Inventory Challenges
Inventory challenges require a character to use information or items collected. For example:
- Collect a key from under a loose floorboard to unlock a hidden drawer in
- Combine a magnifying glass and cardboard tube for a makeshift telescope to read a distant sign.
- Use vinegar and baking soda to make a cleaning solution to reveal hidden text on a stained map.
- Gather the materials needed to develop an old, undeveloped film roll containing a crucial clue.
In the urban noir “Midnight Match,” a late-night walk in post-war New York leads to the discovery of a boxing match. The protagonist stops at a pawn shop to ask about it and finds the door propped open with a brick, which he takes when leaving. After winning a bet at the fight, the protagonist hefts the brick to dissuade a would-be mugger.
Inventory includes information or informed skills, such as an apprenticeship, an online course, or reading the instructions. Perhaps the protagonist reads a sensational article on the use of peroxide and fertilizer while waiting in chairs for the dentist and seeks revenge. Or, attending a seminar, overhears a way to use the AI in home speakers to commandeer a drone.
Midnight Match
New Arcadia, 1947
Sixth Street
The city’s concrete is indistinguishable from the gray sky, the kind of sky that promises rain but never delivers.
I walk down Sixth Street, past the old cinema with missing letters, wondering whether missing letters isn’t a requirement.
A stray dog follows me for a block, leaving me to ponder what piqued its interest in the first place. In this city, we chase shadows with secrets only the broken can hear.
An alley branches off to the port side, and a worn-down diner stands starboard. Whatever else the diner offers, its flickering neon sign promises it is cold.
Enter the diner.
The door jingles, the kind of bells one hears at holidays and tires of even then. Inside, the air is thick with grease and regret.
A waitress with tired eyes pours stale coffee. I take a seat at the counter, the vinyl stool sticky against my jeans.
A newspaper sits abandoned next to me, its pages yellowed with age. The headline read: “Missing: Hope in the Heart of the City.” I scoff and glance around at the slim pickings of patrons.
The diner’s clock stopped at 3:15, much like everything else here.
Ask the waitress about the alley.
“Hey,” I call, and the waitress looks up as if that might be on her nametag. “That alley next door, anything interesting about it?”
She shrugs a movement that says more than words. “Depends on your definition of interesting.”
Cryptic.
I toss a crumpled bill on the counter, the tip she’ll see after I leave, and walk out.
Head down …
The Alley
To say the alley’s entrance yawns like a hungry mouth is a literal interpretation of the graffiti. I step inside, the shadows swallowing me whole.
Halfway through, I see this flyer taped to a lamppost. Underground Boxing Match, Midnight, 112 Roark Street.
I tear off the flyer, losing its edges to the tape, and keep walking. The alley narrows as the shadowy spectators of boxes and trash bags press upon the path.
Follow the alley to its end.
At the alley’s end, a dented metal door with “Pawn Shop” lettered in what appears to be pink nail polish. It’s propped open with an unchipped brick, and I figure there’s a message there.
Pawn Shop
The pawn shop is a museum of the lost and the forgotten. A tall, thin man in a threadbare suit stands behind the counter, his eyes sharp and assessing.
Old records, clocks, and dreams line dusty shelves like eccentric still-life.
Talk to the pawn shop owner.
“Looking for something?” The owner’s voice is sandpaper on steel.
I pull out the flyer. “What can you tell me about this?”
He glances at it and nods slowly. “Roark Street isn’t far from here …”
His ellipsis hangs in the air. “Just keep your head down—they don’t take well to strangers.”
Leave the pawn shop and head to Roark Street.
That’s my thought, exactly.
The door creaks pushed out, and I take the brick, hefting it as I exit, letting it slam shut. The city’s noise engulfs me again.
Roark Street
Roark Street is a labyrinth of despair, each corner echoing the next. Streetlights flicker, casting shadows in a city that already has a surplus.
As I approach 112 Roark, the thump of fists meeting flesh reaches my ears. A door to a basement club is ajar, muted cheers spilling out.
Boxing Club
The air is thick with sweat and aggression. Men circle in a makeshift ring, their faces a weave of scars and hope. Here, two fighters dance the brutal ballet of survival.
I push through the crowd to the front, the brick in hand helping clear the path.
Place a bet.
“Bet on the one with the red gloves,” says a voice in my ear. I turn to find a man with an eye patch, his grin more unsettling than reassuring.
Red Gloves fights like he has nothing to lose, which I did if he did. When Blue Gloves finally falls, taking wagers with him, it isn’t just to the mat but to life’s relentless grind.
Leave the club.
I collect my modest winnings in bills that feel cold and stink of blood.
Roark Street
Outside, the night air is a bitter reprieve. “Dangerous place for winnings to walk,” comes the voice of a cliché in torn denim, pulling on a glove and making a fist.
“Good thing I have insurance,” I say to Cliché, hefting the brick.
Sixth Street
Walking back, I toss a bill into a hat of appreciation for the saxophone. The alleyways and flickering signs speak a language only the broken understand.
