Me Thinking Why Not Reply To This? - Blog Posts
Maxie’s fingers twirl a card with a flick-flick-flip, eyes wide as saucers, zooming over the woman sitting across the table. "Oooh, shiny-shiny shoes and mystery wrapped in silk! Who’s this? Who’s thissss?" Maxie chirps, voice bouncing like it’s on a trampoline. They lean in, pretending they don’t know Edith—oh no-no, they know! But Maxie’s always playing games, just like the cards in their hands.
Maxie’s been down the digi-rabbit hole, hacking and sneaky-sneaking through the code, chasing all the little bits and bytes like stars in a data storm. Edith? Oh, Maxie knows Edith from a thousand little pixels, but do they say it? No-nope! Not today. Today, Maxie’s just the dealer, sometimes blackjack, most times poker, sometimes chaos! But tonight? Tonight, they’re dealing mystery with a side of cards.
“Sixteen, huh? Ooooh, sixteen’s a tippy-toppy number, all wobbly-wobbly, right on the edge! Wanna hit, Ms. Mystery? Hit-hit-hiiiit! Boom! Cards coming at ya like meteors from space!” Maxie flings a card with a fwip!, letting it flutter down with a little dramatic swish!.
They giggle, eyes twinkling like stars in the endless sky. “But what’s the real game, hmmm? Maxie knows faces, knows the ones that hide, that don’t wanna be seen! But tonight, Maxie’s just your friendly dealer, oh yes! Just dealing cards, cards, and chaos! Hehe! But you? You’ve got all these little puzzle pieces floating around you! Ooooh, what’s the big picture? Maxie wants to knoooow!”
Maxie leans in, close-close, like they’re whispering secrets to the stars. “Hit me, she says! But maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this game, huh? Cards tell one thing, but the whispers in the wires? They tell another.” They grin wide, a mischievous sparkle in their eye, then lean back with a playful wink. “But don’t worry! Maxie’s lips are zip-zap-locked! Cards on the table, chaos in the air! Let’s see where this ride takes us, Ms. Shiny Shoes!”
The world weighed heavily upon her thin frame. More heavily than usual were the ghosts of her past lurking in the corner of every room. She clung to her flask like a crutch guiding her through the shadows of darkness. Without it, her hands are shaky and weak -- a signal to those around her to come in like a vulture hunting its prey. These last few weeks a wind of paranoia circled around her vast apartment, recent mistakes piling in front of her with the putrid stench of body bags. The hologram of the twelve o’clock news still rang in her ear, “ found dead”. Found dead, found dead---found. A mistake in delegating her inferiors to get the job done. Now more journalist would poke their nose in the corners of the underbellies she helped create. Nothing more those pests loved more than a martyr. No matter the number of their colleagues she sent to their early deaths, the more popped up seeking justice. Fools. She was justice and executioner and she would be promised. Edith did not dream of exposing herself on such a busy night, where half the city would gather like roaches to the same place. Feasting on a measly hundred credits to forgive their government for their corruption, how simple people were. She smirked at the President’s gesture, how brilliant. It still didn’t make her hate the bitch who sat upon her throne any less, the fires from her failed election still fanning within her. Yet still she bid the dirty work of President Steele, for a price of course. Tonight was no different. There was business to be conducted, but not without pleasure first. She dressed rather unassuming. Only fools stand out and only idiots try to hide. Her body adorned in synthetic silk. A black modest neckline with what looked like tiny mirrors sewn across the fabric that draped her clavicle. New tech developed to obscure faces with any recording device. She walked in six inch heels to increase her short frame, bringing her from just five feet for five foot six. Shortness was a perceived weakness and she would have none of that. Inside the heel a hidden distress button to unleash the various security she had stationed amongst the venue. Those who would help bend the world to her will, but none loyal. So even she kept her own disarming device in the shape of a french pin in her hair, just in case. The Inferno smelt of despair and greed the moment she walked inside. Her lips were gathered in a perpetual smirk as she looked around the gathering of people. Average folk amongst the rich, for there only lay one door to enter the underworld. She held the digital wallet in her hands while she approached the black jack table, waving it over the kiosk and watching one hundred credits deducted. Her eyes fluttered as she watched the dealer throw out cards. With eyes locked on the person beside her. Her intimidating blue eyes looking upon them menacingly, hungrily. Her lips part with the wetting of her tongue, “Hit me.” She sits at sixteen.
