Four Flush

Darkness loomed overhead, weighing down on Richter's shoulders as he stood on the cold, unflexing concrete. The feeling was somewhat alleviated by the thin light that surrounded him, a pathetic orange emanating from the lone maintenance bulb that sat embedded in the wall above the door he stood in front of.

A gentle breeze floated by, air brought to movement by the swift flow of sewage behind him. The massive sewage pipe he now stood in, hiding away from the heinous stuff on a maintenance outcropping, was an artery of the bandcity, where a multitude of filthy capillaries met to deposit their toxic blood. The scent wafted up and into his nose against his will; a mixture of waste, garbage, and industrial runoff, the polluted liquid had an almost sickly-sweet odor, smelling of corporate apathy. Richter would have gagged were he not completely acclimated to it.

In front of him, sitting flush with the gently curving wall of worn, pocketed concrete, was a black, metal door. The paint was chipping, the exposed metal rusted. The only part that seemed even vaguely pristine was the lustrous, white doorknob, though if it was maintained by repeated use or was coated in some protective finish, Richter didn't know. Didn't care. The thought passed through his mind as he gripped the knob, reflexively distracting himself from what lie behind the door.

The metal felt cool as it rested in his palm, his fingers lightly wrapping around it in vague apprehension. He was inclined for a moment to believe that his synthetic nerves were glitching— blackmarket junk— but, in truth, the sewer was an anomaly, as if it were designed to instill discomfort or derealization. This far down into the earth, this close to ever-persistent, unfeeling industry, it would have only made logical sense for it to be warm at the very least, if not hot. But the sewer was in a perpetual chill, a cold that seemed to somehow weave itself though the fabric of Richter's clothes. Maybe it had to do with the flow of sewage, the liquid snatching up all the ambient heat and fleeing into the darkness beyond, a thief in the inhuman night. Entirely speculation on Richter's part, logic keeping superstition at bay.

Richter stood there for a moment more, still gripping the knob, but leaving it unturned, a gentle squeeze of faux surety. Without much thought, Richter found himself looking upwards, his eyes following the inward curve of the massive pipe, briefly hoping to see another level of Unescensi. He hoped to see the glittering lights of the living, but all he found was the oppressive darkness that held its ground against the dull, unsaturated light. The gaze upwards was a habit he'd developed in recent years, one that assured him that no matter how deep he was in the bandcity, there was always a path upwards.

The pipe was sealed away from the rest of Richter's world. It bent inwards towards its parallel partner until they met in an obscene embrace at the apex. The city hiding away its dregs.

Home sweet home.

If today went well, if he defied the very stringent logic he adhered to in an effort to tamp down the disappointment of reality, then he would never have to step foot here ever again. Richter had told himself this many times before, a cyclical black lie, but this time truly was different. The postcard that had been delivered to his door had promised a "high-stakes, exclusive game." He knew from personal experience and word of mouth that these "high-stakes" and "exclusive" games were typically card games, meant to facilitate a sense of agency through an increased level of individual choice. Yet, they were still laden with more variety and chance than many other gambling indulgences. All coming together in a heinous mixture, fostering an irrational belief in skill trumping luck in its home.

Richter held tightly to the opposing notion, that skill could never outtake luck. Was he a hypocrite then? Or could one transcend the stringent rules of logic if desperate enough? Richter didn't think he was a particularly lucky man, but surely luck could be made to bow by the machinations of a cornered, starved animal.

Hopefully.

But that's why he was there, to be done with it. This would be the last time he set foot in Hinnom. That's why.

He turned the knob, the metal door loudly scraping on the concrete frame and floor as he tugged, fighting the friction.

Uninspiring light from a maintenance bulb poured into the dim passageway, countering the subtle gush of warm air that escaped, revealing concrete stairs that led down to the basement. It was a familiar walk, one that seemed laden with shame these days. As he stepped further and further down, the dull orange rays of blue-collar illumination faded and were replaced by warmer, more dense orange lights that sat behind cages, embedded in the walls intermittently and without any sort of organization. This other, more viscous orange light was a signal to the brain, riding the neural pathways like lightning, subtly informing Richter that he'd dredged into deep waters. A couple of years ago, it had been as if he were stepping through a membrane into an organism with a makeup entirely different from his, but not anymore. He'd been down in the depths so much that it'd begun to assimilate him, alter his chemistry, his physiology. But still, in spite of it all, there was a twinge of comfort to the warmth, some errant nostalgia that prodded at him.

His new left hand twitched. Nerves or glitch? Richter couldn't tell. Not worth thinking about.

The stairs bottomed-out, turning back to a narrow hallway, at the end of which sat a door and a bouncer who barely fit, her shoulders so broad. She was leaned up against the wall, standing in front of the door, silhouetted by the caged light that was embedded just above the door. From beneath her nose down, disappearing under her shirt as it met her collarbone, it was pure mechanism. She sported a boxy jaw that didn't seem to open, a thin line of filter running across where the mouth would be. Where the metal met the greying, unnatural flesh of her face, the two were seemingly stapled together, the "skin" slightly bulging, thick and tough. Her scalp was hairless, a multitude of various kinds of scrap and antennae poking out in the vague shape of a mohawk, and her eyes were covered by thick goggles, their glowing red lenses burning holes into him as she glared.

"Back so soon, Richter?" she called out, mockingly.

"You consider five months soon, Shoveside?" he retorted, trying to seem relaxed. Shoveside was one of the many members of the underbelly who'd taken on a nickname over her real one, though if you were to ask her she'd tell you that it was her real name. It was cultural baggage that scavvers who visited or settled in Unescensi had brought in from the wastes. She'd never told him, but if he were to guess, the name came from the bulk of musculature that made up her arms and what she tended to do with them. Borderline unnatural in size, they were left exposed to the open air as her sleeves were ripped off, clearly harboring no intent to venture outside the bandcity. Intimidation or bragging? Likely both. Steroids were some of the easiest drugs to procure and Shoveside didn't have to worry about one of the more off-putting side effects that tended to dissuade potential users.

While he'd never been a part of the nicknaming fad, nor understood it, Richter had been thrown a few nicknames by others during his dives into the scum; "Sleight," "Inishead," and "Adrenowhore," amongst others, but he'd never let one stick. He was Richter. It was already something of a nickname to him, a way by which others identified him rather than an identity unto itself, though others undoubtedly harbored nicknames for him, just as he did they. To Shoveside, he was probably "Pathetic," "Chronicloss," or "Addict." He tried to not think on the matter, reflections of the self had only led to finding shallow pools and dry lake beds in the past.

"If someone ever shows up again, it's soon," Shoveside ("Brute," "Cannonfodder," "Emptyskull") said, standing up properly as Richter approached. Richter slipped off the coat he'd been wearing, lifting his arms up until his fingers were pressed against the ceiling. Shoveside patted him down, searching him for anything disallowed by the owner. As she passed by the waistband of his pants, she stopped and pulled out a handgun that he'd tucked away.

"New toy, huh? You pull first, you're on your own."

Richter nodded.

Shoveside sat the handgun on the floor, returning to her pat down. Once she was satisfied, she handed the pistol back to Richter. "I'm sure you remember the rules on glyphs: if you so much as start tracing a circle 'cause you're bored, you're dead."

"Still don't know jack about all that hocus pocus."

"Just making sure, new hand and all."

"I thought real deal hands were better for it?"

"Probably, wouldn't know. All I care is that you ain't casting them."

Richter picked his coat up and slid it back on, raising his hands to the ceiling once more. Shoveside grabbed two spray bottles from the corner she'd been leaning at, spraying Richter down with the large red bottle, coating him with whatever concoction was in it. It was different from the usual sterilizing spray, smelling of vinegar and kerosene, causing an intense pricking sensation to erupt all over him, even under his clothing after a few moments. "New stuff?" Richter asked.

"Boss' working out a new formula."

"Burns a bit."

"Man up."

After that, Richter was given a quick once over from a smaller green bottle, covering the chemical miasma and sewer odor with a pleasant floral scent, though that was guesswork based on the garden that his mom had cultivated years and years ago.

The process always brought back the memories: him standing in a warm room lit by heat lamps, the thick orange flooding the place with warmth. The room had been filled with planter boxes and pots, a multitude of flowers sprouting out and offsetting the bland color with their surprising vibrancy. Various PVC pipes wound around the room, little sprinklers popping out from the bottom. They would occasionally spray a fine mist of water, feeding the plants, all set off by various timers that'd been carefully programmed by his mom.

She would stand next to him, guiding him around the room, making sure he didn't break anything, and telling him about the flowers. Together, they'd lean down and gently smell them, taking in their scent. Sometimes subtle and elegant, other times strong and bold. She was adamant about reminding Richter that there were always beautiful and lovely things in the world. He hadn't known it at the time, but she'd suffered from some deeply entrenched form of depression, one that only grew worse as the years wound on and on.

The day that their small shanty home was robbed, her precious garden stripped of all its valuable mechanics and flowers stomped, was the day that she sunk to rock bottom, never to recover. Who knew how many credits those seeds had cost her, not that it was the price that mattered to her. A few years later, she would die from an illness, though Richter didn't know what it had been. She'd refused all treatment, all consultation, choosing instead to wither away in her bed. Medication was expensive, and she'd told him that it was for him, but he couldn't help but think it was because one of her remaining few lifelines had been killed.

Richter at that point had already been arrested multiple times for petty crimes and was stuck in an assembly line job that was liable to kill him.

Maybe she was completely out of lifelines by then.

At the time, her insistence on the beauty of life had slipped past him. All he knew was the downtrodden backwater that they lived in, it was all on par for him. Now older, he somewhat understood what she'd meant, what she'd wanted for him, but it still felt foreign. As Shoveside finished coating him with the fragrance, he briefly wondered if it'd all gone to waste on him.

Shoveside tore Richter from his ruminations as she grabbed his jaw with a strong fist, craning his head upward towards her with a jerk. She drew her face close to his, slowly looking around his head. What appeared to be goggles at a distance proved to be thick lenses that were soldered to her skull once one got closer, the red lenses digging deep into him. They were scanning his augments, calling their purposes, searching for anything that could be used to cheat. Richter hated this part of the shakedown. His neck hurt and it felt like she was digging deep into his conscious, rooting out what made him him. It felt invasive.

"Alright, you're good to go," Shoveside let go of Richter's jaw, causing him to stumble a bit as she'd pulled him up to his toes. Turning around, she opened the door. Looking back to him, she dramatically beckoned him in, somehow giving off the impression of a sardonic grin despite being physically incapable of it.

"Thanks," he muttered, squeezing past her hulking figure into the subtle hustle and bustle of the world that sat on the other side of the door. Waiters shuffled quickly around, holding drinks and drugs, delivering them to various tables filled with gambling paraphernalia and hedonistic souls lost in the waves of adrenaline and devastating loss. The floor was a filthy ceramic tile, on which the rubber sole of his boots squeaked, and dim lightbulbs hung intermittently. The murmur of the gamblers wormed its way through his ears, picking up fragments of conversations as he passed by them.

"… she's cheating, I know it… gonna put a bullet in her…"

"… First-time drinks are free; so, even if you lose a few chips, it's still cheaper than going to the bar…"

"… one more win, that's all I need… one more…"

Richter walked through the large room, leaning out of the way of waiters who seemed to either not know he was there or didn't care. He slowly made his way towards the bar that sat at the other end, keeping his hands in his coat pockets, pulling it tight towards his chest. A bit paranoid, he wanted to make sure some scum with slick fingers didn't pick his credit box, nor the special fodder he'd been instructed to bring, both sitting heavy in his inner-coat pocket. As he got close, he took one hand out of its pocket, slipping it into the one on the chest of his coat, procuring the small postcard that'd been slipped under his door two and a half months ago. It'd come soon after his previous visit, before he'd even been able to get a new hand. His wrist had ached something terrible still, blood seeping though the bandages.

He bellied up to the bar, setting the postcard on the counter, rapping on the stone with his other hand. An amalgamation of a creature perked up to attention like an animal, twisting three different oculars that rose like periscopes from its barrel shaped torso towards Richter. Far from even humanoid, the unsettling cornucopia of augmentation and wiring hobbled over to Richter on mismatched legs, one of its nine arm resting on the bar in a mimicry of causal leaning that was too stiff to be natural. Howdy-do, RICHTER! it shuddered out, Fantastic to see you here again! What can I get you? A drink to blur the lines? Or maybe a little something to geld reality? Ha! Ha! Ha!

"Nothing for now, Pal. I'm here for the event." Richter slid the postcard across the counter towards the drone, Pal ("Freakazoid," "Husk," "Gatekeeper"), who took it with a clawed, three-fingered hand. More oculars spun around, focusing in on the postcard. Well, my good friend RICHTER, you are the FOURTH and FINAL guest to arrive!

"Who're the other three?"

FIFTEEN minutes ago, TIESHINE arrived! SIX minutes ago, MAUVE STREICHTHEISER arrived! And Mr. FIFTY arrived here AT OPENING minutes ago!

Richter drew back slightly at "Fifty," the owner of the establishment he now stood in, the one who'd sent him the postcard. "'Fifty'? He's playing?"

Yes! Mr. Fifty was so pleased with your performance at the last event that he wished to partake in a game with you!

High praise, Richter thought.

Now! Please step behind the bar and follow me! Pal hobbled off again, headed towards a metal door that stood next to a stand filled with various alcohols, all of their labels removed. Richter vaulted the bar, landing hard on the other side, breaking it with a crouch. In the brief time he was low, he took note of the trio of scatterguns that sat mounted beneath the bar. He'd never bothered to look before, though he wasn't surprised. Richter couldn't imagine having to face Pal down while it wielded the shotguns, all pointed at him, firing with wild abandon.

Even with that thought, the more terrifying part of Pal were the stories of its creation. Drones didn't bother Richter, it was hard to be rubbed the wrong way by a barely-alive thing with a third of some executed prisoner's brain in it that did the jobs no one else would do, but Pal was different. It wasn't about a third added, but the supposed two thirds that had been taken away. The rumor was that it'd been a perfectly normal human at one point before it crossed Fifty, but now it was just that… thing. It was built up haphazardly, little care given to structure. Mismatched arms and legs, some purely mechanical, some more biosynthetic. A walking reminder, a threat.

He blinked, dismissing the thought, and stood up, following Pal, who'd opened the door and was patiently waiting for him. The door led to a small hallway, the walls dotted with various metal doors of its own. The pair walked all the way to the end, Pal opening the last door for Richter and standing to the side to let him pass. HINNOM thanks you for your patronage and wishes you only the best of luck! Pal spouted as Richter walked by it.

The room was small, purpose-built for the single table that sat in the middle: an octagon with a raised edge, a place to set drinks, ashtrays, and other such things. The interior was covered in a clean, vibrant green felt, a contrast to the worn, faded, and stained felt of the tables outside. On the edge of the table were slots for credit boxes and small panels to dictate bets, one for each spot where a player could sit at. The floor was cushy red carpet, immaculately clean, and the walls were covered with panels wrapped in a thick, pale cream cloth, creating a softer environment, one more comfortable for the privileged few who were invited to the back. His opponents were already sat round the table, leaving a space open for him, holding calm, amicable small talk that waned as Richter stood by the entrance, taking in the scene.

To his left was Mauve Streichtheiser ("Designerdoll," "Trustfund," "Haughtyjaw"), leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed behind his head. At first glance, Mauve seemed untouched by augmentation of any kind. In reality, it was all subdermal, carefully embedded beneath his "skin" which was a perfectly smooth, extremely expensive silicon-protein mixture, free of blemish and unwanted hair. If one were to look closely at Mauve, they would find that his "flesh" seemed to undulate in certain places, augments doing work, hidden away.

Mauve reached a hand up, straightening his flaxen hair, ensuring that it kept to its perfectly brushed shape. The sleeve of his purple coat slipped down as he did, revealing a fancy, gemstone-encrusted wristwatch; one that was liable to get picked off of him, though Richter doubted that he'd miss it, much less care that it'd been stolen. Mauve's father was a famous augment surgeon/mechanic, one who only worked for the upper echelons of the bandcity Emtu-Rafich. People paid good money to be put under the scalpel and wrench of "The Innumerous Instar," a nickname his father had garnered from his many arms and the speed at which they moved, supposedly creating a cloud of afterimages that rendered them uncountable. Richter had played with Mauve before, remembering how he seemingly had an endless supply of credits to throw down with little care.

To his right was Tieshine ("Highrise," "Corpo," "Condescended"), who sat straight and proper in his seat, gently resting his elbows on the edge, his head— a chiseled and overtly masculine art piece— tucked behind clasped hands. Unlike Mauve— and like most people, frankly— Tieshine's augmentation was laid bare, nearly every part of his body altered. The mechanics were hidden away beneath smooth, sleek plating, an unusual choice given the inherent hindrance in movement, but undeniably giving him an air of elegance and futurism, the only obvious inner-workings at bare joints. He wore a deep blue starch-pressed suit, crisp and clean, perfectly fitted.

No one knew his real name, he worked hard to keep it under wraps, but it was well known that he was a high-ranking employee of Meior Industries, whose logo he wore on a pin that was stuck to his lapel. High enough up the corporate ladder to have muscle to flex, but just low enough to keep a target off his back, and he intended to keep it that way. He grimaced at Richter, having played with him before, with Richter walking away from that game with a hefty sum of his credits. Richter lightly nodded to Tieshine, acknowledging that there was a score to be settled.

Finally, across from him, was Fifty. Fifty was a large man, bulky and muscular, his well-built and heavily augmented torso laid bare for all to see, no shirt in sight. Richter tried to look him in whatever would be the closest approximation to eyes, but found it difficult as rumors became truth. Where his head should have been was a constantly shifting array of mismatch oculars, all over the core of what was now his skull; fifty of them, if the name was accurate. A single voice modular sat embedded in lieu of a chin, the oculars sliding around it. The infamous proprietor of the lovely underground ring the group were patrons of. Already, Richter's mind was spilling out nicknames. "Sleazepit, Paranoidia, Fisticuvvs."

Fifty was the first to speak, slamming a hand on the table. "Pal! The hell're you doin' back here?!" His voice was deep, thick with bass, rattling like it was filled with gravel.

Escorting RICHTER, sir! it responded dutifully, raising an arm up in a salute to where a forehead may have once been.

"Get back to the bar! Some prick junkie's probably stealin' my booze!"

Yes sir, Mr. FIFTY sir! Pal quickly shuffled out, slamming the door closed behind it.

Fifty turned to Richter, now seemingly marginally more happy, turned on a dime. "Richter! 'Bout time you showed up!"

"Couldn't be helped, I'm still not allowed to know where the non-sewer entrance is."

Fifty laughed, "Had to get all sprayed up by Shoveside, didja?"

Richter sat at the remaining seat wordlessly, shoving down the remarks he wanted to level at Fifty. No telling what his temperament was like yet, better to wait for the game to ramp up, see what rose to the surface then.

Fifty slammed a fist onto the table, causing the dark drink in front of Tieshine to shake in its tumbler. "Now this is a real gambler! You two pissants know what he did last time he was here? He bet his bloody hand. An' lost! God, I was rollin' in my chair laughin' my arse off when he had to get it cut off!" He began laughing all over again, pleased with the memory. Richter stared in silence. "Come on then, show 'em!" Fifty demanded, leaning forward in his chair in excitement.

Richter reluctantly obliged, raising his left hand up, showing off the shoddy replacement. One of the fingers twitched involuntarily. "Real cheap replacement, eh? Gotta save the credits for the table!" Fifty lost himself to laughter all over again. An ache ran through Richter's wrist, briefly throbbing before fading away. Something leapt in his stomach, clenched his chest.

Tieshine tapped on the table, faintly scowling. [meat-headed oaf.] Mauve's smile widened a bit.

Blink. Interesting, Richter thought. It seemed that Fifty didn't know Blink for some reason, his attitude unchanged despite the shot thrown at him. Maybe he was the kind of person to have a translator with him when he needed it. Or maybe he did know and just didn't care. Wonder if they think I don't know Blink? Keep stoic, see how this progresses.

Richter gave no indication that he'd understood the message, sliding his hand back under the table. "So you saw all that, huh?" he asked, still trying to find the best way to look Fifty in the eye.

"'Course I did! You think I don't got every room in this joint cammed up?"

Richter shrugged, holding himself back from scanning the room in search of a camera.

"Alright gentlemen," Fifty said, sliding a panel on the table open, pulling a deck out, the box still sealed in its plastic wrap, "tonight's game is Pyerojen Parabellum." He drew a knife from his waistband, using it to cut the wrap, unsealing and opening the box, the clean, untouched cards sliding out into his hand.

Richter internally sighed with relief, he could work with Pyerojen Parabellum. His plans were still in motion— moving even smoother now, if anything.

"I'm assumin' you lot're all familiar with it?" Fifty asked, holding the bottom-half of the deck in one massive hand, running his thumb over the top with the other, the cards slapping against each other with a satisfying ththththth. All three nodded.

Pyerojen Parabellum was a simple game, utilizing a deck of fifty-four cards: four suites, two colors.

The four suits were different drugs, represented by their molecular structure: barbiturates, benzodiazepines, amphetamines, and ephedrines. The depressants were black, the stimulants red. A majority of the cards were numerical, ranging from two to ten, however there were also hierarch cards that were higher than ten; from lowest to highest: the Ringworker, the Scavenger, the Bounty Hunter, and the Wermesckir; one for each suit, just like the number cards. Also in the deck were two cards representing the Thaumaturge, the wildcards.

The aim of the game was to have the highest ranking hand of the table, utilizing both the player's hand and the communal cards. High card,¹ pair, two pairs, three of a kind, a Straight,² a Flush,³ a Full House,⁴ four of a kind, a Straight Flush,⁵ and a Royal Flush.⁶

One player began as the dealer, doling out cards to the players and handling the communal cards. The two people to their left had to always make bets before the cards were dealt, referred to as blinds. The closest placed the small blind, the furthest placed the big blind. The dealer then passed out two cards to each player, face down. The players could then place bets, fold, or check, all done clockwise, the dealer the first to take an action. The flow then went as such: three communal cards are flipped, player actions taken, a fourth communal card flipped, player actions taken, a fifth communal card flipped, and the final player actions are taken before all cards are revealed and a winner is declared. After a round, the position of dealer moves to the next player clockwise.

Where Pyerojen Parabellum differed from other games of a similar ilk was that there was no floor or ceiling for raises to bets, typically no all-ins (though if one were to bet the remainder of the credits in their account, that would technically be an all-in), and the introduction of the two Thaumaturges. Thaumaturges— the wildcards— served two special functions: if drawn into player's hand, a Thaumaturge card could be anything from a benzo-two to an amphet-Wermesckir, whatever would be most useful to the holder of the card; if drawn into the communal cards, it would be discarded, that card redrawn, and two cards would be pulled on the final draw rather than one, totaling six community cards rather than five.

"We'll begin with myself, movin' on to Tieshine here next round, clockwise," Fifty said as he began shuffling the pristine cards, putting in the first bend as he riffled.

"So, a normal game of Pyerojen Parabellum?" Tieshine sarcastically remarked, his voice soft and elegant, perfected in the art of corporate speeches.

"Oh very funny you corpo-jag. Right, now, let's have small be a hundred credits and big two-hundred for now. Sound good?"

Mauve snickered at this, rolling his head a bit. "Oh please. I thought this would be an interesting game!" His voice caused something in Richter's mind to twitch, the way it hit his ears; inflicting a bout of synesthesia that screamed PURPLE onto the words he spoke. When Richter had played with Mauve a year or so ago, this hadn't happened.

"Not all a us got the same level a disposable income you got, Mauve," Fifty retorted, clearly a bit annoyed, though to say it stemmed from the forced synesthesia would be far too presumptuous as Mauve had many annoying qualities. "We'll get there soon, just easin' in."

"The hell's up with your voice, Mauve?" Richter asked as he pulled his credit box out, slotting it into the table, his panel coming alive.

"Daddy's got a friend who's designing some new kinds of vocal manipulation augments, some real new-age stuff. He pulled a few strings and got me this one," he answered. Rich prick. "You like?"

"Not particularly. Feel like I'm being assaulted every time that wax doll mouth of yours opens."

Mauve flashed him an ivory grin, a facsimile of a smile on a facsimile of a mouth.

Fifty dealt out the cards, two to each of them, while Tieshine and Richter tapped their blinds in on their respective screens, their credit boxes emanating a series of faint, rapid clicks as credits were drained.

Richter checked his hand: ephed-eight and benzo-two. Tieshine, Richter, Mauve, and Fifty all checked.

The first three community card rolled out: barb-five, ephed-seven, barb-four. With the ephed-eight in his hand, Richter had a chance for a Straight. He quickly looked around at the other gamblers. Too early to tell what they were thinking, everyone was still calm. He was getting ahead of himself.

Tieshine raised to sixty credits, with everyone matching. Fifty flipped the fourth community card, revealing a barb-six. Richter had a Straight on his first hand. He felt a jolt of excitement in his stomach, but quickly tamped it down. He couldn't see it as an omen, it wasn't telling of anything, simply luck of the draw. Cool, calm, rational.

Tieshine raised again, upping to a hundred credits. Richter raised too, now setting the baseline at one hundred and twenty. It wasn't the most subtle move, but he was still easing in, letting himself stretch and watch his opponents.

Tieshine absconded, choosing to fold rather than match. Mauve raised: a hundred and thirty credits. Richter matched. Fifty folded.

The fifth and final community card was flipped, the steely, boxy face of the barb-Wermesckir placed on the green felt.

Richter checked. Mauve raised to a hundred and fifty credits. This was a deciding moment. He'd already put a lot in and was confident in his hand, but he didn't want to give Mauve a show. Richter knew that there was a fine balance he had to strike with Mauve. For now, the bets were relatively small, especially for Mauve. Maybe I'll wring out some easy money before things get hectic.

So he matched.

They showed their hands, Mauve having only a pair while Richter had his Straight. Richter tapped on his screen and drew the pot into his credit box, well pleased with himself. It'd been a good first hand.

The second hand passed with little fanfare, Tieshine ducking out early, Mauve betting big, Richter folding when it got too wiry, and Fifty also folding. Mauve gleefully pulled the credits to his box.

The role of dealer now passed to him, Richter began gathering the cards. As he did, Fifty piped up, jeering. "So, Richter, still got them fancy moves on ya? Or has that ship sailed?"

Richter raised an eyebrow at him, "So you really do watch everything."

"That, an' word spreads 'round here."

Richter looked back to the deck in his hands. His left hand, the dominant one, was certainly not nearly as dexterous as it used to be. He'd prized having both of his original hands, as they tended to move more fluidly and faster than any fake ones could. They responded better to the signals he sent. But then he'd lost the right one, and now the left, too. He hadn't tried since he got the cheap replacement, but he was sure he could still do some of it at the very least.

Still not fully confident in his left, Richter took the deck in his right hand, holding it with his palm and four fingers. He used his thumb to quickly fan them out, making a show of it by flicking his wrist. Pulling his pinky finger back and resting it behind the last card, Richter again used his thumb to bring the cards all back together, now holding the deck with his last two fingers. It wasn't the most impressive movement, but if done quick enough it tended to give off the impression of great skill.

Swiftly following it, Richter bent the deck in his right hand, applying pressure from the bottom with a finger, and sent the cards flying a short distance to his left. Now working on muscle memory, he used his pinky to slide the bottom card out, pinching it between his pinky and ring finger. He quickly flicked it out, rotating his hand to catch it by the edge with his pinky, balancing it on its side for a few seconds before his shoddy hand twitched, sending the balanced card and the rest of the deck to the table, scattering them, turning the sleight of hand to fifty-four pickup.

"Ah well, win some, lose some, eh?" Fifty prodded as Richter gathered up the cards.

"So I need to get used to the new hand, what of it?" Richter retorted, beginning to shuffle overhand, glaring at his hands.

"You need a better hand," Mauve muttered with a hiss of laughter, shaking his head.

"Well not all of us can suckle tens of thousands of credits from your Pa's teat, now can we? Poor guy'd get so sore."

Mauve just grunted in response, sipping his drink as he stared daggers at Richter.

Richter finished it off with a riffle before beginning to dole out the cards. "Dealers with your penchant for flourish typically end a riffle with a bridge," Tieshine noted with mild curiosity.

"Don't believe in bridging," Richter quickly answered, "It's bad luck." It was a flimsy response, but his best bet was to fall back on superstition, something that couldn't be argued. The lie wasn't so far from the truth, though it came down to a different kind of irrational fear: that a bridge after a riffle would further shuffle the deck. It shouldn't happen, but Richter was afraid that it would.

"This must be a new development. Last we played, you were quite the bridger."

"Just because I walked away with a pocketful of your credits once doesn't mean it isn't bad luck," Richter retorted, raising up his new hand. Tieshine nodded slightly, pulling from his drink. "Mm."

However, the true reason for Richter's need to remain sure in his final shuffle came to him in a steady stream of information.

Hand one: amphet-eight, benzo-nine.

Hand two: barb-Ringworker, amphet-nine.

Hand three: amphet-six, barb-four.

Hand four: barb-Wermesckir, barb-seven.

Community cards: benzo-two, ephed-Ringworker, amphet-Scavenger, benzo-eight, Thaumaturge, amphet-five, benzo-Ringworker.

Richter would give himself the second hand, netting him a Ringworker three of a kind.

His method for cheating was simple and perfectly obfuscated. When his dealer turn came around, he would finish his shuffle with a riffle, doing so in such a way that the bent edge of the cards faced him when he let them fall. Of course, they were moving at such a speed that he normally would be unable to read them, however he utilized a recording system in an ocular that would send it to a processor in his breadboard to be slowed down and analyzed. It would then send back to him the last few cards in order, the amount of which he could adjust on the fly. A method of recording sight was an extremely common facet of ocular augments, one of the most common, and the exact purpose of a single processor amongst many was nearly impossible to ascertain without directly plugging into him, thus cloaking the method from Shoveside's scan. No speedy augments for sleight of hand, no special lenses to see hidden marks on cards, or any other eccentric or obvious cheating method. Simple and clean.

There was an undeniable thrill to it too, one that prodded his stomach as he performed the trick for the first time in a genuine game. He'd tested it numerous times alone, but to actually do it was something else entirely. The tech had cost him a bit, more than he'd liked, but now was the time to break even. That's why he was there, to break even. That's why.

Of course, he had to be judicious with his wins, lest he arouse suspicion. If Richter won the hand every time he was the dealer, they'd catch on that something was up. They might not ever be able to prove that he had, but proof didn't matter much in those unhallowed halls.

So he dealt: two to Mauve, two to himself, two to Tieshine, and two to Fifty.

The round proceeded smoothly, with Mauve betting big, Tieshine ducking out early, and Fifty sitting somewhere in between, playing with his knife once he folded, waiting for the round to end. Of course, Richter came out on top, netting himself a heft sum of credits.

Dealer passed to Mauve, who took to the job of shuffling with a certain flare, though he didn't have the skills Richter did. Card by card, the hand proceeded, bet by bet, raise by raise, fold by fold. Richter had ended up with a stellar hand again, holding two Bounty Hunters, yet had backed out once Mauve began massively raising. He had to remind himself that he had to temper himself with Mauve. All three had folded, but Richter had folded last, Mauve glaring at him as he revealed his hand, showing the pair of Bounty Hunters. He tapped his finger on the table, Blinking. [pussy.] Still, Richter refused to react, keeping any cards he could potentially exploit close to his chest.

Fifty began shuffling the deck, the hands of the clock back at midnight.

"So, Mauve, how long will you be staying in Unescensi?" Tieshine asked.

Richter raised an eyebrow, looking at Mauve.

"I plan on leaving this hellhole as soon as this game is finished and I restock on some essentials."

Richter knew Mauve's father was stationed out in Emtu-Rafich, but assumed Mauve had moved bandcities. "Do you not live in Unescensi?"

Mauve scoffed, rolling his eyes. Tieshine answered for him, "No, no, Mauve lives with his dear father, the Instar himself, and just takes a private ride here for gambling and drugs."

"Private transportation between bandcities? That seems… expensive." More expensive than any winnings Mauve could wring out of anyone at the table.

"Unescensi has things Emtu-Rafich doesn't. It's a necessary expenditure."

Fifty began dealing the cards, clockwise. "What? I hear Emtu-Rafich's got all sorts a designer snuff, whaddya need Unescensi for?"

"Cheap drugs. Kinds I can't get in Emtu-Rafich."

Richter checked his cards: benzo-nine, amphet-Ringworker.

"Well now you're contradictin' yourself! There's no way in hell you care 'bout the price of a drug! Check."

"Check," Tieshine moved the round along with little comment, but then tilted his head a bit and smiled, looking at Mauve. "Ahh, I think I get it."

"You don't know jack, chromeknob."

"Check."

"You don't want cheap because you want to save money, you want cheap because it's more likely to be cut with something else. Emtu-Rafich's substances are too pure, too artisanal."

Richter snapped, feigning a shocking revelation, playing into Tieshine's prodding. "And the tools in Emtu-Rafich are too good at flushing systems in case of an overdose! Designed with their drugs in mind!" He turned to Mauve, pointing, "And where's the fun when there's no gamble?"

Fifty began laughing, Tieshine grinning. "Gentrifying risky street drugs? Mauve, you continue to inspire me with your ingenuity."

"Guess watching daddy's money burn just doesn't have the same kick it used to, huh?"

Mauve was bearing his teeth, his finger tapping on the glass in his hand, [low life factory slave, think you can talk to me like that?]

Tieshine watched Richter closely. He realized he was staring at Mauve's hand, he needed an excuse. "Lookin' a little twitchy there Mauve."

"It's nothing. Just need a fix. Check." He reached into his coat, pulling out a small plastic cylinder. He unscrewed the top, revealing a small set of holes, and shoved the end into his nose, quickly snorting twice before swapping to the other nostril and repeating the process.

The three community cards came out: ephed-two, ephed-Wermesckir, barb-four. Still trash.

"Eh, I'll raise a hundred."

"I'm folding."

"Me too."

"This hand sucks, I'm out too." Mauve seemed uninterested in the game suddenly, still holding the little plastic container, staring at it.

"Easy hand, easy hand," Fifty chuckled as he drew the pot into his credit box. Mauve took a second round of hits from the cylinder, shuddering just a bit.

Tieshine took hold of the deck now, shuffling it with no flare, practicality the only focus. He doled the cards out as Mauve stashed his substance away back in his coat, finishing off his tumbler with two full gulps.

Sticking his thumb underneath them as they lay on the felt, Richter bent the front of his cards up, ever so slightly: benzo-Ringworker, benzo-ten. A potentially good hand, worth investing in. Their blinds had been drawn out, so the antes began with Tieshine who immediately raised two hundred credits. Richter was suddenly much more wary, considering what to do. If Tieshine was betting aggressively, he potentially had something very good. He wasn't one to take risks, nor put too much confidence in a hand.

"I'll match."

Mauve gritted his teeth in annoyance. He Blinked at Richter, [so now you've got balls?] "Match." When Richter didn't respond, he turned to Tieshine, [street trash doesn't even know blink. thought all scum knew it.] Tieshine was quick to respond, [guess not all of them.]

"I fold."

Tieshine flipped over three community cards: amphet-nine, ephed-Ringworker, barb-four. "Raise, one-fifty."

The wise decision would be to fold, Richter was well aware of that, but he was savoring the annoyance it was for Mauve. "Match."

Mauve threw his cards on the table. "Fold."

A fourth community card: barb-Wermesckir.

"Raise, fifty."

Richter was out of the game. "I'm folding."

Tieshine smiled, drawing the pot to his credit box. "Perhaps I was a bit overzealous. Scared you all away." He turned his cards over: two Thaumaturges. With the current pool of cards, they'd have likely been Wermesckir, making a three pair. No way in hell Richter was gonna beat that.

"Well I'll be damned. Helluva hand."

"We're upping the stakes. four-hundred big, two-fifty small. I need some excitement."

"You aren't in charge of the table, prick."

"No, no, I agree. Let's make a jump. Four-hundred big, two-fifty small."

"Quite the jump."

"Leaps and bounds," Richter muttered.

The hand passed by with little fanfare, Richter purposefully losing it, Fifty taking the pot. Dealer passed, again, again, silence falling over them, only the sounds of cards, the ice in Tieshine's glass, and the faint clinks of credits flowing to and from credit boxes arising.

They went through six full rotations of the table before another word was said. In that time, Richter willingly lost all but one of the hands where he was dealer. When Mauve would get amped up, Richter'd duck out, feigning disinterest in his hand. But still, when Fifty or Tieshine stepped up to the plate, he couldn't help but draw himself further in, feeling the creeping sickness of excitement in his gut. Time flew by in the rush of the moment to moment, though none willingly wore their heart on their sleeve, until it was suddenly Richter's turn to deal again.

Richter gathered the deck, beginning his show of shuffling. He briefly questioned his reasoning for it. Why spend the time to do it? Ego or misdirection?

"Out of curiosity, Richter, where did you pick up this attachment to showmanship with cards?" Tieshine asked, breaking the unspoken vow of silence egged on by façades of stoicism and relaxation, interrupting Richter's reflection.

Richter looked up from the splitting deck in his hands, squinting at Tieshine. The question felt odd. It wasn't necessarily a suspicious question, blanketed in a guise of casual conversation, but nothing was ever so simple. Not with Tieshine. "What's it matter to you?"

Tieshine raised his eyebrows slightly, still maintaining an air of aloofness. "Passing the time, breaking the silence."

Richter huffed. "Boredom, mostly. I've always been fidgety, needed something to mess with. Mom wanted me to stay outta trouble so I never had many friends, left a lotta time to just mess around, whittle away hours."

It was partially the truth, making it truth enough to hopefully shake Tieshine off of him. His show came to a close, ending with a riffle. He could afford to win this hand, having hopefully dampened potential suspicious.

Hand one: amphet-two, benzo-seven.

Hand two: amphet-six, ephed-four.

Hand three: ephed-five, barb-Wermesckir.

Hand four: ephed-Scavenger, ephed-three.

Community cards: barb-three, barb-Scavenger, benzo-Wermesckir, amphet-Ringworker, Thaumaturge, amphed-seven, barb-four.

The first hand went to Fifty, the second went to Mauve, the third to himself, and the final one went to Tieshine.

"And that's it?"

"What, you writing my autobiography for me?"

"Just answer the damn question so he'll shut up, Richter."

It was obvious that Tieshine was fishing for something, but Richter didn't know what. "Well, I got pretty good at it, started doing little magic shows for guests at the dinner club my mom owned. Apparently," Richter said, coating his words in viscous vitriol, "rich pricks love petty entertainment." He stared down Tieshine, trying to pry into him back.

Tieshine stared back, his face completely relaxed. "Thus is the sordid tale of our Richter."

"For the most part," Richter said absentmindedly.

"Oh?" Tieshine latched back on.

Richter sighed. He needed to sate the animal nipping at his heels. "One day, some low-hanging slingers saw my dexterity from a window facing outside and wanted to use me as a go-between of sorts. They vaguely hint to the customer about something that could or couldn't be illegal potentially being for sale. If they pay, the slinger tells 'em that they'll get their package in a moment and walk away. Then, amidst a hustle and bustle, I drop it into a pocket or a bag and then walk away. Check."

"Seems overly complex. Kinda morons were you workin' for?"

"The kind that were extremely paranoid about getting caught."

"Check."

"Their rationale was that their reputation would precede them in the street, so people would trust that they would get their stuff. So if a narc comes along, there's no proof that the object they found in their pocket a few minutes later was related to the credits they gave some random miscreant on the street. At worse, they get some minor charge for scamming, rather than for selling something illegal."

"Can understand the sentiment. Check."

"Check."

"Ah, shut up Fifty. Hinnom's set up in a sewer, no way in hell people would bother investigating you. No one who isn't a chronic wants to be down here," Richter retorted, flipping over the first three community cards, showing as expected. Now was time to divert the conversation.

"Very honest of you Richter."

"Get bent, Mauve. I'd ask if you knew what exaggeration for effect meant, but you probably don't read anything that isn't on a bottle. Yet, somehow, you adhere to the notion like a tick."

"Insults usually don't take ten years to spout, pedant."

"To answer your unsaid, dumbass rhetorical, Richter, Hinnom ain't the only business I got. Ol' Tieshine here can attest to that."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Take your turn, asshole."

Richter sneered. "Raise. Hundred."

"Tieshine is a frequent of my businesses."

"Seems our friend here is a chronic himself. Match."

"You're one to talk."

"Fold."

"S'pose if you're gonna frequent the seedy, may as well be safe about it, especially if you're as secretive as Lord Highrise over here."

"But I ain't ever met a man as vindictive as him. He's a frequent flyer for the rat fights, man you should see him lose!"

Tieshine sat silently for a moment, staring at his cards. Debating what to say? Letting it all soak in? "Raise, eighty."

"Those fancy dress shoes crush a whole lot more than his workers' spirits, that's for damn sure. Thankfully rat blood don't show up all that well on black, do it?"

"We all have our vices."

Fifty chuckled.

Richter flipped the fourth community card. "Raise, forty."

"Fold." Mauve threw his cards down. Richter revealed his cards, the Wermesckir in his hand glaring at its brother-in-arms in the community cards. He pulled the pot into his credit box, Mauve beginning to gather the cards up.

"Losing an awful lot of money here, Mauve, you sure you can afford it?" Tieshine was taking his opportunity to stick it back to Mauve.

"It'd be the first time I couldn't."

"I just mean that combined with the drug money and the private transport here and back to Emtu-Rafich, I can't imagine your account's as healthy as you'd like, especially given the rough waters your father's in."

"The ol' Instar in hot water?" Fifty asked, surprised.

"It's a bump, nothing more."

"Hell of a bump."

"What happened?"

"Oh, it's just terrible," Tieshine said, mockingly appalled, "It turns out that The Innumerous Instar was caught augmenting his well-paying customers with subpar material without their knowledge, if you can believe it."

"S'why I only get augmented by someone I can trust an' threaten."

"So, what, were they getting terracotta when they were promised porcelain? Steel instead of galvanized steel?"

Tieshine gave an exaggerated shake of his head, tisking. "I'm afraid it's much, much worse than that. Customers were asking for plasteels and got titaniums and platinums! Or, even more scandalously, ceramics with higher infusions of silica and some metals instead of ceramite."

Richter couldn't help but laugh. "You're kidding me, right?" He held up his right hand, the nicer of the two, "This thing is made of some cheap metals and plastics and it's nice by general standards."

"Oh but you know those rich folks over in Emtu-Rafich, their standards are just so much higher."

"Damn, wish I had the kinda money that I could complain about that kinda thing! An augment with some platinum would be a minor miracle 'round here!"

Richter snickered. "So Sir Streichtheiser's in the trenches for saving a few thousand credits by selling high-quality augments instead of military-grade ones to bastards who don't even need them? Figures."

"Daddy hasn't done anything wrong! They got their augments, they should be happy!"

"I'm all for scammin' the bougie assholes in Emtu-Rafich, don't get me wrong, but the rich scamming the rich is just hilarious to me."

"Enough just isn't ever enough, is it?"

"I just feel so sorry for little Mauve here. I'm sure the ride over was so lonely."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I just figured that you usually would bring some friends along with you, maybe split the cost if you're feeling especially stingy, but now that daddy's money is all dirty and his reputation's in the gutter, I'm sure they've been hard-pressed to be your friends."

"And I'm sure being a big-shot in a corporatocracy has netted you a lot of deep, genuine friendships."

"Wow, that's an awfully big word, champ. I'm impressed!"

Mauve threw the deck onto the table, the cards scattering. "Screw this. I need a drink."

Fifty laughed, "A break it is then! I'll stay here, you dicks go take ten!"

Richter, Mauve, and Tieshine all stood up, silently walking out of the space and back to the main room. Richter led the march, the first to open the door to the area behind the bar.

RICHTER! MAUVE STREICHTHEISER! TIESHINE! It's good to see you! Has the game concluded? Pal asked as they appeared, four hands cleaning empty glasses, two others pouring drinks.

"Nah, just taking a break. Things got heated," Richter replied. Mauve jammed an elbow into his back, knocking him forward a bit, nearly crashing into the counter.

"Make me a Fragged Platter."

Coming right up, sir!

"And can you just get me a thing of gin? Nothing special."

You're in luck, RICHTER! I just so happen to already be pouring some gin! Pal set one of the glasses it had been cleaning on the counter, moving one of the bottles in its hand over to fill it, never stopping the tip, a line of gin running across the bartop between the glasses.

Bottoms up!

Richter took the glass with a small nod of thanks, sticking his credit box into the counter, the soft clinks from within telling that he'd been charged. In the time that Richter and Mauve had ordered, Tieshine had disappeared into the crowd. The main room was dense with the sound of gambling, loses and wins. Too loud for Richter in that moment, so he shuffled out from behind the bar through the waist-high swinging door, making his way towards the sewer exit. Behind him, he could faintly hear Mauve throwing a fit that Pal had served Richter first despite ordering after him.

After wading through the haze of hedonism, Richter backed into the door, opening it and walking through, quickly turning as the door shut behind him. Shoveside didn't say anything as he passed by, making his way towards the stairs, only watched him, keeping her vigil.

As he climbed, the sound of rushing sewage grew louder, much to his satisfaction. A little white noise always did him good. At the top, he was momentarily surprised to find that Tieshine had already beaten him to the punch, silently watching the foul waste fly by.

Richter stood on the maintenance pathway next to Tieshine, both silent, neither acknowledging the other. Richter sipped his drink, watching the waste run by. Tieshine reached into his coat and pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, putting one into his mouth before returning the box. Richter watched as he sparked a flame, holding it at the end of the cigarette until the paper began to smolder, glowing orange.

"You not worried about igniting some errant methane?"

"No."

Standing next to Tieshine was a much different experience than sitting next to him. He stood a good two heads taller than Richter, his posture stiff and straight. Not a single inch of him seemed to be relaxed, always at attention. Every crease in his suit felt purposeful, projecting the imposing image of a man so high up the ladder that peons like Richter had no hope of even seeing him, much less reaching him.

"Out of curiosity, why're you here?"

"Don't patronize me," Tieshine quickly bit back, masked under his calm veneer.

"Sorry for trying to make small talk, jackass."

"No, you were trying to pry into me. Base your assumptions in fact. It's only natural for someone like you to seek out absolutes."

"Someone like me?"

Tieshine said nothing at first, only taking a drag of his cigarette before breaking the silence. "You already know the answer, I'm assuming. All that bravado at the table wasn't just chest-puffing."

"That so?"

"You wouldn't get as far as you do in these games if you couldn't read into people, Richter. I can see it whenever Mauve starts raising, because you tend to fold."

"That's basic strategy, fold if you think your opponents have a better hand."

"Maybe, but you've played risky hands against Fifty and I plenty of times already, and in the past. I think you know Mauve's an endless fountain of credits and the only thing keeping him in the game is entertainment. Boring hands with no tension or fight are the only way to get him to leave. Otherwise, it's a war of attrition that you'll always lose."

It was Richter's turn to be silent. A sheet of mangled aluminum floated downstream and he watched it run off into the black.

"My answer is your answer is our answer, if I had to make a guess of my own."

Richter scoffed, "So the corpo is just like us lowly assembly line workers?"

"I'm not making some grandstanding political statement. We're all in the same boat, Richter."

"Who's the 'we' in that?"

"You, me, Mauve, Fifty."

Richter looked back to the door, imagining Mauve yelling at Pal about not making the drink properly; Fifty sitting in the small room, waiting for them to return, playing with his knife.

"So, yes, you do know my answer." Tieshine took a drag of his cigarette, holding for a second before blowing the smoke into the breeze. "It's escapism, though there's certainly more plaque, unique to each of us."

Mauve would be slamming his fists onto the bar, chewing out Pal, pissing on a flame. "The Streichtheiser name is down the drain, relatively speaking. No friends, no supporters, barely any family."

Fifty would be watching every corner of the room, balancing the tip of the blade on his finger, until an errant noise catches his full attention, and it slips and he cuts himself. "And do you think a paranoid freak like Fifty can ever truly be happy?"

Tieshine cleared his throat.

"And because you can read those two open books, you think you've got my number?" Richter asked, smiling to himself.

"I do."

Richter didn't say anything, choosing instead to let Tieshine interpret his silence.

"I know that story you fed us was a lie."

"That so?"

"We're subsumed in a culture of old money by birthright. Only the rich run dinner clubs for the rich."

"Maybe I'm rich."

Tieshine shook his head, gazing off into the darkness of the sewage main. "Always on the offense and always on the defense. You're gonna burn up if you keep running this hot."

"Okay, so you supposedly know me. What's my plaque then?"

"Adrenaline, the surest assurance of life."

Richter stopped short of taking a sip of his drink, the glass and liquid laying on his lips.

"You said you were an assembly line worker, so I imagine you spend much of your time in front of a river of machinery and product. Perpetually. Maybe you used to get a kick from sticking your hands in to adjust something in the sparse moments where some hammer or soldering iron or needle wasn't assembling the part. You lost your left hand in a gamble, what about the right?"

Richter unconsciously flexed his right hand, a much nicer replacement than the left one. From before he discovered the underground ring.

"Imagine Fifty's fury if he were to find out how worthless a bet your hand was," Tieshine chuckled. "You've got a sense for theatrics, I'll give you that."

"Thanks," Richter mumbled halfheartedly. He had no intention of correcting Tieshine.

"But I digress. How many people have you seen die on the assembly line? Eight? Ten?"

Richter didn't have to stop to think, "Twenty-seven."

"Mm. Never quick, is it."

"Maybe once or twice."

"I imagine it's still partially about the money, though, seeing as factories pay mediocre wages that they skim from, so I want to make you an offer."

"What, you gonna pay me to drop out?"

"No, no, I would never insult you like that. We both have our pride." Tieshine reached into his coat once more, procuring a small rectangle of paper, handing it to Richter. "We're always in need of people to do some 'boots-on-the-ground' work, if you will. If you're gonna get your adrenaline kick, might as well get paid for it instead of chancing losing it all, no?"

Richter looked down at the slip. It was a business card. Kriegen Mallifier was apparently Tieshine's real name.

"I'm not lookin' to get into bed with some corporate jackoff."

"Ever the righteous soul. Think of it this way: nothing you can do can get rid of us, so why not get on our side? Consider it, Richter. I think you'd make for a great business partner." And with those final words, Tieshine slipped back into the building, leaving Richter alone with the torrent of sewage.

For a moment, he considered letting go of the business card, watching it float off into the wastes. Corporations ruled his and others' existence and he hated them for it. They lied, cheated, scammed, and bullied their way to the top.

Yet, he slipped the card into his pocket. The roar of the flow of sewage fell to the background as a muffled white noise played in his skull, a torrent of thoughts, emotions, and chemicals. He finished his drink and walked back to the door, tossing the glass into the flow behind him.

The murmur of the gambling hall had gone unchanged in the brief time that he and Tieshine had been outside of it, the world moving around him, unchanged by what felt to him like a monumentous shift in the way the rogue planet spun tirelessly thought the vast, uncaring emptiness.

Already, he'd lost Tieshine to the density of the crowd, but he knew where he was, where he was going, where the two would sit adjacent once more, though much about the scenario had changed for Richter. The entire thing was wrought with confusion for him, the offer coming seemingly out of nowhere. He'd have time to consider it later, whether or not that be while watching the card burn or listening to a phone ring. Right now, he needed to get back into the flow of the game.

Mauve was no longer at the bar, presumably already seated back home. Richter walked through the swinging half-door, back behind the bar, and pulled the metal door open, making his way back towards the final room, back to the table.

A sense of deja vu washed over Richter as he entered the small room again, all three of his opponents sitting relaxed, seemingly waiting for him, though this time there was no amicable conversation being held, they'd already played their cards, so to speak, and didn't feel the need to hide behind pleasantries. Richter took his seat, getting comfortable once more.

"Mauve, I believe you were 'bout to deal?" Fifty said, pinching his thumb and forefinger together, a bit of blood smearing.

"Sure, let's get on with it."

"That little break and sip do you no good? You still sound awfully irked."

"Fifty's little abomination out there can't make a Fragged Platter worth pissing into. On top of that," Mauve spat, now pointing directly at Fifty, "you don't have any whorlexyl for paying customers such as myself. So I can't say I got to imbibe as I please."

"Whorlexyl tends to make people start tippin' tables and kickin' in walls. Not everyone has such massive an' broadly spannin' tolerances for the illicit like you."

"Scared of a little property damage?"

"Deal the cards, Mauve."

"You worry too much, Fifty!" Mauve continued his prodding, tossing out cards to abate annoyances.

Richter peered at his hand. Ephed-Wermesckir, benzo-two. His best bet was a pair.

"Leave my worries to me, yours to yourself, an' I'm sure we'll make it out just fine," Fifty growled, whatever relief the break had given him quickly melting away.

Mauve smugly grinned, seemingly trying to mask his own choleric font, held at the lip by surface tension alone. "Can do, sir. Check."

Fifty grunted. "Check."

"Check."

"Check."

Mauve turned the first three community cards over: amphet-nine, amphet-ten, barb-four. This development seemed pleasing only to Fifty, who would proceed to raise while every other player would fold, leaving him with an easy win, but a thin pot.

Just as before, silence permeated the next few hands, tension slowly building up again, having been largely drained out during the brief moment of respite. But the wound festered, eventually weeping fluid. The hands themselves were lackluster, none ever reaching the fifth community draw, but the interpersonal frictions, unsaid, unspoken, the remnants of indictments and slanders of hands past, still hung in the air.

In the final hand before the dam broke loose once more, both Mauve and Richter folded before the first community cards had even been drawn, leaving Tieshine and Fifty to duke it out. Both seemed confident in their hands, betting liberally, the pot reaching three-kay credits as the fourth card was drawn. Tieshine gazed at the card with the same emotionless display as ever, following with a raise of eight hundred. The calmness of the moment seemed to get to Fifty and he bailed, choosing to fold. In the end, Tieshine's hand was completely worthless, but had taken the chance to bluff his way to victory. From what Richter had seen of him both in the past and now, it was a bold move outside of his usual repertoire. Of course, everyone bluffs in games of Pyerojen Parabellum's ilk, but Tieshine had done so in such a way that he took advantage of previous hands where he'd only thrown in hot because he held trump cards, a more tactical and judicious bluff.

The bombshell fell hardest on Fifty who, despite lacking anything even generally reminiscent of a face, managed to radiate an air of irritation and a kindling fury.

Now, it was Tieshine's turn to deal. He gathered the deck and performed his usual utilitarian shuffle before doling out the cards. It was hard to tell when Fifty was paying particular attention to something, but a good indicator might have been wherever his voice box was pointed at, now facing Tieshine.

"Y'know, I hear there was a serious incident up a few levels a couple a days ago. Anyone else hear about it?"

"I don't keep up with the happenings. It's always the same bullshit."

"Well I certainly found this particular happenin' to be a real doozy. Apparently, there was a real serious encounter on one a the highways, can't remember which one."

Tieshine tensed up in his seat, his twisting his head and cracking his neck. "Bet. Two hundred."

"What, some sensitive corp shipment got turned over and detonated?"

"Nothing so mundane, I'm 'fraid."

"Fold."

"I think I heard about it too. Some highway robbery, right?"

"Highway robbery? Doesn't sound all that special, what's the big deal?"

"Match."

"Well it weren't a highway robbery, more a robbery taken to the highway, between some merc and a per-hour thief on a bike. Got real ugly, left some serious damage in its wake. Match."

Tieshine's face remained a placid bust of indifference, but Richter could swear that his jaw muscles were flexing, like he was gritting his teeth behind his lips.

"Alright, so it was a robbery that hit the road, what of it?"

"Well, rumor has it that there was a big deal goin' down between some shady types and a business of great repute for some real fancy gizmo, but that biker stole it right out from under 'em. Sent a merc after him, an' I mean a real ceramite monstrosity."

"Must've been important."

"Must have. Got ears on the ground 'round that area, embedded in special places, but none of 'em knew what got stolen, but they did know who's involved."

"Shine, take your turn already."

"Oh, I think he's feelin' a little locked up right now. Don't like us talkin' 'bout the robbery."

Now Fifty had both Mauve and Richter's attention.

"Apparently, it was ol' Meior Industries who got ripped off."

"That so?" Mauve turned to Tieshine, a smug grin beginning to permeate his faux face.

"Irregardless of whatever your 'ears' may have heard, Fifty, I can assure you that it's far, far above you." Tieshine calmly flipped the first three community cards, betrayed by the hiss of his words sliding through gritted teeth. "Check."

"Sounds like someone's a little sore about this."

"Seems your intel's got legs to stand on, Fifty. Sure that makes you feel a little better after the absolute trainwreck the last hand was," Richter shot. He wasn't aiming to help Tieshine save face, but he had offered him a job. But it was a job working for a soulless corporation. "Though I can't imagine Tieshine here's feeling all too hot either. Or maybe he is, I think I can see him sweating."

"Makes one wonder, don't it? I get that Meior runs through your veins, bless those CEOs, but you seem particularly irritated about this specific screw up."

"There's nothing to discuss," Tieshine spat, losing the soft eloquence of a corporate man, debasing himself.

"Oh, oh no. Don't tell me!" Mauve suddenly jumped to life again, invigorated by his epiphany. "It was your screw up, wasn't it!"

Tieshine set his cards on the felt. He adjusted his tie, reclaiming his air of cool, collected affluence. "It was a deal I'd had in the works for a while. The other party had an item of great importance to the higher-ups, so I managed to set up a mutually beneficial exchange. I was there to handle the deal myself, ensure that nothing went wrong. Unfortunately, some low-life managed to worm his way in before I arrived and stole the item."

Fifty chuckled, low and raspy. "You must be up to your neck in shit right 'bout now."

"There are displeased parties, yes, but that man's days are numbered. Security and highway patrol cameras, and footage from the merc have given me a very clear indication of the culprit. If he ever steps foot into Unescensi or anywhere else Meior has reach, I'll know. He'll spend the rest of his life on the run, however short-lived it may now be."

Tieshine's job offer was beginning to make much more sense to Richter. He was trying to bring him on to the hunt, either for the thief or the tech that had been stolen. He had to be desperate, mercy was apparently a commodity in short supply among corporate heads.

The conversation ground to a halt there. Likely, the others didn't have new ground to tread, to drag each other through the mud. Richter himself just wanted to keep all available avenues open, disinterested in both Mauve and Fifty, and with Tieshine on the ropes as a potential boss.

Hands came and went, circling around the table, a new wrinkle added. Anytime Tieshine would begin to bet big, Fifty, normally a careful man who generally bailed as soon as Tieshine started going in in a significant way, would hesitate and weigh the odds, stuck on the bluff Tieshine had pulled off, paranoid that it may be another big-shot bluff.

Fifty's temperament towards Tieshine's bets wasn't the only thing slowly shifting, as each time dealer landed on Richter, he found it harder and harder to resist the temptation to win hands, the excitement of gambling waning, giving way to the rush of cheating, potentially being caught, or getting away with it. The rush called him to more and more wins until he was pulling in hefty pots nearly every time he was dealer. The silence only served to let him sink deeper and deeper into the tar, his mind only on the credits he was winning, the pulse of his heart. It wasn't until Mauve broke the silence that Richter realized what was happening to him.

"If we keep up this blistering pace, I swear I'm gonna have to take another break," Mauve muttered, annoyed with the slow, largely uneventful hands.

"Please, is there any way to turn that moronic augment off?" Tieshine asked in a sudden burst of irritation. "I swear my cards' colors shift to purple when you decide to run your mouth." He was clearly still harboring anger built over the course of their time together in the small, confined room.

Mauve's entitlement kicked in as he grinned. "Afraid not. Though I can't imagine why I'd want to turn it off."

"So we gotta cut it out of you. Got no qualms with that."

"An' that can be arranged," Fifty said, making a show of fiddling with his combat knife.

"You're all a bunch of regular psychos, y'know that? I'm done with you assholes, this game has been a complete and utter waste of my time." Mauve started standing up from the table, getting ready to vacate before Fifty leaned over and grabbed his wrist.

"No, no, no, that's not how this works pretty-boy. As much as I'd like for you to get the hell outta here, there's still somethin' left unwagered."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Not in the slightest. What's the point of makin' you bring a big ticket item if you never have to gamble it?"

The big ticket items. Richter had nearly forgotten about them. He'd last checked up on his when he'd first entered, ensuring that no one picked it off him. Without thinking he reached a hand into his pocket, relieved to feel the thing of old paper still safe and well.

Staring at the large hand that held tight to his wrist, Mauve looked almost distraught at the notion of presenting his big ticket gambling fodder. "All I gotta do is put it in the pot, right? Win or lose, I get to go after?"

"Win or lose."

Mauve reluctantly sat down, reaching into his coat pocket like Richter had. "Planned on giving it a test when I got back to Emtu-Rafich, seeing as this place has been a complete blowout, but whatever gets me outta this dump," he muttered as he procured a small glass vial, setting it down on the table. The vial was roughly the size of a d-cell battery, capped with a white enamel-painted screwtop, a transparent yellow liquid sitting inside, nearly filling it to the cap's lower edge.

"Hm. I imagine this is one of those infamous Emtu-Rafich designer concoctions, no?"

"Yeah, you got that right chromeknob. Ain't even got a name yet, just its lab ID: QN-332. Only about eight vials of the stuff in existence right now, and I guarantee you that some addict would pay top-shelf for something this experimental. Guy they tested 294 on a few years ago's still in a coma."

"An' you got your hands on this how?"

"Same way I do everything else: money and affluence. People are always looking to have some Streichtheiser favor in their pocket."

"Used to."

"Just give me the deck, my turn to deal anyways," Mauve muttered as he sat the vial near the center of the table.

Richter, who'd been gathering the cards in the midst of the conversation, keeping his nose down for now, passed it to Mauve wordlessly. The pale, clean, costumed freak shuffled the cards before tossing them to the others, quick and without flair, ready to move on.

With the remaining deck set in the center, all four players peered at their hands, calculating, formulating.

"So how's this work, Fifty. Since I put my big ticket in the center, do I still put credits in?"

"Works the same as it always does, Streichtheiser. The item's just your only way outta the game, gotta gamble it at least once."

"Right. Raise, two-hundred."

Mauve's fingers danced on the table ledge, light enough to not make a lot of noise and draw attention, looking more like a nervous tic. [i've got a pair of ringworkers on hand, bet big then drop out.]

Tieshine was quick to respond, [and why should i do that?]

"I'll match."

[i want that vial, never planned on actually betting it. i'll send you the pot and two-kay extra.]

"Hm. Match." [fine. whatever gets you out of here faster. got garbage anyways.]

Richter was quick to act on the information. "Raise, three-hundred." Laying face-down on the felt, his hand was comprised of a pair of Wermesckirs. Everyone behind him matched.

Mauve calmly flipped the first three community cards over. Amphet-two, ephed-nine, benzo-two.

"Check."

"Match."

"Raise, five-hundred."

Fifty glaced at Tieshine, weighing his options.

"Match."

Looking at his cards again, Fifty made up his mind. "Fold."

"Match."

The fourth community card was flipped. Barb-Wermesckir.

"Check."

"Fold."

"Check."

Mauve glared at Richter, trying to pry into him. He flipped the fifth community card over. Benzo-three.

Again, Mauve shot a look at Richter, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, telling him to watch his step. Richter feigned ignorance, calmly looking at the community cards.

"Raise, two-hundred."

"Match."

Their hands were revealed and, just as he'd said, Mauve had a pair of Ringworkers. Richter had walked away with not only a three of a kind, but a three of a kind of Wermesckirs. Mauve quickly stood up in anger, his chair tipping back and falling to the carpeted floor. He adjusted his clothes, smoothing out unsightly wrinkles, and began walking for the door. Just before he passed him, Richter quickly tapped the table.

[see ya later, chronic.]

Mauve stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. But it only lasted for a moment, Mauve rearing a fist back and socking Richter in the mouth, nearly causing him to slip out of his chair in surprise. As Richter sat in a stunned silence of his own, lightly holding his jaw, a trickle of blood running from where his lip had been cut on a tooth, Mauve stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

"Mm. Sore loser," Fifty commented, a low chuckle radiating from his voice box, ringing harsh in Richter's ears as his mind slowly dragged itself back to reality and stopped reeling. Fifty gathered the cards and shuffled, keeping the game moving. Tieshine's eyes met Richter's for a moment, scrutinizing him all over again. Assumptions recalibrated in the light of new knowledge, though no verbal comments arose.

None were Blinked either. Nothing came of it except the look.

They continued on as if nothing had happened, though the occasional bolts of copper on his tongue irked Richter, distracting him every time it shocked his tastebuds until his lip had finally stopped leaking crimson. Head wounds always bled so much more than others.

"Something's been nagging at me, Fifty," Tieshine interjected into the relative silence a few hands later.

"An' that would be?"

"Check."

"The oculars."

"Eh, lots a folk find 'em to be unseemly, unnerving. Check."

"It's not that, it's more a question of how you manage to keep it all straight in your head. Check."

"Whaddya mean?"

"A few years ago, one of my bosses came into the office with twenty new oculars popped into her skull after getting a promotion. They didn't move around like yours, but they did see in most directions. Ended up being too much stimulus for her, she was trying to focus on too much, overloaded her biologically and in terms of hardware."

"She had to get them removed, I imagine."

"Would have, but she ended up throwing herself out of a window during a meeting, sixty floors up."

"Fold."

"So what you're askin' is how come I ain't thrown myself out a window?"

"Well, the meeting had veered into quarterly earnings and her sect's averages had been stagnant for a while, so who's to say. But, yes, I'm wondering how you've managed to handle it."

"No secret to it, I'm 'fraid. I just do. I've had a significant presence in Unescensi's underground for a while now, lotta people have wanted to an' still wanna kill me. Got shivved in the back walkin' down the street one time, so I got a pair a oculars for the back. End up wantin' to see even more, now here we are. It's a matter a necessity an' willpower. Of course, some credits for good hardware too, but you still gotta power through it."

Tieshine nodded, "So you're saying my former boss just wasn't made of the proper stuff?"

"I'm sayin' your boss wasn't cut out for the need. If you gotta get 'em, then you're livin' a life few can handle. No one else to watch your back but yourself. Raise, one-kay," Fifty cut off the conversation, bringing attention back to the game in full force.

Soon, it was Richter's turn to deal. He shuffled the cards, fanciful as ever. With the final riffle, the cards quickly came back to him.

Hand one: barb-five, amphet-Bounty Hunter

Hand two: amphet-ten, barb-four.

Hand three: benzo-ten, ephed-Scavenger.

Community Cards: amphet-Scavenger, amphed-six, benzo-four, ephed-four, barb-six.

It was a mostly garbage round, with the second hand blowing away the other two with its three of a kind of fours. Richter had won a multitude of rounds and hadn't lost many credits, so he decided to throw the round into the gutter, giving the second hand to Tieshine. As Richter passed the first two cards to Fifty, he suddenly piped up, "Why're you always dealin' differently?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're always dealin' in a different order, always someone different gettin' the first cards. Sometimes clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise."

Richter smiled, trying to hide the spike of panic that bolted through him. "Same reason I do different flashy shuffles every time I'm dealer. Variety's the spice of life." It was an awful excuse, but it was yet again an inarguable one, similar to his supposed aversion to bridging due to it being "bad luck." There was no logic to peer at, nothing to try to pry deeper into.

Fifty grunted, dropping the subject in favor of peeking at his cards. Richter followed suit, pretending to be inspecting mystery cards whose identities he actually already knew. Looking back up, his vision quivered for a brief moment, and he realized just how hot he was all of a sudden. He still had his coat on and had nearly been made, so it was only natural that he feel a little hot. It would pass.

The hand came and went, with Richter immediately jumping ship, leaving Tieshine and Fifty to duke it out. In the end, Tieshine would be the one to pull the pot to his credit box, both having raised until the very last card was flipped, as expected.

With this victory under his belt, Tieshine slouched ever-so-slightly in his chair. "Gentlemen, this has been quite the event, but I'm at the end of my rope, I'm afraid." He reached up to his lapel, undoing the Meior Industries enamel pin. He stuck his thumb on the brass underside and pushed forward, a section of it coming loose, revealing a paper-thin SD card lodged inside. He let both Fifty and Richter get a good look at it before sliding it closed again, setting the pin on the table. "Stored in there is proof of deals between Kharapten and a man above me in Meior, specifically the selling of goods typically used to produce various kinds weaponry. All done behind Meior's back."

"And that's useful to us?"

"Emtu-Rafich, both leadership and people, aren't exactly comfortable with Kharapten's existence. Maybe because Kharapten's close, maybe it's because of their obsession with those strange insectoid augments. Irregardless, any Emtu-Rafich patriot in a high place will pay handsomely for the info if it means potentially convincing the government to wipe Kharapten out, and it isn't very hard to spin the potential building of weapons. There's a lot of credits to be made in politics."

"The keys to potential warfare…"

"That's a helluva thing, Tieshine."

"I don't need the money, and once word gets out about who it was dealing, he's as good as dead, leaving the heir apparent to take his place."

"The heir apparent being you."

Tieshine slyly smiled, "Yes."

By then, Fifty had collected all of the cards and shuffled them, now doling them out. Two cards slid towards Richter and he picked them up. Ephed-four, barb-three. It had potential for a Straight.

"Check."

"Check."

"Check."

Fifty flipped over three community cards. Ephed-Scavenger, benzo-Bounty Hunter, ephed-four. No Straight yet, but a pair of fours, enough to keep Richter moving with some sense of assurance.

"Raise, eight-hundred."

Both Tieshine and Richter matched, neither daring to raise further. Fifty again flipped a community card over onto the table, revealing a barb-two. A Straight seemed out of the question now, but the pair kept Richter going.

"Raise, four-hundred."

Tieshine smiled, staring at his cards for a moment before lightly tossing them down. "It's been a wonderful game. I'll see myself out." Standing up, he straightened his suit jacket and tie, smoothing out errant creases. Before he passed Richter, he gave him a small nod. "Richter."

"Tieshine," Richter responded with complete apathy as Tieshine walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind him, leaving no trace of his ever having been there, not even a wayward sound.

Fifty chucked under his breath, "Seems it's just me an' you now."

"So it seems. Match."

The fifth card came out, an amphet-Bounty Hunter. Both Fifty and Richter declined to raise any further, ending the round. They revealed their cards and, much to Richter's chagrin, found that Fifty had come away with the better hand, having a benzo-Bounty Hunter to add to the other two in the community line-up, making a three of a kind.

Richter sighed, watching as Fifty grabbed the enamel pin and stuck it into his pocket with glee, gathering the scattered cards and rebuilding the deck. He still felt warm, his hands beginning to slick. If anything, he felt a bit hotter than before. Richter slipped his coat off, tossing it to the floor beside his chair.

Now a bit cooler, though still uncomfortable, Richter shuffled, performing his usual song and dance.

Hand one: barb-five, barb-eight.

Hand two: benzo-eight, ephed-ten.

Community cards: benzo-Bounty Hunter, ephed-Wermesckir, ephed-Scavenger, barb-ten, barb-four.

The smart idea would have been to lose the hand, to start off on a weak foot, Richter knew that, but as he was about to deal, he looked at Fifty and felt his left wrist ache a bit. The first two cards went to Fifty, the second two to Richter. At the end of it, Richter walked away with a thousand more of Fifty's credits. Easy money, easy money.

Come Fifty's turn to deal, Richter found himself holding an amphet-three and a barb-Ringworker, but would end up jumping out early when the community cards didn't favor him. When he held the deck in his hands again, knowing the cards he was about to deal, Richter felt the ache in his left wrist, now spreading a bit to his new hand.

I should lose this one, it's for the best.

A hand later, Richter was pulling in more of Fifty's credits from the pot, trying to stifle a smile.

Back and forth they went, with Richter continually winning the hands where he was the dealer. He knew it was suspicious, but he couldn't help himself. The ache in his wrist urged him on, spreading to his whole hand, nearly phantom limb syndrome, as if crying out.

As the ache continued to grow, so too did their bets, both delving into the spirit of recklessness. So too did the heat that plagued Richter. He quickly came to the conclusion that the heat wasn't from himself for any reason of nerves, but that something was messing with the ambient temperature of the room. As the fire licking his skin only intensified, his mentality grew unstable, nervousness beginning to worm its way deeper, deeper into his mind, leaving him faintly paranoid.

Richter stared forward, his eyes flicking over every ocular on Fifty's face, a constantly shifting array of lenses. Richter was sweating now, badly.

He checked his hand again. Amphet-Scavenger, benzo-five. Three community cards lay in the center: a benzo-Ringworker, an ephed-Wermesckir, and a barb-four.

"I'll raise two-kay."

"Match." Calm, cool, collected.

Fifty flipped over the fourth card. The blank, unsmiling face of the Thaumaturge. He slid the card into the discard pile, drawing another one. A benzo-six. Richter looked up at Fifty again, trying to pry for a reaction. Fifty hadn't moved an inch, his cards lay face down on the felt. Richter felt like he was burning up, like a fire had been lit inside him.

"Check." He was almost shivering.

Fifty calmly considered the community cards. "Hmm…"

The room was so hot. Richter's hands shook. How is he so calm?

"Think I'll check too."

WHY is he so calm?!

Fifty reached towards the community deck.

Something's up, something's wrong.

His hand rested on the top card, sliding it off until he could get his thumb under it. Richter's eyes jumped up, taking another peek at Fifty. No sweat, no nothing. Could he sweat? A lot didn't, using some other method of cooling, not caring for even a faux system that mimicked the natural kind, especially wasters who ran the risk of coming inside with a new coat of frost, though Fifty was no scavver, as far as Richter knew.

Fifty flipped the card over. Ephed-seven.

Why the HELL isn't he sweating?! Overheating?!

He grabbed a second card, slowly dragging it towards the table.

Amphet-eight. Straight.

The two revealed their hands. Fifty had an amphet-Bounty Hunter and a benzo-two. Complete garbage.

Had it all been a bluff?

Fifty tossed his cards to Richter as he gathered up the community cards, sticking them on top of the deck. His skin was covered in a prickling sensation, needles prodding at his entirety. He'd lost assurance in his assumption that it was the room that was burning, his mind racing through new possibilities.

Was it the gin? Had Pal slipped something into it?

He shuffled the cards, trying to keep his composure, hiding away the panic that surged through his body like jolts of electricity. The sweat that poured down his face and his bouncing leg betrayed him. A twitch of the skin around his eyes, a flex of the jaw. His grey undershirt was beginning to darken at the chest as it absorbed sweat.

Drugged. I've been drugged. He suddenly regretted never investing in any kind of system-flush augment. He thought he'd never need it, never one to imbibe too far or in the unknown.

Richter riffled the deck. The top cards were returned: benzo-nine, ephed-Wermesckir, Thaumaturge, amphet-two, benzo-Scavenger, barb-Bounty Hunter, amphet-six, amphet-nine, barb-Scavenger. He'd deal the first two to Fifty and come away with a three-of-a-kind.

"You 'kay Richter?" Fifty prodded. "Seem a little heated."

Richter kept his head tilted down towards the deck in his hands, shooting his eyes at Fifty.

"Doing pretty good over here."

"That so?"

"Living the dream, Fifty. Living the dream." Richter fought the pant his body was begging for as the heat leeched precious air from him.

"Just curious is all, since you seem to have forgotten your prize."

Richter flinched. He hadn't pulled the credits to his box.

"Felt like doubling down. You in?"

Fifty's oculars seemed to stop their incessant shifting and sliding for a moment, focusing in on Richter. "Alright. So we startin' with a pot double this size?"

"If you're willing."

"One condition: instead a bettin' more credits, I want you to put in your big ticket."

Richter considered it for a moment before setting the deck on the table and reaching down to the floor, picking up his coat and sticking his hand in the inner-pocket, pulling out a small beige packet and dropping his coat back onto the floor. He tossed the packet into the center of the table, a faded picture of flowers drawn on the front alongside an equally faded label.

"A seed packet?"

"Rockaway Blues. Far as I'm aware, they're effectively extinct. Found this in my mom's old garden, never got the chance to try to grow them. With the right buyer— maybe a rich biologist or some prick with too much money and a penchant for rarities— should be worth a hefty sum."

If she could see him, she'd be rolling in her shallow grave.

"Alright, I'll take that gamble," Fifty chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

Richter picked up the cards again. Before he could start dealing them, Fifty shoved the table forward a bit, jostling Richter. At the same time, the heat that was plaguing him seemed to jump, the prickling intensifying. The cards slipped out of his sweaty hands, scattering over the table.

"Heat must really be gettin' to you, kid," Fifty said, leaning forward and beginning to gather up the errant cards, piling them up again.

Richter felt sluggish, almost delirious. "Nah, just a bit warm is all."

Fifty dealt Richter two cards.

"Hey, hey, what gives?"

"What?"

"Gimmie the deck, I've gotta shuffle it."

"None of 'em flipped, no need."

"But they're out of—" Richter caught himself.

Fifty stopped, setting the deck back onto the table, crossing his arms. "Out of what?"

Richter leaned forward, reaching his left hand towards the deck. "Nothing, don't worry about it, just the heat, like you sai—" Fifty suddenly jumped forward, his knife drawn, and slammed it into the back of Richter's hand as it slid closer to the deck.

Richter yelped, his brain only partially registering what had just happened. Fifty kept a hand on the butt of the knife's hilt, keeping Richter's hand pinned. "Out. Of. What."

The pain was starting to make itself known, Richter squirming. It wasn't a real hand, he knew that, but his mind refused to accept that as the synthetic nerves screamed. Adrenaline began to kick in, the sluggishness melting away in the torrent of fear as his fight or flight instinct screamed hormonal instructions at him.

"Hey hey hey! Slip of the tongue, slip of the tongue!"

"Slip or not, it was the truth."

"Fifty! I'm obviously not in my right mind, you can't trust what comes outta my mouth! You should know that, you're the one who drugged me!"

"Drugged ya? Huh. That woulda probably been easier. Cheaper too. Guess I just got a flair for the extreme, eh? Plus, this way's more in my control, more variable," Fifty chuckled.

"What? You- you didn't put something in my drink?"

"Oh no, no. Did somethin' much worse." Fifty held up his other hand for Richter to see. In it was a grey, plastic remote, about as big as a finger. There were two buttons on it, unlabeled save for an arrow pointing up and an arrow pointing down. Fifty pressed the up arrow and Richter felt the dreaded heat increase slightly, more needles digging harder into his skin.

"See, I figured some low-life rat like you, desperate for credits an' a good thrill, would try an’ cheat me, so I decided to test out a new idea I had. Rats are for testin' on, eh?" The new mixture. Fifty pushed the button three more times, Richter beginning to squirm as it transitioned from deeply uncomfortable to painful. "Put a bunch a little nanos in a spray, coat you in 'em, they spread out, burrow beneath the skin, wherever nerve endin's are, and now all I gotta tell 'em to do is heat up a bit."

Five more presses. Richter was writhing, his hand still pinned to the table. His skin felt like it was beginning to sear, the needles boring into him, chewing up flesh. Fifty kept talking, spewing vitriol and supremacy, but Richter's mind was elsewhere, the remaining senses not screaming in horror trying to find a way out, some way to get free. "'Variety is the spice of life' he says, always endin' with a riffle. Just some cheap-ass excuse to deal the hands you wanted us to have!" It was a thin, thin insight, one that held no true ground, but it was enough for Fifty, his own conclusion becoming near gospel.

Richter's hand jumped to his waistband, taking hold of the handgun's grip, and pulled as quick as he could. Before Fifty could even realize what was happening, he threw his arm over the table, pressing the barrel into the closest soft spot on Fifty's chest, and pulled the trigger twice, two loud bangs following in suit as Fifty let go of the knife, stumbling backwards, grasping his chest. Richter let go of the gun and it clattered onto the felt. He grabbed the hilt of the knife and yanked it free from the table, the serration chewing through artificial flesh as it passed by, his nerves screaming bloody murder as flames erupted in them.

He didn't have time, he had to go. Richter tossed the knife away, pulled the pot into his credit box, grabbed his gun, coat, credit box, and seed packet, and threw the door open, sprinting down the short hallway. He slammed his shoulder into the door at the end as he slipped his coat back on, shoving the seeds away.

The general assembly of gamblers seemed to be unfazed by the gunshots, that or they didn't hear them, no one's attention drawn away save for the few tables near the bar whose patrons shot confused looks towards Richter as he barged through the door. Richter rushed forward, placing his hand on the bar and leaping, aiming to vault it, but a sudden jolt of intense pain in his back threw him awry, his foot catching on the lip.

"GET BACK HERE YOU SONOVABITCH!"

He crashed onto the floor on the other side, slamming his shoulders into the ground, his back following through, the sudden, sharp pain that had caused him to trip up increasing ten-fold, spreading into his internals. He quickly rolled over, stumbling to his feet, trying to make his way towards the door.

A loud BOOM! rang out and the felt on the table next to him exploded, gambling paraphernalia scattering. He threw himself in the opposite direction, quickly tipping the first table he saw, hiding behind it. The patrons around him scattered, yelling. As he crouched behind the table, a second explosion arose, multiple somethings embedding into his cover. Richter quickly reached to his back, patting his hand around, and found the handle of Fifty's knife, buried hilt-deep. A third BOOM! sounded out, followed by more impacts.

"YOU'RE DEAD, RICHTER!"

The patrons around him had scattered, yelling in fear and confusion, the rest of the gamblers quickly catching up. Richter didn't know what waited for him on the other side of the table, but he knew he had to make a move towards the exit and he had to do it fast. His handgun's magazine held twelve bullets, two of which he'd already fired off.

Richter took two deep breaths, tightly gripping the pistol.

He leapt up, immediately firing off three shots behind him towards the bar as he shuffled backwards, caring less for precision and more for cover as he moved. Just as he'd hoped, Fifty ducked for cover behind the bar, but Pal had far less care for self-preservation as it stood stoically on the stone countertop, aiming three shotguns at Richter, each held awkwardly in its array of mismatch arms. Two of them went off, one of them clipping Richter's shoulder as he backed away, the jolt of pain causing him to lose his footing as he crashed to the floor again, the third firing off and barely missing him, pellets whizzing by.

By now every patron had come to, shaken from their gambling stupors by the action. Some ran, some ducked for cover, but many took the opportunity to inflict retribution on people who'd slighted them, some even fighting the house dealers. The room had devolved to chaos and was only getting worse, the crowds thickening in passion and turmoil. Fifty's muscle hires jumped into the fray, trying to subdue the rioters, but they were vastly outnumbered.

Richter began crawling away, trying to reach some form of cover. The floor next to him was hit by a shotgun blast, shards of tile stinging his skin. A patron he was near screamed as they took the brunt of a second shot. Pal's amalgamation-inspired form was doing it no favors as it struggled to successfully hit him, taking on a philosophy of quantity over quality.

Richter kept moving, still burning, still assaulted by endless needles, changing from crawling, to stumbling, then back to crawling as his body lurched forward. He tried to keep himself as close to areas of high gambler density, letting them take the brunt of the assault for him.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

One after another, Pal kept firing with reckless abandon into the crowd, which was quickly shifting in focus; Pal their new enemy.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

Richter's right calf shrieked in pain as buckshot rammed into it, but he moved forward still, desperate to get away. Another table had been flipped in the ruckus, a beacon of hope in the midst of the horror.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

Richter dove behind the table, trying to steady his breathing. The roar of the patrons has only intensified as the riot turned into a massacre. Richter peeked over the edge of the table, trying to assess the situation. Pal still stood atop the bar, surrounded by bright red shells, its many oculars whizzing around as it took in new threats, a multitude of people rushing it, the remaining three arms intermittently shoving fresh shells into the shotguns' magazine tubes before firing them off, but Fifty was either still cowering behind the bar or had slipped away.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

He rose up a bit more, aiming his handgun at Pal, trying to find a good place to shoot. Before he could, a patron rushed in from the side, holding a chair. They managed to snag a rare blind spot in Pal's ever shifting vision and slammed the chair into its back, knocking it to the floor, the shotguns scattering. Patrons rushed in, piling on, pummeling it.

The victory was short lived as Richter suddenly keeled over onto the floor, the horrific heat intensifying in a massive spike. His back arched, the blade shifting in the wound, exacerbating his suffering.

"Shoulda never pulled that stunt, Richter!" he heard Fifty shout. The hulking figure slowly trudged into Richter's line of sight, the edges fuzzy as his brain struggled to process anything other than pain, pain, pain. He still held tight to his handgun, though more from his muscles tensing than a will to keep hold of it. Fifty stood over him and shoved his boot onto Richter's neck, keeping him still. The two gunshot wounds in his chest were leaking blood.

"Wonder if I crank this high enough if you'll just immolate?" Fifty held up the little remote, his finger on the button. Richter slowly moved his arm, fighting his spasming muscles. He'd only have one shot at this, it was all or nothing. He tilted his hand a bit, aiming as best he could.

"Only one way to find out, eh?"

Richter pulled the trigger, still only half sure, urged on by panic, a fear of any more increases in his torture.

BANG!

Fifty collapsed to the ground, howling in pain as the bullet smashed into the soft underside of his knee. The little remote clattered on the floor. A fresh rush of adrenaline more intense than any drug on the market jolted Richter back to life, briefly dampening the pain, letting him snatch it. He quickly pressed the button labeled with a down arrow as much as he could, the relief almost overwhelming as the heat and stabbing sensations died away. Richter broke it in two, pulling the small chip out and throwing it on the floor, smashing it with the butt of his gun.

Fifty screamed, leaping onto Richter, having recovered while he was distracted with the remote. Running on irrational anger, it seemed his only executive function in that moment was bloodlust. The hilt of the knife still in Richter's back was shoved into him as Fifty slammed Richter's head onto the ground, quickly following it with two powerful hooks to his cheeks. He raised his hands above his head, clasping them together, rearing to slam onto Richter's face, but only gave Richter a window to whip the gun up and unload into his chest, five shots ringing out.

Fifty slumped forward, limply hitting the floor. Wriggling, trying to avoid laying flat and pushing the knife further in, Richter managed to slide his upper body out from under Fifty's dead weight. There was a moment of stillness, one only Richter felt as the world ran tumultuous around him, people flowing like water, occasionally bumping into him. The nanos weren't frying him, Pal had been disabled, and Fifty was dead.

Richter looked down at the body. There weren't any holes in his back, contrary to what movies had suggested to Richter about gunshot wounds. Blood seeped out from beneath it, breaking the seal made by malleable flesh and weight. For the first time since Richter had met him, Fifty was still. The freak had been finicky, always needing to mess with something, play with his knife. He'd only known him for maybe two and a half hours, yet, it felt as if all their cards had been laid bare by the end, everyone naked to the world. Richter had tried to hide, but Tieshine had flayed him nonetheless.

With a deep breath that broke him free, Richter continued his pilgrimage to the exit, shoving past errant patrons as they brawled or ran to loot the bar. The crowd was so dense that Richter could barely see where he was going, relying on recognizable landmarks and intuition. His hopes rose steadily, he'd make it out of there alive. He was beat and bruised to hell and back, lead shot embedded in his calf and shoulder, a knife still buried in his back, but he knew a guy with slick hands and sanitary conditions who owed him a major favor. Seems today would be the day he cashed it in. What he would do about the nanos, he couldn't even begin to imagine, but Richter decided that he'd burn that bridge when he crossed it.

Closer to the door, Richter suddenly found himself in an oasis of space in the dense sea of flesh, rubber, and steel. Standing on the other side of it, directly in his path, was Shoveside. She was grappling a patron, trying to subdue him. The patron struggled under her grasp, her arm wrapped tightly around his throat. As he choked and writhed, Richter saw him slyly slip a knife out from his belt. He reared back, stabbing it into her thigh as hard as he could, but she didn't let go, a mild grunt the only indication that she'd even felt any pain. After the grunt came a growl of anger and she slipped her uninjured leg between his and threw it upwards, ramming her knee into his crotch. His legs gave out from underneath him, the pair tumbling to the ground, Shoveside having traded her footing for the strike. When they hit the floor, a horrific snapping sound rang out above the roar of the crowd. They'd fallen to the side in such a manner that the combination of the pressure Shoveside had been applying with the angle of impact had caused the guy's neck to snap.

In the seconds that it took for the event to unfold, Richter had tried to slip back into the crowd, but found himself barred from entry in the fervor. The resounding snap had stunned him for a moment, staring at Shoveside as she slowly stood up, reaching down to the knife and yanking it out, blood and oil seeping from the wound, running, soaking her pant leg.

She looked up and her eyes met Richters', the dull red glow of her goggle-esque oculars bearing down on him. He found himself trying to remember how many bullets he'd shot. One in the room— or was it two? Dunno. Then, three when I was retreating. One in Fifty's knee, five more in his chest. Ten to eleven used. At best, I've got two shots left. At worst, one. But she didn't charge him. She just kept looking at him, breathing heavily.

"Back so soon Richter?"

"Finished our game early, I guess."

"You win?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I won."

"Good for you."

The two stood still, staring at one another. Richter's hand shook as it held his gun, Shoveside's once sturdy, stoic posture was reduced to slouching. In the stillness, Richter could clearly see that she'd taken some serious heat in the short time the riot had been going. She was covered in patches of yellowing skin where bruises were beginning to form, trails of blood ran from her nostrils. Her jaw-piece was cracked, her voicebox fuzzy, and some of the scrap pieces making up her mohawk had been ripped out.

"Taken a few beatings, huh?"

"It's my job, Richter. Subdue anyone who's throwing a fit. Was going well at first, came in 'cause I heard Pal firing off, but now everyone's crying."

"Shame."

"Craziest thing. I could swear Pal was aiming at you."

"Aiming is giving it too much credit."

"Can't have everything. Not with drones."

They were roughly ten feet apart, gamblers intermittently running between them, obscuring Richter's vision for the moment they were there.

"So what happens now?" Richter asked, defying precious gun safety measures as he rested his finger on the trigger while he still held it limply by his side.

"You started this, I'm assuming."

"Go back far enough in the sequence of events, yeah."

"What'd you do?"

"Shot Fifty in the chest."

"Bold."

"Fight or flight."

"I've got my job to do, Richter."

"Figured."

"I'm gonna enjoy beating the tar outta you."

Another patron passed in front of them. In that minuscule amount of time, Shoveside dashed forward, surprising Richter. His body moved on its own, stepping backwards and raising the handgun, barely aiming before letting off one shot.

Shoveside veered off course, crashing to the ground, dropping the knife. She screamed as she held her hands up to one of her oculars, spitting venom at Richter as he slipped off, not even looking her way.

He slid between bodies, ducked under errant punches thrown, dodged flying objects, and finally managed to make it to the sewer exit. He wrenched the door open, shuffling down the small corridor, awash in the dense orange glow. He slowly made his way up the concrete stairs, the roar of the sewage replacing the roar of the riot within. The rubber soles of his boots made little sound as they fell awkwardly on the steps, pulling him upwards with stumbling flexes, fighting off gravity and the slack weight of his body.

Richter summited the stairway, steadying himself for a moment. In the relative quiet of the moment, when his mind stilled, the white noise of the horrid flow mere feet away from him fading into background noise, the sound of someone running up the stairs behind him found its way into his ears, coming too quickly to process it in time as strong arms grabbed his shoulders, yanking him back. Richter tumbled back down the stairs, violently striking the steps on his way down, practically bouncing like a hunk of rubber. Richter landed at the bottom on his stomach, his mind recovering from the tumble. As he tried to stand up, the sound of running made itself known again. He turned his head just in time to see Shoveside rearing her leg back, her foot crashing into his face, smashing directly into his nose. Shoveside tripped over him, having avoided slowing down to increase the force of her kick, crashing down onto the floor behind him as he grasped his face, feeling blood trickle from his nose, now a crumpled mess.

They both quickly stumbled up, trying to be faster than the other, with Richter managing to shakily begin trying to run back up the stairs. He made it a few feet before Shoveside leapt at him, trying to grab his clothes to pull him back, but only managed to grab his shin. Still, Richter fell forward, too disoriented to properly fight the grapple as his face slammed into the concrete. He quickly wrenched himself around, trying to tug away from Shoveside who was also on the ground now, still holding tight.

Richter drew his gun, taking as careful an aim as he dared while Shoveside kept pulling him closer. Between the iron sights he saw the carnage he'd wreaked before, having somehow shot her through one of her oculars. In its place now was a gaping maw of viscera that bled profusely, shards of glass and metal shrapnel sticking out. The undulating flesh beneath it ran beet red, flush and coated with blood, swallowed up by pitch black within as the maintenance lights failed to reach the depths, creating the illusion of a vision of endless depths, a void beginning to overflow with wrath as Shoveside screamed. For her to not be dead, the bullet must have hit some errant metal, deflecting or stopping it.

In spite of the pain he was in, the danger that threatened to swallow him whole in mere seconds, Richter found that the iron sights were steady as they aligned with the space between Shoveside's oculars. He took a breath, let half out, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hollow sound rocked Richter to his core, his stomach dropping. He'd shot two at the table, not one. He must have had his thumb on the slide release when he'd shot Shoveside earlier, tricking him into thinking he had one final shot left.

Shoveside pulled him down. The hilt of the knife caught on a step, fighting the movement, dragging a bit in Richter's flesh before giving in. She was still screaming, almost incomprehensible, a word salad of hatred that spilled forth, pure id. She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up, letting go with one hand to grab his face, her fingers grasping the sides as her palm dug into his already shattered nose. In one swift movement, she let go of his shirt and shoved downward with her other hand, slamming his head into the stairs. Richter was lucky, his head landing on a flat part instead of a lip. It still hurt, but less likely to crack his skull open.

Richter's animalistic instincts worked past the disorientation that plagued his mind, throwing his knee upwards, catching Shoveside in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her, fortunate that she seemed to pride natural muscle over metal implants. She let up just enough to give him room to worm out, though not completely outside of her grasp. He switched his grip on the pistol, holding it tightly by the barrel as he reared back. With as much force as he could muster, Richter rammed the grip into Shoveside's temple, stunning her enough to give him time to fully slip out and run.

As he once again climbed the stairs, he knew that his lead was only temporary. If he tried to run the maintenance route, she'd catch up to him again and he wasn't liable to survive a third round against her. Reaching the top, beginning to sprint down the short hallway, the door just in sight, Shoveside beginning to climb the stairs, he knew what he was going to do, inspired by the growing roar that came from just beyond the door. He threw it open, not even hesitating before crossing the small outcropping and leaping into the flow of sewage.

The crashdown was a shock to his system as he hit the water hard. He had to fight the tumultuous rush, wildly swinging his arms, trying to surface. Quickly, he managed to break his head through, taking deep gasps of the miasma. He began treading water as best he could, letting himself be carried by the waste.

Richter looked back. Shoveside stood on the maintenance outcropping, watching as he floated away, quickly becoming too small to see, escaping his vision. The lights faded away, Richter entering a sector with no walkable routes, leaving him in darkness.

The adrenaline waned and the pain set in. Richter mentally assessed his injuries as best he could. A shoulder and calf full of lead shot, a knife in his back, a broken nose, maybe some internal damage from the heat, and likely a concussion. His organ bag was guaranteed to be punctured. There'd be an infection from the sewage, no doubt, but he didn't worry about it, that friend could get him some antibiotics or something, whatever he'd need. Though, given how much more extensive his wounds had become since his last assessment, the favor was gonna be more than repaid, with Richter likely to become the debtor.

Having evaluated his physical state, Richter let himself breathe deep and slow. The air reeked, yet it tasted saccharine. Each inhale sent tingling waves through his body, each exhale was evidence that he was, in fact, alive. The adrenaline had worn off but Richter was still riding the high of the moment in spite of the pain. A gambler’s ultimate rush, betting one’s own existence on wire thin odds and coming out on top. Beat, yes, but alive. Alive and ready to leap again and again and again.

The faint pinprick of an orange glow appeared in the distance, off to the right. Richter paddled over, trying to stay as close to the side as he could as the light rapidly approached. A maintenance pathway came into view, dimly lit by caged lights, a ladder attached to the side. Richter carefully positioned himself and reached his hands out, grabbing onto the ladder as he passed by. The violent jolt as his body tried to continue on sent a new spike of pain through his shoulder that’d been shot, but he managed to keep his grip, pulling himself up and climbing out, laying down on the concrete floor, breathing heavily.

After a moment of stillness save for his pants, Richter found himself lightly laughing to himself. He’d made it.

Richter sat up, reaching into his coat pocket. All his possessions had made it too, as far as he could tell by touch, though the sharp shards pricking his fingers told him that Mauve's designer drug vial has shattered and he'd let go of his gun at some point during his swim. He pulled the seed packet out, inspecting it. The paper was drenched. Stuck to it was the equally sodden business card Tieshine’d given him. The stark, clean white was now more of a tobacco-spit brown, but still legible.

Richter smiled at the card, sticking it back into the pocket. He looked at the seed packet again, running his thumb over the long faded image on it. The words “Rockaway Blues” could just barely be made out beneath the picture. It was nothing short of a miracle that even that much was left of the graphite sketches his mother had made. He could remember her sitting at the kitchen table, folding and gluing the small paper sachets into place before filling them with seeds she'd harvested or bought. She'd delicately draw the plant as best she could, writing the name beneath it. When they'd been robbed, the perpetrators had trashed her garden, destroying her meticulous collection of seeds.

Richter was supposed to be the target, but he'd been in police custody, rotting in a cell. He'd been caught shoplifting, a petty crime, but enough to get him put away for a few days. He'd owed them money, but he wasn't there to deliver, had no way of contacting them, so they raided his home, ransacking it as they searched for valuables.

When he was released and discovered what had happened, he found himself feeling listlessly apathetic as his mother sobbed.

When she'd died, he'd decided to move somewhere else in Unescensi, somewhere cheaper, smaller. He had been up to his neck in debt from supporting himself and his mother. She'd stopped going to work after she fell into depression. As he had been cleaning out the rooms she'd filled up with stuff and life, he'd found himself standing in the ruins of the garden. She'd refused to go into it after the ransacking and Richter had begun to hate the room by that time, so it sat in lonely disarray. Shards of terracotta, scatterings of soil, and the black, husky remains of what was once flora littering the floor.

Richter cleaned the room. Not because he'd wanted to, because he'd felt a sense of responsibility, or because he'd wished to move on, but only because the landlord would have had his head if he'd left without cleaning. He'd found the packet of seeds tucked into a dark corner on the floor behind a table. It'd probably fallen, slipping in the space between the table and the wall. He didn't know why he'd picked it up— still didn't— but he had. They were the one part of his mother that came with him. The rest sat outside the small hovel, burning. She sat outside too, four feet under.

Her greatest pleasure in their enclosed world had been the cultivation of life. She'd found beauty in raising something up till it unfurled and flourished, in keeping it in good health, keeping its colors vibrant. Richter could remember the first time she'd had to bail him out, how she stared at him through the bars silently. It was the same look he'd seen before when a flower she adored withered, petals turned shriveled and gray.

Richter threw the seed packet into the sewage. If she could see him, she'd be rolling in her shallow grave. But she wasn't there, she couldn't see. She'd given up and let her world wither into nothingness before withering away herself, leaving Richter alone, more alone than ever. She'd given up on him.

And yet, in spite of it all, he'd finally found the beauty she spoke of. But his was different from hers, his was more enthralling, impatient, natural. He'd tasted it before, but only now had he truly imbibed. He didn't consider it escapism, like Tieshine posed. It wasn't an addiction either. It was something more fundamental now, soldered into his very being like a brand new augment. Even if he were to never indulge in it again, he'd never ween off of it, always on the knife's edge, ready to jump at it. The tick had stood on his flesh, poking and prodding, but now was dug in. Richter stood up, tall and straight. He was severely injured, but he felt more alive than he had in a very, very long time.

He calmly opened the lone door in the concrete side of the massive pipe, walking into a maintenance tunnel lit intermittently by the same orange lights that glowed everywhere else. His boots made gentle thumping sounds on the concrete floor as he limped. He closed his eyes, breathing in the air just as he had before. Slowly in, slowly out. It was cool in the dull catacomb. The sound of the sewer soon faded into nothingness, leaving only his feet, his breath, and his heart.

Tha-thump… tha-thump… tha-thump…

He remembered its rapid pulse while he ducked for cover, ran for his life, shot his opponents. He savored the fading remnants of the sparking feeling and taste, like a nine volt dusted in sugar.

Richter decided that once he was all patched up, he'd give Tieshine a call.

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Footnotes

1. No pairs or Straights, simply the highest ranking individual card.

2. Five in sequential order.

3. Five of the same suit.

4. Three of a kind and a pair.

5. Five in sequential order, all of the same suit.

6. All of the hierarch cards and a ten, all of the same suit.