Memento Mori

1.4 - POKER NIGHT

"Well enough." I down this one faster than the first, grimacing as the fire works its way towards my stomach. "Sarah chewed my ass out for using a taser round."

Krey glances to his own rifle, leaning near the bottles. JOYs have eighteen classes of armaments and abilities they can provide at the touch of a key, though the tech only lets you keep three at a time- and you have to be damn good to use three without constantly tripping over your own abilities. Most people just stick to one. Safer, you know, when you're dealing with tech that can empower a single human with enough power to level an entire city and no one knows how the hell it really works. We just know the rules. And it's not like the Creators left a sticky note for the historians before they vanished a couple centuries ago.

Krey is a Gunslinger just like me, but his preferred weapon is the polar opposite of mine: a bolt-action marksman rifle that stands as tall as he does. Each bullet the size of my fist. No taking prisoners with that kind of firepower. The daily rigor of carrying it lends extra definition to his arms. He's got his sleeves rolled up to the shoulders now; everything shades of dark evergreen forests. Front-facing dreadhawk that hangs above his eyes, artistically shaved on the sides. Whoever does his hair is a saint with a stylus.

"Carto Bask is a bastard," Krey shrugs. "Shoulda popped him when you had the chance. I would've."

My fingers drum against the bar. "Don't be dull, man. Killing one gangster doesn't fix anything. There's two people drooling to take his spot, and four more waiting to take theirs. Same for any Dynasty mook."

I say it with confidence. But still. Even I know he deserved worse.

There's a sour taste in my mouth as I head over to where Sarah's sliding in, bookending the men on the good side of the booth. I hop up and sit between two overturned stools on a table beside them. A thousandfold roar crackles out of the stream screen as one of the two young fighters executes a stunning midair kick faster than the camera can keep pace. Groans follow when his opponent sidesteps with unbelievable ease and fires back with a perfectly-placed riposte from a rapier.

The largest man at the table, smooth-faced Dax, spits a curse in the old language of the rustic villages outside the capital's domain. He's already forking a credit chit over to his bearded companion. "Fuckin' hell. It's like watching a textbook pulverize a golden retriever."

Sarah throws her feet up on the table with a laugh. "Your mistake for betting on uni first-years."

A crooked smirk crawls over the second man's face. He's got a father's heavy, muscular build. A father's care in his eyes. A gentle way of sitting. All potential energy, a silvered lion that rarely shows its claws these days. The sort of man that you want to like you from the moment you meet him. A violent man, a man of the gangs, a good man. Better than most who rise in the Vents.

Ulysses, salt-and-pepper, white antibac tape stretched over his heavy knuckles, leans into the smirk as he catches my eye. Though he keeps talking to Sarah. "His mistake for betting on the Showmaker, really. Kid's got a losing record a mile long."

"Hell if he can't fight though," Dax grunts. He jolts up when the red-haired fistfighter on the stream executes some martial alchemy my eyes can't even track. "Look at that! He pulls moves like those without breaking a sweat. Fights like a bloody legend when the wind blows right. Ain't seen a ki fighter like him in years. Better than Champion Fang in his heyday, I tell. And then he bungles it up the second you look away."

"He's a showboat." Ulysses is actually grinning now. I can't stop the matching smile that sneaks onto my face. "All flash, no substance. Missing cool combos doesn't win fights, Dax."

"Sue me and half the Vents for betting on him, then. People like an underdog."

One of Sarah's eyebrows hooks into an arch. "He's a looker."