The neon signs hanging in bar windows and along the otherwise barren street all advertised a show that was set to begin at 22:56 in some place called "The Drowned Doubloon". There was no mention as to what kind of show it was but he, being a tourist, thought it was another city-specific attraction that he could write about to his friends back home.
Finding "The Drowned Doubloon" took him a good hour as it was tucked behind a housing estate near the Grande Museum of Bones. The sign outside was the same as all the neon ones he'd seen dotted about the city and,with minutes to spare, he ordered the oddest sounding drink on their board (lovingly named Churchyard Sweat) and sat down to wait for the show.
Their stage was small but deep, not much out front but the way they'd set up the lights and mirrors made it seem like he was gazing into a never ending corridor that was classically lit by many dim chandeliers. Despite the detailed and unique stage, the cosy atmosphere of the pub and the built-up area it was established in, it was practically empty. Even the streets leading up to it had been bustling as usual despite the late hour. He put it down to the fact that it was mid-week and the people in the area may have work or children to take up their remaining time, after all modern society ran 24/7.
As 22:56 came about, exactly as the minute rolled over, the show began. The rumbling of marching feet filled the pub's thick walls and dimly lit rooms until the floor and tables shook from the force of it. Slowly along the seemingly illusionary corridor came an army dressed in some kind of grey uniform with no insignia or weapons on display.
They wore some kind of mesh mask that blended in with their varying skin tones so perfectly it seemed at first glance like they all had no face. Slowly they stepped off the stage and gently took members of the audience back up with them, including our tourist. He thought it an interesting, albeit unusual, way to gain audience interaction and hoped he could sit back down to his beer soon.
The unmarked army turned sharply and took their audience members back along the corridor, not listening to them protesting or struggling in the steel grips of the soldiers. Our tourist began to realise that this show wasn't going the way he had hoped, especially when the temperature around him dropped dramatically as they seemed to step over an unseen threshold.
He glanced back, past another struggling civilian and saw that the pub behind them seemed so far away, a near speck in the distance yet they'd barely taken a dozen paces. To make matters stranger, everyone in the pub appeared to be leaving, the tables were being stacked against the walls and with a resolute click that echoed throughout the corridor, they turned off the lights.
The army continued to lead the civilians on, unphased by the attempts to escape and injure those in uniform. After a few minutes more of walking down the impossibly long hallway the soldiers let go of everyone's arms and kept walking forward, leaving their former captives to decide what to do from there. Predictably they all tried to head back to the pub, finding themselves unable to cross the threshold back and left staring at the unlit and empty rooms.
Our tourist was the first among them to suggest searching the walls for hidden passages to get back, after all what's a stage without a trapdoor? And so the small group set about crawling along the floor and walls in search of anything that could lead out or away from the direction that the soldiers went, possibly the only direction to go.
Eventually a middle aged woman found a loose stone and with some persuasion most of the wall fell away to reveal the same view of the empty pub but this time they were able to cross back through. Considering their misadventure over and done with they all bid each other a hasty goodbye and managed to climb out of the same open window into the cold night.
To him everything felt slightly off from then on, his friends and family were different in the smallest of ways. Like how they laughed or the piercings in their ears or the way they wore their hair. Little things that had made them so familiar to him were now utterly absent and in their place stood strangers who had known him, or possibly some version of him, all their lives.
Finding "The Drowned Doubloon" took him a good hour as it was tucked behind a housing estate near the Grande Museum of Bones. The sign outside was the same as all the neon ones he'd seen dotted about the city and,with minutes to spare, he ordered the oddest sounding drink on their board (lovingly named Churchyard Sweat) and sat down to wait for the show.
Their stage was small but deep, not much out front but the way they'd set up the lights and mirrors made it seem like he was gazing into a never ending corridor that was classically lit by many dim chandeliers. Despite the detailed and unique stage, the cosy atmosphere of the pub and the built-up area it was established in, it was practically empty. Even the streets leading up to it had been bustling as usual despite the late hour. He put it down to the fact that it was mid-week and the people in the area may have work or children to take up their remaining time, after all modern society ran 24/7.
As 22:56 came about, exactly as the minute rolled over, the show began. The rumbling of marching feet filled the pub's thick walls and dimly lit rooms until the floor and tables shook from the force of it. Slowly along the seemingly illusionary corridor came an army dressed in some kind of grey uniform with no insignia or weapons on display.
They wore some kind of mesh mask that blended in with their varying skin tones so perfectly it seemed at first glance like they all had no face. Slowly they stepped off the stage and gently took members of the audience back up with them, including our tourist. He thought it an interesting, albeit unusual, way to gain audience interaction and hoped he could sit back down to his beer soon.
The unmarked army turned sharply and took their audience members back along the corridor, not listening to them protesting or struggling in the steel grips of the soldiers. Our tourist began to realise that this show wasn't going the way he had hoped, especially when the temperature around him dropped dramatically as they seemed to step over an unseen threshold.
He glanced back, past another struggling civilian and saw that the pub behind them seemed so far away, a near speck in the distance yet they'd barely taken a dozen paces. To make matters stranger, everyone in the pub appeared to be leaving, the tables were being stacked against the walls and with a resolute click that echoed throughout the corridor, they turned off the lights.
The army continued to lead the civilians on, unphased by the attempts to escape and injure those in uniform. After a few minutes more of walking down the impossibly long hallway the soldiers let go of everyone's arms and kept walking forward, leaving their former captives to decide what to do from there. Predictably they all tried to head back to the pub, finding themselves unable to cross the threshold back and left staring at the unlit and empty rooms.
Our tourist was the first among them to suggest searching the walls for hidden passages to get back, after all what's a stage without a trapdoor? And so the small group set about crawling along the floor and walls in search of anything that could lead out or away from the direction that the soldiers went, possibly the only direction to go.
Eventually a middle aged woman found a loose stone and with some persuasion most of the wall fell away to reveal the same view of the empty pub but this time they were able to cross back through. Considering their misadventure over and done with they all bid each other a hasty goodbye and managed to climb out of the same open window into the cold night.
To him everything felt slightly off from then on, his friends and family were different in the smallest of ways. Like how they laughed or the piercings in their ears or the way they wore their hair. Little things that had made them so familiar to him were now utterly absent and in their place stood strangers who had known him, or possibly some version of him, all their lives.
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