room, and headed back to Travis’ suite. He was waiting by my desk when I got there. He had a couple of grim-faced guys with him, also wearing suits. I hesitated for a moment, and then forced myself to cross over to them. One of the guys was wearing a lapel pin that looked like a golden heron.

Travis saw me approaching. “Get over here, Taylor.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’ve had Johnson looking into this little oddness of yours. You do realise that it’s utterly impossible, I take it?”

My heart sank. “Well, yes…”

“I mean,” continued Travis, “I can clearly place you at that location at the time you said, from the pod’s logs. But it’s harder for the Cadogan Place people. How, would you think, can I possibly verify what you’re suggesting?”

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Today’s picture is Sheep’s Eyes by Let Ideas Compete