Fragments from the Vault #018: The Long Con
"Our stories used to be so simple. They had a beginning, a middle, and an end."
____________________
Game: The Wolf Among Us
Location: The Tenements, Fabletown
Location: The Tenements, Fabletown
More information: Fabletown | The Wolf Among Us Wiki | Fandom
A cab in Fabletown. Screen capture & edit: FetchQuester
FADE IN
EXT/INT. THE TENEMENTS, FABLETOWN - 8:00 PM
CAB DRIVER (V.O.)
Nightfall. The mood in the air
lurches like a salt-teared rift down at the Trip Trap, rancid steam comin' off
the asphalt and plenty a gig for grindin' if the hustlers are up to it; the
payout'll see 'em through the ache of next week if they're lucky. The crackjoys
spillin' into the cab don't catch your eye for chit-chat 'cause they're
intoxicated with the fallacy of a world that ain't going to
hell every five minutes and I haven't the heart to tell 'em I see through 'em,
that it's a stitch that'll come undone when mornin' hits 'em with a
half-dozen hangovers and a side of haggard truths. That it's all smoke and
mirrors until then.[The cab rears up onto the corner of Main and Bullfinch; the silhouette of a woman climbs in, shrinking beneath a nicotine shroud in the backseat, listless, coveting her silence.]
CAB DRIVER (V.O.)
Evenings like this hang by a thread of mutability: When fate plays trickster, you just never know who's gonna step through that door.
"So... where we headed?"
She doesn't answer. I wait, politely, tucking in one last drag of my cigarette before rolling up the window. The rain's been
peltin' down, gutterin' up the backstreets and turnin' out kaleidoscopes
on cracked glass panes like a fever dream - the kind that brings out that rare authenticity in a soul. I think to myself, at least she
ain't the talkin' type, the kind who relish the chance to snag you with their
cocksure odes on nostalgia as they "lash their ropes" to the fairy-tale
that we ain't cesspits full of failures and false-starts after
all.
Poor shits. Nah. She ain't them. She ain't anythin'.
You can always suss 'em out, the quiet ones. The broken ones, the ones who are the sums of pieces scrounged up from some wretched corner where no one ain't ever gonna see 'em, who don't wanna be seen, the sad little caterpillar who never made it to the final stage of mortal sufferin' where we get to be ourselves in all our magnificently flawed beauty, to mean somethin' and nothin' in a frail modicum of one forgettable, miraculous lifetime. Those are the ones who get to me, bustin' open the fissures of this stone-clad heart without even tryin', makin' me wish I'd never left that derelict shack with its yellow stains and heavin' floorboards sinking lower than an ex-sailor's morale to come work this soulless city... and there's nothin' I can do 'bout it but find a way to keep 'em safe... for a price.
I lean back; the cab light casts a jagged outline of her neck where I can just make out a small, purple ribbon pressed against her throat.
PASSENGER
I'd like to go home.
CAB DRIVER (V.O.)
Home doesn't exist. Only hell.
FADE OUT
Comments
Post a Comment