Orphans Gambit

Pandemonium 2024 Challenge

Written by TheCitySlicker

September 2024 - All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Anna's hands tightened around the smooth leather steering wheel of her sleek Polestar as she sat at the intersection, cursing under her breath. The vehicle was electric and relatively silent, but the oppressive nature of the run-down neighbourhood was louder than ever. The stoplight always seemed to stretch on for an eternity, holding her in place longer than she wanted to be here. Always. She glanced around the street—grimy, worn-down, and far from the pristine city center she had just left behind. Stockholm was beautiful, right up until it wasn't. She had spent the day in glass offices with views over Stockholm, high above the noise and dirt. Now, she was stuck here, forced to witness the decay at the fringes of society.

Her gaze drifted unwillingly to the dilapidated motel just beyond the intersection. Its peeling grey walls looked as though they hadn't seen fresh paint in decades. The building sagged under the weight of years of neglect, the once-bright sign faded to illegibility. A light with "vacancy" blinked on and off, and for a moment, she briefly wondered if it said "vagrancy." A few scattered cars sat in the parking lot, their rusted bodies and cracked windshields telling stories of a time long past. She sneered at the thought of the owners—probably some addicts or losers who couldn't find anything better than this rotting pit on the edge of the city.

A flash of movement caught her eye. A young man with unkempt blond hair stepped out of the motel's office, dragging a bulging trash bag behind him. He wore a threadbare uniform, the once-white shirt now a dull yellow, his eyes hollow and tired. He was exactly the type of person she tried to avoid thinking about. People like him didn't exist in her world of country houses and clean streets. Here, they were everywhere, crawling out from the gutters. She shifted in her seat, her discomfort growing. He looked at her and at her vehicle. For a brief moment, his eyes locked on hers like there was a recognition there.

Suddenly, shouting erupted from one of the motel's doors. Her eyes darted toward the noise, and she saw a woman stumble out, half-naked and covered in bruises. The woman's torn skirt clung to her like a dirty rag, and her eyes were wide with panic. That, or she was high as a kite. Maybe both. Behind her, a man staggered out, his dirty tank top stained with sweat and grime. He bellowed something incoherent before collapsing face-first onto the pavement, spewing curses into the gravel. He was clearly drunk at... four thirty in the afternoon. Wonderful. The sight of them made her stomach churn.

The light flickered to green, and with a relieved breath, she pressed down on the accelerator, leaving the motel and its unfortunate inhabitants behind. As her car glided smoothly toward the outskirts of Stockholm, she let the tension in her shoulders ease. Soon, she would be home, far away from the blight of this place. The people here weren't her problem. They were a shadow on the periphery of her life—better left unseen and forgotten. She had kids to raise, and God willing, she would give them everything she possibly could to make sure they had a good life.

Introduction: The Motel

I've worked at this dump of a motel for almost a year now, scrubbing rooms that stink of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol, dodging needles in the parking lot, and hoping the next guy that comes through the door isn't looking to pick a fight. It's not glamorous work, but I've learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut. That's what keeps you safe here. Still, even on the worst days, I tell myself that this isn't permanent. There's something else out there for me. I just need to survive long enough to find it.

This motel—it's far from the center of Stockholm, tucked away where the glittering skyline of palaces and museums is nothing but a memory. The walls here are a fading grey, peeling in places, and the few scattered cars in the lot look like relics from before the Cold War ended. Honestly, some days, it feels like we aren't even a part of Sweden at all. It feels like time forgot this place. The tenants here... they've all got that hollow look in their eyes, like they've been ground down by life. Most of them stay for months, even years. Drug dealers, addicts, people running from something—or worse, people who've already given up the fight.

But not me. I know I'm going to get out of this dump. And I'm going to help whomever I can along the way. I've always just... known, you know?

I used to be good at chess. It's funny, thinking back on it now—how much I loved those quiet afternoons in the orphanage, sitting across from the old wooden chessboard, mapping out moves in my head. The orphanage wasn't much, run by some nuns in the Catholic Church. They gave us food, a bed, and kept us out of trouble, I guess. But they weren't exactly nurturing. I never had anyone who could really challenge me in chess or much of anything else. I would play against myself most days. Sometimes I'd imagine someone on the other side of the board, someone sharp enough to see my strategy, someone who could push me to be better.

Mathematics was the same. Numbers just made sense to me—clear, logical, like solving puzzles. But in the orphanage, there was no one to teach me more than the basics. I used to dream about studying at university, maybe becoming an engineer or a mathematician. But those dreams dried up fast once I aged out of the system. With no family, no money, and no connections, I was left with this—working at a rundown motel where the only numbers I count are the hours until my shift ends. Or the number of needles in the parking lot. It's kind of an either/or situation.

Most of the time, when I clean out a room, I hear the sounds from the rooms next door—the shouts, the occasional crashes, sometimes the wail of sirens pulling up to the parking lot. The police are regulars here. They know me by name, and I know the officers who handle this part of town. Sometimes they bring Emma - the front desk girl - and I pastries. Sometimes they're here for a drug raid or a domestic dispute. Other times it's an overdose. One of these days, it'll be my turn to find someone who's been lying in one of these rooms too long. It's inevitable.

Still, I'm not done dreaming. I tell myself that one day I'll get out of here, away from the grime of Stockholm's outskirts. Maybe I'll head up north, to the forests and mountains, work in mining or forestry. It's hard work, but it's honest, and I'd take that over scrubbing bloodstains out of sheets any day. I picture myself buying a little house, something quiet, maybe by a lake. Maybe even in the city centre near a museum or a park. I'll build a life there. Get married. Find someone kind and beautiful, someone who'll make me forget about all the things I've seen here.

And then there's my parents. I tell myself that one day I'll find them. I know they're out there somewhere. Someone had to drop me off at that orphanage when I was a baby. Maybe they didn't have a choice. Maybe they wanted to come back for me but couldn't. It's stupid, but the thought of finding them keeps me going. I want to know where I come from—who gave me this blond hair and blue eyes.

I need to know who gave me this weird looking stubby nose, if only so that I know I'm not the only one who has that feature. Most importantly, I want to know if they ever think about me.

But for now, all I can do is get through each day. Clean another room. Wait for the next set of trouble to walk through the door. And remind myself, one day, I'll get out of here. One day, I'll find them. Until then, I'll keep going. At any cost. Hell, at any price.

Chapter 1: It's Just One of Those Days

Today has been particularly grueling. Emma, who usually handles the front desk, called in sick, leaving me to juggle both cleaning the rooms and manning the desk. It's always a mess when that happens—dealing with addicts promising to pay tomorrow, and calling the police to remove the occasional violent tenant.

Today is going to suck. The motel never gets much traffic, so to kill the boredom, usually Emma helps me out with cleaning the rooms. She's probably my closest friend at work - if you can call us friends. I don't think we think about one another outside of the time we spend here. She's nice enough though, and in sort of the same situation as me. She's a runaway from home. She had a steady boyfriend from Norway with whom she has two kids. He left her to go work on the oil rigs, leaving her to raise two kids here.

I like her a lot. Not romantically - she's pretty much done with men, and she always tells me she is going to date a princess who will whisk her away. It's just fantasy. We're both just making the best of a bad situation.

The result is that we both have nowhere to go but dead-end jobs. It's a cycle of chaos, and we're both stuck right in the middle of it.

One of the regulars, Abdul, is drunk again. I can hear his slurred shouting echoing through the walls as I'm scrubbing down Room 7. He's been a problem since he and his wife moved in a few months back. They came here as refugees, and while most refugees managed to integrate into Swedish life, Abdul absolutely did not. He turned to alcohol as an outlet. It's sad, really—he takes out his frustration on his wife and daughter. Every few weeks, she shows up to try and collect money from him. She used to even bring her daughter. Then things turned violent once, and she learned her lesson to leave the kids at home, away from the motel.

Today, she brought a social worker with her, a young woman with braided red hair, clearly out of place in this rundown lot. I catch sight of Abdul stumbling out of his room, his shirt stained and his eyes glazed. He starts hurling insults, his voice a harsh rasp in the cold night air. The social worker and his wife are trying to keep their distance, but Abdul's temper is unpredictable. A beer bottle sails through the air, narrowly missing them, before shattering against the pavement. I swear under my breath—this is just what I need.

I grab the phone from the office and call the police. They're familiar with my voice by now, just as I'm familiar with the officers who respond. Today, though, it's not Officer Hammerson who shows up with her usual box of pastries. Instead, it's two new faces—young guys who seem more interested in their phones than the scene they're stepping into. I watch as they drag Abdul out, his protests echoing in the night. I won't be collecting rent from him tonight.

Sadly, he'll be back on the streets soon enough, and back here causing trouble within a week. It's a revolving door, and the motel is stuck in the middle.

I sweep up the broken glass, and as I sift through the shards, I find a needle. Carefully, I drop it into the biohazard bin. It's a grim reminder of what this place has become. The motel only has a biohazard bin because the police insisted on it. I can't imagine the fancy hotels downtown needing one for discarded needles. Here, it's just another part of the job.

Finally, my shift is over, and Samuel, the night manager, shows up. Samuel is ex-military and stands over two meters tall. He's not exactly known for his cleaning skills but is here to ensure no one causes too much trouble over the night shift when things tend to get... feisty. We exchange a few words about the weather and the local sports team—trivial chatter that feels like a small comfort in this bleak environment. At least it's a break from the monotony.

When I step out into the crisp evening air, I'm ready to head home. My apartment is only a short bus ride away, but tonight I decide to walk. The early autumn chill is manageable, and the last of the leaves are falling, turning the streets into a mix of red and brown. I kick an empty beer can down the pavement, lost in thought.

"I would do anything to get out of this dump." I say to nobody in particular. "Should I hitchhike up North?" I ask myself in the chilly afternoon wind. "Ha, should I sell my soul for a leg up?" I saw to myself. I shake my head. It's all nonsense. Besides, I need the money the motel provides - meagre as it is.

As I approach my building, I see her—standing against the door of my apartment, a striking figure in a bright red naval coat. Her long auburn hair is elegantly braided, and her outfit looks like it cost more than a year's salary at the motel. The coat, though grand and eye-catching, is just the beginning. Her navy-blue business suit underneath is impeccably tailored, hugging her figure in a way that is both sophisticated and intimidating. The suit is complemented by a pair of navy-blue pumps that gleam under the streetlight, clearly high-end, and worth more than any shoes I've seen.

Her jewelry is a dazzling display of wealth and taste. A Cartier watch wraps around her wrist, its face catching the light with a subtle sparkle, as if time itself is bending to her will. Her necklace, a delicate chain, has a small, ornate pendant with "Dior" inscribed on it, catching the eye with every shift of her head. The pieces are understated yet unmistakably expensive, adding to her air of otherworldly elegance. Everything about her, from the polished heels to the gleaming accessories, screams opulence and allure, making her seem like she's stepped out of another realm entirely.

She's beautiful. Not in the supermodel sense either, but in the this-is-royalty type beauty. She wouldn't look out of place on the back of a banknote with how perfect she is.

"Hey, uh, are you lost?" I ask, trying to mask my surprise.

"No. I am exactly where I need to be, Oskar Sjöberg," she replies in a posh, educated tone.

My eyes open in shock. Women who look like this don't hang out around my crappy apartment without a reason.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, bewildered.

"I know a good many things, your name amongst them. However, I suppose that if we're going to treat as equals, then you should know my name as well. You, Oskar, can call me Silvana," she responds with a confident smile.

"Okay, Silvana, what is it you want? Why are you standing outside my apartment door?" I ask, feeling a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"Oh, I just so happened to be in the neighborhood and was wondering if you still had something for sale? If you do, I'm certain that we could come to some sort of arrangement that would meet your terms," she says, her words dripping with double meaning.

I'm taken aback. I don't have anything for sale. "What do you mean, complete the sale? I am not selling anything right now." I sold my bicycle on a social media marketplace a few months back, but there was no way that it would interest a person with this much money literally dripping off them.

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong," she says with a grin that could charm anyone. "You see, you said to yourself that you'd be willing to sell your soul. Oskar, I'm here to make you an offer. I think you should invite me inside to hear it."

Her words send a shiver down my spine. How could she possibly know what I'd said? I'm unsure whether to be terrified or intrigued. But something about her presence compels me to open the door. After all, it's not every day the single most beautiful woman you've ever seen shows up on your apartment door.

Chapter 2: The Offer

My hand trembled as I turned the key and pushed open the door to my apartment. Silvana's presence was right behind me, close enough that I could smell the expensive perfume she wore, something dark and intoxicating that clung to the air around us. I hate admitting it, but it was intensely arousing.

I stepped inside and was immediately embarrassed by how small and dingy the place felt—bare, scuffed linoleum floors, chipped furniture, and a sagging armchair I'd picked up second-hand. I'd never really cared much about the state of the place before, but now, with Silvana there, it felt pathetic.

Standing next to her made me realize just how bad the situation actually was.

She followed me in, her heels clicking softly on the floor, and I felt a deep pang of shame. There was nowhere clean enough, nowhere decent enough for someone like her to sit. The armchair was threadbare and dusty, the couch hadn't been cleaned in weeks, and the kitchen table wobbled if you so much as breathed on it.

But Silvana didn't seem to care. She looked around, amused, flashing me that enigmatic smile of hers—the kind that made it seem like she held all the answers to life's greatest mysteries. "No need to worry, Oskar," she purred, her voice velvet smooth. "I've been in worse places than this."

I didn't believe her.

"Trust me. The people with whom I usually deal is mostly part tinpot dictators and fraudsters in warzones. This isn't the worst apartment in the world." She said casually.

"Though, you could use some artwork." She added, looking at my bare walls.

She glided past me, moving with that unearthly grace like she floated on air. Her smile now had an edge to it—something wicked that made my knees weak, like she'd taken all my strength with a single glance.

Without a word, she hopped onto the edge of my small IKEA kitchen table, crossing her legs in one smooth, deliberate motion. The table creaked a little under her weight, but she didn't seem to mind. She sat there like it was a throne, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the soft curve of her thighs. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

I don't know if she saw me look at the cross in her legs and check out the creamy flesh at the edge of her skirt. She was hot, and I was looking, and I hoped briefly that she didn't judge me.

"This table suits you," she said playfully, running her fingers along the edge. "Efficient and practical, if not a little flimsy."

I stood awkwardly near the door, unsure of what to do. She was completely in control, and the way she looked at me left me unnerved. This whole situation—it was insane. I hadn't expected any of this.

"Now," she said, her voice shifting to a lower, sultry tone, "let's get down to business, shall we?" She smiled that dangerous smile again. "I work for a collector of sorts. Someone who deals in very precious commodities—souls. Not just anyone's soul, mind you. No, that wouldn't be worth much - I collect dozens of those a week. He deals in souls that have... value. Souls like yours, Oskar."

I stared at her, trying to keep up with the craziness of it all. "Souls? What are you saying—you're some kind of demon? Like, you work for the devil or something?"

She tilted her head slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Got it in one. I'm a succubus, actually," she corrected, as if that cleared things up. "But yes, I work directly for the Devil more or less. All demons move in the same circles, though, because we all want the same thing - souls." She leaned forward a little, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You'd be amazed at the things we can offer in exchange for a soul. Power, wealth, freedom... anything you desire."

I blinked, trying to process her words. It sounded ridiculous, like some kind of sick joke. But the way she spoke, the details she gave... it was too elaborate to be a prank. Too precise. The way she described Hell, the hierarchy of demons, and the different levels of the underworld—it was disturbingly convincing. Either this was the most elaborate con I'd ever encountered, or... or it was real.

The apartment felt suddenly stifling, unbearably hot. Sweat had begun to bead on my brow, and I wiped it away, feeling disoriented. I glanced around—this place was usually freezing cold, especially with the heater barely working. It was a chilly autumn day outside, there is no way my apartment could be warm.