The Chromia Club

YEAR 2077

Our new world is painted in a sheet of clean silver and dirty brick. Which of these you see is dependent on your social status, and fortunately for the members of the Chromia Club, its all shine.

But private detective Rosio Navarette wasn't interested in chic metallurgy. This was where the 1% lived, filled with charming young investors and old tycoons. The club was used for these people to their own dignified professions and have a little uptown fun while doing it. Today though, color had entered this monotone world; but it was not gray. It was red.

From the day the top ruled the world no pig dared enter the halls of the mighty, but Rosio did not forget the law and it's entitlements. He was a pig out for meat.

The door opened. The room was white. White walls, white dresses, white suits, white glares. Rosio slowly made his way up the stairs to the center of the room. Not only that, but the center of attention. They all stared at Rosio. He was different. He wore black.

One man looked down at him from a balcony above. The shepherd. He wore a white vest, that matched his white beard.

“Rosio Navarette, PI. I'm here to talk to the Locust.”

The shepherd looked at him with stone cold eyes, but honored his request regardless. With the sweep of his hand he sent a young damsel off the stage and into the back.

Rosio looked around him. They all looked, but their looks were all different. Angry looks. Pitying looks. Bored looks. Eventually new figures entered the stage, but they were not what he expected.

The floor cleared. These new men too wore white – but they did not don white suits. They donned white armor.

Rosio knew what he needed to do. He drew his sabre, and they drew theirs. 2 white, 1 black. They went so fast it was a show on itself, and besides the sound of steel on shining steel the room stayed silent.

But then there was another sound, the sound of a glass crack.

One of the guards fell to the ground, while the other went for a strike. Parried, and knocked out. What a pitiful performance.

The room went quiet again, with only Rosio standing. As ears adjusted, you could here panting. But now, there was a tap of a cane. And another. Soon, the room fell into an organized set of taps, with everyone joining in the orchestra. Except Rosio.

A third man came in, different from the others. All the others, for though he did have a white handkerchief he wore a new suit. A red suit. It was the Locust.

“I am Rosio Navarette. You killed my daughter.”

The tapping stopped.

The Locust looked upon his prey in the calm. Rosio was well enough to realize that he was not the one to come easily, but unfortunately for him, he brought a sword to a gunfight.

A loud shot. A crippling pain. Those were the last moments of Rosio Navarette's life, as he tilted back and fell onto the ground of the Chromia Club.

The tapping continued. The world was black and white again.


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