A short story written as part of a Writing Battle competition. It is not intended for distribution. 

Green means go

Uncle Chester gifted me three things before he died: his favorite lock-pick set, his worn leather jacket, and a broken compass. 

He wasn’t really my uncle, but Chester treated me like family. He saw a scrawny punk fixing his over-gelled curls in the reflection from a water-logged pothole, dragged me into a barbershop, and asked the guy to cut his nephew’s hair. I followed him like the runt of the litter after that. 

Chester taught me everything he knew, which wasn’t much if you weren’t willing to break the law. Before bile burn got him, I was only five watches behind in our casual swiping challenge. Since then, I’ve put some miles on the lock-pick set, and the jacket is my exclusive outerwear. 

It should have been easy to just toss the damn compass. I was hardly one for following directions, and it was dead weight in my bag, easily forgotten. While Chester was many questionable things, he was not one to give without purpose. I think I held onto it simply for the mystery of its engraving.

Green means go.

But now that I’ve found myself stuck between a hard place and a sawed-off ten-gauge, I’m really wishing I had thrown it away. 

My jacket sticks to the bricks behind me as the rough edges of the double barrel shove my chin towards the clouds. “Mac, I haven’t even been to the Red Quarter this week. I don’t have his rubies.”

I was there this morning. 

The gun pushes harder, and the thin skin of my throat splits. I’ve tangled with Mac the Merc more times than I’d like to admit. I know how far he’s willing to go to secure a bounty.

I sigh dramatically and throw my hands up. “Fine. I’ll show you.”

Mac snorts, stepping back just far enough to allow me room to grab my bag. I chance a glance at the beefed-up minotaur. He narrows his eyes, and I realize I’ll need to be particularly smooth with this.

This being an attempt to disappear gems I just lied about.

I pull out a city map, a collapsible crowbar, and my favorite wire-cutters, laying them on the asphalt slowly and deliberately to draw his attention. My other hand is inching the rubies into the loose corner of my bag, where shadows might conceal them long enough that I can make it out of this alley with all the curls on my head.

“That’s it, man.” I carefully shake the opening at him, giving him a measured peek inside. “Nothing else.”

These words are still passing my lips when there’s a clink from the bag, filling the space between me and Mac. Its echo taunts. 

The minotaur snarls, and my family jewels do a better job of hiding than I did with these stolen rubies. Not one for words, Mac gestures with the barrel of his shotgun. 

Resigned, I reach into the bag and wince as my fingers close around Chester’s compass. 

We both stare at it when I open my hand above the bag. 

Runes blink along its tarnished silver edges, and the previously dull glass glows a criminally bright blue. The compass thrums, vibrating in my palm. Mac leans closer, curious. 

Realization sparks behind his dull eyes. He knows the rubies are in there.

I swallow.

The compass vibrates again. Sharper. On the third pulse, it screeches like a wild animal freed from its cage. A band of light erupts from the needle, twisting through the alley, pausing just before the sidewalk. The band’s end flickers a new color as it curls toward a pothole, then the edges flare, forming an arrow pointing down. 

A green arrow. Into a pothole.

Green means go.

I suck in a breath, slide my free arm through the loop of the bag’s handle, and take off for the end of the alley. Mac roars, and shells slam into bricks and pavement around me, debris flying. 

It sounds like Chester’s laugh, peppered with the coughs caused by bile burn. 

Skidding to a stop at the edge of the pothole, I glance over my shoulder. Mac follows, steam billowing from his nostrils as he shoves new shells into the shotgun. Not wanting to learn if his aim is any better when I am standing still, I look at the muddy water beneath my boots. 

Green means go. I frown at the evidence of the city’s mismanagement of funds.

The arrow of light ripples, a gesture if I ever saw one. It almost seems to whisper, Go here, asshole!

I cradle the compass to my chest. Take a deep breath. And step forward into the pothole. 

My boot falls through the grime. 

I am suspended in mud and time and gravity and near-death and Chester’s laugh. There’s a great squelching, like sucking your boot out of a mudhole. 

Because that’s exactly what I am doing. I yank my leg free, and straighten. I am standing in the alley, except I am not. 

It’s too clean. 

Too quiet. 

Too free of minotaurs. 

The buildings are also different than they were a breath ago. Stucco instead of brick, an arched doorway instead of square, stained glass instead of barred windows.

It’s my city. Yet it’s not.

The compass buzzes. The needle spins wildly, then settles with a contented hum. 

Just to be sure, I drop to my hands and knees and slowly push my head back through the pothole. Mud, time, gravity, confusion, Chester’s laugh; then a sensation like my hair is being ripped from my scalp. 

Because that’s exactly what is happening. Mac’s meaty fingers are in my curls, yanking me back in his attempt to secure the rubies. 

I howl, first in pain, and then with laughter. Boots firmly planted on spotless cobblestones, I heave myself back through the pothole, collapsing beneath perfect clouds in a bright blue sky.

I still don’t know where I am, but I hope bald spots are in style here.