Chapter 315

As the three of us idled in the empty, unfurnished unit, Jackson occasionally crossing the vast expanse of carpet, dust, and open space to peek at the street through the blinds, we played poker.

I fidgeted with the thumb drive Chuck copied the video file to, flicking the lid open and closed before folding a mid hand, checking my DMs for a response and finding none.

The mercenaries’ betting pool, comprised of provisions and random materials jotted down on small slips of paper, multiplied, resembling a craft store heap of confetti. Jackson would win this hand if he stayed in, as Chuck had nothing.

You could tell a lot about a person by the way they played cards. How they dealt with loss and adversity. How clever they were, how careful.

So far, Jackson was winning in more ways than one. I’d been skewing the odds in his favor for a while, only in part because I didn’t like Chuck, primarily because it presented an everyday opportunity to practice more subtle applications of my Ordinator abilities.

“This is horseshit,” Chuck groused after they both placed their cards down, and Jackson, still cross-legged, leaned forward to sweep the heap of slips into the towering nest of paper at his side.

“Gotta agree.” Jackson tilted his head, mouth quirked in puzzlement. “Rather catch this kinda streak at a high stakes table. The cards I’m getting, feels like tapping generational luck for small potatoes.”

It was a courteous way to put it that wasn’t entirely accurate. Unless I was completely wrong, Jackson was enjoying the hell out of fleecing Chuck. But he wasn’t letting the wins go to his head. He was the sort of person who derived quiet satisfaction from minor victories, instead of growing overconfident and egotistical.

Naturally, Chuck went the other way. As he shuffled, he peered at his associate, tight-mouthed and suspicious. “Assuming you’re not cheating.”

“Sir.” Jackson rolled his eyes. “They’re your cards. And you’ve shuffled and dealt every round. So please, explain to my simple ass how that’s even possible.”

“Let you know when I figure it out,” Chuck muttered.

We played a few more rounds, Jackson rising every so often to check the street. Chuck recouped some of his slips, though that had less to do with me altering the odds than Jackson—unexpectedly—folding when he didn’t have to, presenting a consolation prize. That only made me respect him more.

In reality, they both likely made enough in an hour to recoup any potential loss, let alone what they were betting. The difference was Jackson seemed more concerned with the possibility of pissing off future associates than he was with winning, while Chuck was completely preoccupied with the game itself, low-key desperate to regain his losses.

If pressed, in need of a tech guy with no better alternative immediately on hand, I’d probably call on Chuck again.

But over the course of the last few hours, it was clear that Jackson had real potential for more involvement.

As Chuck dealt the cards, I closed the lid of the thumb drive too hard, resulting in an audible snap. Chuck pretended not to notice, dealing my first card and moving on. “Just out of curiosity—”

“No,” I said.

“Didn’t even let me finish.” He sighed, all but flicking the second card at me. It landed on the first and kept its momentum, bumping directly into my knee. “Come on. I pieced the damn thing back together.”

“A service for which you were generously compensated.” I took the cards, idly noted a pair of queens, then set them back down.

“It wouldn’t have been hard to keep a copy,” Chuck observed, a faint edge to his voice.

“Which of course, you weren’t foolish enough to do. Because no curiosity’s worth risking what we’re gettin’ paid,” Jackson shot back.

“Yeah, yeah.” Chuck huffed, backing off a little. “Played the good little Boy Scout. Now I’m curious as hell.” He looked at me. “Want to bet on it? Make this round interesting?”

“Acting like a kid begging for presents on Christmas Eve.” Jackson shook his head. “Sometimes in life you’re better off letting questions go unanswered. Purged video file on a fed’s laptop—somethin’ he went out of his way to obscure—can only be so many things. Most of ’em? Ain’t good. Let it go.”

“Really believe that?” I asked, mostly biding time, laddering the drive between my fingers.

“Yup.”

“So if I commandeered Chuck’s laptop—”

“—Hey,” Chuck complained.

“—plugged in the drive, told you to give me the cliff’s notes, you’d push back?” I finished.

“Fuckin’ with me, Mr. Client?” Jackson asked, his face inscrutable.

“A little.”

There was the briefest hesitation before Jackson shook his head. “Not at all. Given the luxury of choice? There’s enough dark shit in my head as it is. No need to add to the pile.”

“Fair.” Out of my peripheral, Chuck was growing more and more frustrated with the exchange. I suddenly shifted my attention to him, catching him in an outright scowl he awkwardly hurried to cover. “Okay, sure. But let’s make it simple. Top card draw. Fifty-fifty odds, or close to.”

“Suits?” Chuck verified, confused at the sudden heel-turn but unwilling to press his luck.

“Red or Black. Your choice.” I emphasized the first option slightly and clipped the second. In truth, it didn’t matter what he picked. <Suggestion> would have made it child’s play to force one or the other. But this was the sort of minor redirection I excelled at even before my powers, and part of me was curious if I could still pull it off unassisted.

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Barring some personal superstition or paranoia, the result was almost set in stone. I hadn’t given him any reason to doubt me in cards. If I’d run the table effortlessly and taken them for all they were worth, he’d likely choose black because he suspected cheating, and was pre-conditioned to question any subconscious indicator he received.

But I hadn’t won much, and folded enough to look like a bad gambler.

He’d choose red.

“Always been a hearts and diamonds guy,” Chuck grinned.

Still got it.

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Cut the deck into three, pick from the two piles that weren’t on top, and draw.”

Warmth shot through my hand as <Probability Cascade> fired, leaving no visible effect as I pictured what I wanted. In the early days a single use left me drawn and shaken, but I’d made a lot of advancements since then.

Chuck split the cards into three piles, chose one, and drew a card. His hopeful expression immediately plummeted as he turned it around, facing out. “My fucking luck today.”

Jackson chuckled. “Jack of Clubs. At least you finally pulled a face card?”

“Shuddup.” Chuck groaned. He rejoined the piles and stuck the deck out to Jackson. “All yours. Need to take a piss.”