goneawayworld | I'm still the talk of this town, I'm still the roll of their dice.

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dan sagittarius

I'm still the talk of this town, I'm still the roll of their dice.

Who: Dan Sagittarius and Beckett
What: Dan and Beckett bond(?) over poker.
Where: The library.
When: Prior to the attack.
Warnings/Notes: None here yet.

Dan feels a little bad underplaying how good he is at poker to Beckett, but on the other hand, he trusts that people who describe themselves as “decent poker players” are generally people who are well into the upper percentages of adept poker players. After all, if you describe yourself as a good poker player, you’ve already indicated that you don’t really know what you’re talking about. Dan’s a very good poker player, so long as they’re only using one deck at a time, because he’s got a fantastic memory for the cards and a practiced, fluid poker face. He’s financed many a trip back and forth across the continent on hustling poker games.

He still hates the library, though, which is why as he waits in one of the little alcove areas with the recliners he’s preemptively shuffling the deck of cards. Being completely illiterate - old school illiterate, the kind that signs that name with an X and needs a witness - is usually just a background handicap in his line of work, but occasionally there are places or things that throw into stark relief that he’s in a world where he’s intellectually got one arm tied behind his back.

But it’s quiet, and he has a bottle of wine, which the lady at the cafeteria gave him after he flirted with her enough to establish a “connection”. It’s not just in her head, either; Dan’s absolutely willing to get unprofessional with things. Anything to break up the tedium of the rig, which so far has been a corporate nightmare full of schedules and fluorescent lights.

He’s looking forward to an evening with Beckett. As far as he’s concerned, they have at least a few things in common, and there’s always something to be said for someone who mentions chess, poker and dancing in their introduction. That’s someone who has at least some kind of taste for intellectual stimulation by the way of both strategy and expression. That’s someone who can tap into both worlds.

“Beckett,” he says with a grin as he sees his new friend enter. “It’ll be a pleasure to get to know you better, and an even greater pleasure to kick your ass at Texas Hold ‘Em.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I don't know about control. I do know when I got here, I walked straight into someone else's memory, and it felt as real as you or me sitting here right now. I'm just saying we should keep our wits about us."

The cards in the river are garbage, a mess of suits and low numbers; the best either of them can hope for is a three-of-a-kind, or failing that a two-pair. Dan throws three sweeteners in, decided to go with a bluff. He's a great liar but, well, Beckett said he was a decent poker player, so this is a way to test the waters on what Beckett meant by that.

"At this point a shock might at least be interesting. Or, you know, good information to have if we ever have to decide what's worth risking more shocks. You know what I mean?"

"Well, if you're volunteering..."

Beckett studies his hand, the cards on the table, the pot, and his opponent. Dan's raise is almost certainly a bluff. Unless it isn't - and a slow, lopsided smile crosses his lips. Here it is again, that moment of uncertainty. The ghost of adrenaline in his veins, setting stolen blood to racing.

"I'd heard about the incident of psychic overlap, but I have to confess it passed me by entirely. Has anyone uncovered the cause?"

As he speaks, he picks up a sugar packet and tosses it in the pot. There. Let's see how he answers that.

Edited 2020-09-29 19:15 (UTC)

"I'm sure I'll get into trouble sooner or later. It's a bit of a calling for me. You should see how many jobs I been fired from." Dan takes another drinks and squints at Beckett's face, the dark glasses, the smile. "Far as I know everyone's just chalking it up to the Stuff. Seems to be an easy thing to blame."

And on the note of calling...Dan chips seven sweeteners in to meet Beckett's and raps his knuckles on the table. He shows his hand - a six and a queen, which means if Beckett has a pair with anything on the table or a single king or ace, Beckett takes the first pot.

"This Stuff does appear to be quite the phenomenon, doesn't it?"

Beckett's smile deepens when Dan lays down his cards. He turns over his.

"Seven of diamonds, jack of hearts. I believe I win this hand."

"By the skin of your teeth, you sure do, hot stuff." Dan grins and takes the cards back, shuffling the deck more as he settles in for storytime. He was expecting to win, and now finds himself at a loss as to where to begin. He doesn't like to talk about himself; he doesn't even particularly like to think about himself as an entity collecting history as he passes through his life.

He taps the corner of the deck against his knee.

"A few weeks before I came here, I was trapped in a mansion with a bunch of civvies and the jackasses that be done called a dragon in to eat us all. Now, back home - it don't seem to mean much here - back home I speak monster Common Tongue, so we got me on a loudspeaker to communicate with it and try and reason. I reckon you can imagine how kindly a dragon takes to being told it can't eat a mansion full of people.

"But dead serious, it turns out that I could stall that motherfucker like no one's business, because it turns out that dragons like music. I talked it into composing a song with me on the piano, little dinner-and-a-show thing, and it spent a whole twenty minutes with me doing this little ragtime number about sucking the marrow out of little kids' bones.

"We all got out safe in the end. Probably one of my finer moments." He grins and deals Beckett his hand.

"A dragon?" Beckett blinks, taken aback. "What, fire breathing and everything? We don't have those where I'm from." And thank god for that. They had enough problems. "Are they a normal hazard?"

He takes his cards, and the corner of his mouth gives, perhaps, the barest twitch as he peeks. A ten and seven of diamonds. Much more promising then the last. He keeps them facedown after his look, just as he had last hand.

"A monster common tongue? Tell me more about that, if you can?"

"Normal? Not really. It's more like a tiger than anything else, you don't see them often but if you do, it's got a high probability of being the last thing you ever do." He checks his hand: ace of spades and two of hearts. "Fire-breathing, flying, scaly. Like something right out of a movie. They're an endangered species where I'm from."

He starts the river - ace of diamonds. Things are already looking good for Dan this hand, but he doesn't show it on his face, just biting his lower lip slightly in thought.

"Well, most sentient beings where I'm from that ain't human have a common language among them all, and some of us human people are smart enough to try and pick it up in case we need to communicate with them. I never want to shoot without asking questions unless I have to, so it made sense to learn how to ask a question and understand the answer."

It depresses Dan how few of his fellow monster hunters bother to pick up Common Tongue, how many situations have turned into brutal bloodshed when it could have been a matter of simple negotiation. How many lives have been lost to the presumption that whatever you're hunting doesn't have any mind beyond senseless violence.

"Course, it seems here everything's translated for us, so speaking Common Tongue's about as useful as tits on a steer."

He puts a sugar packet in.

"Oh, I'm sure you have other talents. Just because a being can talk, doesn't mean it has good intentions. If you've survived as a mortal long enough to learn that much, you're capable of something useful."

It's a conciliatory statement, given offhand and just barely on the right edge of condescending, mostly because he clearly doesn't mean it that way. After all, it's not just mortals he thinks of in pragmatic terms of useful and useless, worth the trouble or not.

"And speaking as one of the monsters, I appreciate an interest in negotiation."

Beckett sees the bet, without raising. He takes the deck, shuffles, deals. Six of diamonds. Hmph.

"Well, I hate to say I've shot and bludgeoned my share of talking things in my time." Human or not; Dan's racked up such a body count in "defense of others" that one might as well wonder if he got into this business for an excuse to blast holes in something for morally justifiable reasons.

He catches the subtle air of condescension, but it doesn't rankle him; Dan doesn't have a ton of ego and he's spent the last decade as, usually, the sole "mundane" in any given crew of magicians and superhumans, and the illiterate backwoods mundane at that. Feeling underestimated or disregarded is a sort of background toxicity for Dan, like UV light from the sun.

"Lotta diamonds in this hand," he says, raising his eyebrows and throwing another sugar packet in.

Don't take it personal, Dan, he's like that with everyone under a hundred and fifty.

"I've racked up my share of bodies as well, don't get me wrong. It's not really possible to do otherwise, in our line of work. But stopping to ask questions first is rare enough to be noteworthy." That Dan might not be touched or flattered by his praise never once crosses Beckett's mind, bless his heart.

He meets the second packet, leaning back. "Yes, well, at least this hand can make up its mind. Unlike the last."

"Unfortunately so." He gives Beckett a bit of a grim smile - a flash of something truly honest underneath the affected levity that Dan wears like a second skin - and flips the last card.

Two of spades.

"Spoke too soon," he says, sucking air through his teeth a bit. He bites his lower lip as he considers his next move. Raise the stakes and hope that Beckett has just a good enough hand to bet on and lose to a two-pair with a bigger pot of packets? Or stay here and ensure that Beckett has to play whatever he has?

Dan plays it safe. He raps his knuckle on the table and puts his hand face-down. "Call."

Damn. Far too soon. Beckett stares hard at his hand for a long moment, fingers hovering above a second sugar packet. With the stakes so low, the urge to push his luck is almost irresistible.

Ah, but the stakes never truly are that low, are they? Dan seems a fine fellow, but they're not friends. They barely know each other, and people in their line of work don't make friends, anyway. Does it benefit Beckett to be underestimated?

Behind his glasses, his eyes have shifted from the cards to his opponent.

Then, slowly, he moves his hand away from the packet.

"Alas," he says, laying out his cards with a flourish. "Your instincts were correct."

Dan grins and takes another sip of wine, putting his feet up on the corner of the table.

He does that annoying thing where, rather than reveal his hand, he just shuffles Beckett's back into the deck because Beckett's folded. It's a habit he picked up working as a dealer at a casino, and one that continues to keep a certain sense of mystery going about how much he'll lie.

"Alright. Tell me a story, hot stuff."

It seems sensible to Beckett, who cares less about how much he'll lie - presumably, as much as necessary - and more that Dan had guessed his game. True, he wasn't going to great lengths to hide it, but he does so hate being on the back foot.

Beckett rubs his chin, thinking. Then he nods, decided.

"By your accent," he begins, "I'd say you hail from somewhere in the American South, or your world's equivalent. I had cause to pass through Georgia about five years ago, doing a - well, call it a favor, but the fellow in question was convinced I was paying a debt. It often goes that way, among Kindred."

Bloody Pieterzoon and his bloody Camarilla.

"My employer's organization was - still is - engaged in a cold war rapidly going hot for territory across the United States. Georgia was particularly disputed; Atlanta had been a stronghold for years, since the city's founding, but had fallen to the other organization some five years back. They were desperate to get it back. I, and two other operatives, had been sent to retrieve what I believed was a mystical artifact from a former planation just outside the city, one that could tip the balance of power."

Pause for effect.

"It was, of course, no such thing. What I had in fact been sent to do was help in the resurrection of an ancient vampiress, a necromancer of great power, so that she could be recruited for that damned war of theirs. She had been betrayed by one of her childer - vampires she had created - and staked in a secret room in the manor. It was all going quite swimmingly until we looked outside and saw half a bloody battalion at the gate."

A coterie of tzimisce, to be precise, riding warghouls crafted of three mortals or more - Beckett hadn't been able to count limbs from the mansion balcony. But he spares Dan those details.

"One of our number was an excellent sharpshooter. He kept them at bay, but it's unfortunately quite difficult to kill a vampire with bullets. I suggested retreat. The newly-awakened Madame Bedelia objected, quite strongly."

He touches his cheek lightly, remembering the slap. It'd been a good one, too.

"She went out on the balcony and raised hell. I mean that quite literally. The ghost of every soul that had ever died on that patch of land and, you can imagine, that was quite a few. They rose at her command, and ripped the enemy apart. It was - quite the sight."

"Remote California. Far from Georgia or the South generally, but I reckon we use the same lingo and have the same pitfalls when we talk." He emphasizes the "tawk" intentionally, coyly, jokingly.

Dan shakes his head and makes the sort of facial expression and wordless noise that indicates he's responding with awe minus the sense of glory; he has no particular fondness for berserkers, be they justifiably-aggrieved supernatural or not. Dan's idea of a good ending to the story would be a truce or a daring escape, not a slaughter.

"So from what you're saying-" Dan deals another hand to each of them- "you've got some sort of reputation amongst the vampires and your faction, enough to be considered an operative."

He checks his hand. Double eights, a spade and a diamond.

"Did Madame Bedelia ever join with the faction that done sent you, or did she decide to go her own way after ripping apart the battalion?"

The first card in the river is the three of clubs.

Edited 2020-10-02 21:19 (UTC)

"Ah, my apologies," he says, with a carefully chastened grin. "I'm afraid I don't spend as much time stateside as should."

He checks his cards. Three of hearts and the jack of clubs. One pair already, not bad.

"Oh, she bore a long-standing grudge against the other side. I extricated myself as quickly as I could manage, but last I heard, Atlanta hadn't changed hands."

He doesn't address Dan's other supposition, interested in letting the man draw his own conclusions.

"No worries. My hometown barely topped eight thousand when I left it." Dan says that as if it's something he finds embarrassing, but the truth is he finds the size of his hometown much less embarrassing than the reality of having left this place he loved so much, for no reason but shame and wanderlust.

He nods. "Alright. So you aren't a loyalist, at least to the parties you've named to me."

Second card in the river is a queen of diamonds.

"And where is your home town? I'm from England, as you may have guessed. A little place by the river that no longer exists. Oxford swallowed it up," he explains, shuffling.

He deals the third. Six of clubs, hellfire and damnation. The night wasn't going his way, so far. Still, there was always a chance. He doesn't twitch at the result.

"Well, I'm sure there's parties in your world determined to involve you in their squabbles. And Kindred breed conspiracy like black mold, unfortunately."

"England's a bigger place than Hallelujah Junction. We ain't even a legitimate city." They're an "unincorporated community", which is a fancy term for a bunch of hillbillies who refuse to engage with invasive government shit like birth certificates or property taxes.

Nothing in the river for him to love, either.

"Kindred, huh? Ain't a term in my world." He takes the deck back. "I'm an independent contractor in my world. I go where my skills are useful to the common good."

"I wouldn't expect it to be," Beckett says, stalling. Bet or call, bet or call... "We're a secretive lot, since the Inquisition. I've not revealed my nature to a mortal I didn't intend to kill in - oh, ever, really."

It had been the hardest thing to learn. Aristotle taught that there was no shame in what they were, only what they might do; so why, then, did he hold with Camarilla secrecy? It had taken a demonstration for Beckett to understand. Fortunately, it had only taken one.

Beckett makes up his mind, taps the table, shows his cards.

"The Spanish Inquisition?" Dan shows his hand; a pair of eights over a pair of threes means he wins, so he gathers up the sweeteners.

"And here you are revealing it to me. I mean, I imagine to plenty of those on this," he waves a hand. "Rig. Anyway. I'm flattered. And awaiting another story."

He starts shuffling for the next hand.

"Well, we all seem a tolerant lot. The circumstances are extraordinary enough to make the lie both impossible and bit tedious, so. And yes, since the Inquisition. Prior to that, our existence was something of an open secret; but the politics are complex, and dull to anyone who wasn't there."

There's a thousand ways to politely tell someone a topic is off limit, and Beckett knows all of them. He doesn't want to spill every secret right off the bat; you never know which one you might need.

"Let's see... ah, yes. I wasn't directly involved, but I bore witness, about twenty five years ago, to an sequence of events in Philadelphia that I found rather amusing, at the time."

He actually rather likes this one, now that it's coming back to him. One of the classic Kindred dramas, rather like a good pull off a healthy adult male; you're never surprised, but you're never disappointed.

"Kindred tends towards hierarchy, as a rule; whether we incline towards discipline or license, we like to bicker and fight until there's a pecking order we can all feel comfortable with. In Philadelphia, the nastiest hen in the coop styles themselves Prince of the city. And the Prince when this story begins was about three hundred years old, vicious as a snapping turtle, and deeply disliked by his subjects."

A ventrue, to be precise, of long and thwarted ambition. Finding himself unable to move up the ranks in his clan, he exorcised his emotions by tormenting his kindred citizens. He was the oldest creature within the city limits, mostly because anyone with any better option got the hell out of Philly as soon as it was feasible. He'd only been there on the hunt, himself.

"Now, he was a kindred of particular tastes, and one night he happened to spy a young man that suited them perfectly. I don't suppose I need to bore you with the details - suffice it to say, the young man enraptured him totally. To the point where he began to neglect his iron control of his subjects. It shouldn't come as a surprise to learn that the young man soon approached a particularly vocal enemy of the standing prince, claiming to represent a party external to the city. This party wanted to see the current Prince overthrown and replaced by someone more amenable to certain business interests that the Prince had rejected in quite insulting terms. Our mark was happy to agree."

He pauses here to take his cards, leaving them face-down for the moment.

"So the night came. Everything was ready; the young man had proved an extraordinary liasion, and the way was clear to violently seize power and dispose of the hated Prince. Except someone hadn't done their due diligence. The coup goes off without a hitch, and our mark is about to take the throne - when his backer arrives, unexpectedly, and puts him to death for participating in an illegal action against a sitting Prince. Kindred justice, or what passes for it in some quarters."

Now he checks his cards. Off to decent start, this time. If the river is kind.

"And, of course, the backer then allocated the throne to a favored underling, and things have been going quite smoothly in Philadelphia - for now. I've heard word, however, that the mark had a loyal childe with a brain in their head who escaped Philadelphia that night, so perhaps things may heat up again."

Edited 2020-10-10 05:40 (UTC)

And Dan doesn't pry when Beckett throws up that polite boundary, firstly because Dan really has very little interest in the intricacies of politics and factions - blame his upbringing - and secondly because he's already learning quite a lot about Beckett.

He's learning that Beckett respects subterfuge and manipulation, that he has an affinity for a sense of just desserts (at least when the unfortunate soul includes carelessness as one of their crimes), and can find a spectator's pleasure is bloodshed. The latter two are ones that Dan doesn't find appealing, but that won't matter until they're on missions together; for now, they're just enjoying a friendly cared game, and Beckett's great conversation.

"Well, I'm glad to hear Philly's the city of brotherly love again." He takes another drink; by now, with as much of the bottle is missing, the fact that he's not visibly impaired is not a testament to sobriety but to an extremely high tolerance. "And that the person deposed won't be spoiling the place for everyone else. I don't know how the politicking don't make you crazy. If I had to keep track of ancient feuds and business interests and alliances, I'd blow my brains out."

He checks his hand: a two and a seven, mismatched. The worst pair of cards a gambler can pull; you can't make a straight with them, you can't shoot for a flush, and you have to pray on getting some very mediocre pairs.

He's been playing conservatively so far, but hell, fuck it. A two and a seven is a challenge. He puts in a sugar packet.

Beckett laughs, surprisingly rich and warm.

"Unfortunately, there's no escaping it in my line of work. Every lead I follow and discovery I make turns out to be tied into someone's old grudge or ancient feud. The perils of effective immortality, I suppose."

Which is really putting it mildly, but what does Dan really need to know about the jyhad's invisible strings, and how tightly they cut into the skin?

The sugar packet has him raising an eyebrow, but he doesn't hesitate to meet it.

"Two out of three would have me feeling lucky, too," is all he says.

"You know, I'm finding that more and more in my line, too. I miss the days when I'd just go out, track down a mimic or a ghoul, solve the problem some way or another, then up and move to the next town. Nowadays it seems like everything's infighting with the magicians and instead of helping people it's about salvaging magical artifacts or neutralizing alchemy experiments gone wrong. The shine's really wearing off. Maybe all careers go this way after a few years."

Dan, too, is keeping his secrets. The shine wore off when his partner, his "little sister", the person who got him into monster hunting in the first place, died to save him on a mission gone pear-shaped. Ever since then, hunting has been an increasingly joyless and unsatisfying grind. But he doesn't want to talk about that to Beckett or to anyone else.

"Well, I don't want to count on Lady Luck too much. You know she don't like to be kept." Next card in the river is not a two or a seven. Dan's path to a partway decent hand gets all the narrower.

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im............. alive.................

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