A: What am I your f****** wingman?
B: Come on you owe me for last time.
A: be quiet you Sonofa- whatever, don’t come crying to me later. I’ll try to create an opportunity for you, oh, and this will cost a little mor-
B: yeah I know what you want, it’s in the basement. -- Anon Guest
[AN: Ah, the temptation to riff on A Cask of Amontillado...]
Friendship can get weird, sometimes. Those who know each other tremendously well can get away with much more between them than would be tolerated amongst anyone else. Then there are the peculiar sort who have odd ways. Their alliances are based entirely on a combination of trade and paranoia. Some of which may be justified. Once you enter their rabbit-hole, it is hard to return to normalcy.
One person's ARG is another's way of life. Nobody knows how that happens for sure. By the time a person is well within tinfoil hat territory, then even they can't walk you through the process. Those looking for conspiracies find them. Those wanting a puzzle will make them.
So it was that these two meet under specific circumstances, involving encrypted messages and very specific random dates. One of them handed the other a ninety-nine[1], causing the other to recite, "The doughnuts have no sprinkles today." The initiator said in return, "I read there's strife in the Senate." Which meant that neither believed they were followed or observed. Life is never boring among these people. Call them... Armin and Brey.
They speak in code, mostly to baffle anyone they didn't detect. Anyone overhearing them would be greatly confused.
"The hero reborn knows who to rescue," said Brey. Translated, that meant, I have my eye on a cutie.
Armin sighed and said, "I am not Cyrano." What am I, your [EXPLETIVE DELETED] wingman?
"A favour given is a favour owed." Dude, you owe me from last time.
"The collective noun for mosquitoes is an annoyance. I shall lift, but I don't have a stepladder." You're an annoying sod, you know that? I can help you, but I need more.
"You know where to find my amontillado." I know what you want and it's in my basement.
Armin said, "Saint Swithin's Day?" The usual basement?
"Naturally." That statement was not code.
"Seeing is believing." I have to see it before we begin.
"Same bat time, same bat channel." I'll meet you here next week.
Nobody actually followed either of them, but if someone had traced Armin through their circuitous route, they would have had a very difficult time before arriving in the basement of an otherwise nondescript industrial building with several doors. They would have seen Armin travel down into the underground section, to a specific door well out of the usual line of view.
Nothing casual or ever strictly legal happened here.
The turn of a key, the activation of a switch.
Armin sighed. "There you are," they cooed. "I knew it." It is with a deep reverence that Armin approached the brightly-painted cabinet containing a large CRT screen within the hood. It had faded with time, of course, and there were signs of player abuse on the cabinet.
Armin turned it on. It was, as promised, in perfect working order. They would not play until the deal was finalised, of course. Yet, once that Ready Player One illuminated the screen, it was hard to resist. This was an honourable deal among like-minded gentlemen.
Once Brey had sufficient confidence to interact with the lady of his attentions, that was when Armin would be among the chosen few...
...to actually play Polybius.
[1] A soft-serve ice cream cone with a fun-sized flake bar inserted into it. The original price for which was ninety-nine cents.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / albund]
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