Book III: Casino Royale (XII): Stories Of A Soldier And A Gambling Man

  --- Gregory Fischer ---

  Ace let out another amused huff as he began pouring a drink in a spare glass. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m a gambling man, huh? That said…” Ace slid the glass in front of him. “you first.”

  Fischer accepted the glass, but didn’t drink from it. Both because he had no idea what was actually in it, and the fact that he was more of a ‘smoker’ than a ‘drinker’. (I suppose that’ll be Maeve’s vice.)

  Twirling the glass in his hand he briefly considered telling Ace how he’d met the vampiric librarian, but decided against it given how it was as much her story as it was his. (So which of my stories should I share?)

  While not as much of a gambling man as the casino worker, he was willing to bet that whatever story he gave Ace would in turn decide the story that Ace gave him. (Meaning I need the story that would give me the most information about him and this Royale he works for…)

  The fact that he had a number of eavesdroppers barely factored into his thought process.

  “So, once upon a time there was a soldier.” He began with an almost sarcastic scoff. “One that had been chewed up and spat out by a system that ground all good soldiers down.” He did not mention how much of said system he’d burned down on his way out but instead said. “This soldier was good at… a few things that people were willing to pay a lot of money for.”

  More out of habit and instinct than anything else, his fingers pulled out a smoke and put it in his mouth. An almost reflexive act that left him wishing he could light up in here without worry of the antsy guards shooting him. (Not that that would work for them but… Job’s not done.)

  He almost appreciated the fact that Ace was remaining silent, waiting for him to continue the story. (Then again he’s probably in ‘work mode’ himself.)

  “Of course the work the soldier did was the kind of thing that he’d tried to leave behind when he got out. The kind of thing that leaves one covered in blood and surrounded by the ashes of the dead more often than not.” He sighed, glaring at the tip of his smoke and half wishing his Book hadn’t stripped him of the ability to set it aflame with just that. “As one would expect, the soldier hated that he was still… a soldier fighting wars he didn’t believe in for people he hated.”

  It’d been different in the beginning before… everything with his squad. (I was an asshole and a shit leader, yeah, but… I still cared. Still believed in what we were doing…)

  By the end the only thing he believed in was finishing the job.

  “Reluctance of course grows when you’re stuck doing a job you hate, but you still do it because you’ve got bills to pay and someone you still care about.” (If not for Toni…)

  He shook his head, hating whenever it went down that road. “Which is why when an oddly named organization sends you an offer, you don’t really care about what they call themselves. All you care about is the fact that they found you, knowing what you do, and are willing to pay you for it.”

  Was he breaking the narrative perspective of his story? (Yes.)

  Did he care? (Not really.)

  “Though, you probably should care about what kind of job they send you on, even if at this point you were willing to go wherever and burn whatever you were paid to.” (Barring the ones where you end up burning your employers because they asked you to kill some rival’s kid.)

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  He wasn’t sure if it still counted as a job when you didn’t get paid at the end. (Either way it was just more blood and ash at the end of the day…)

  “That said, drugging you on Madness and having you murder a younger version of yourself is not a normal job in my- the soldier’s experience.” He grimaced, remembering the mess with him nearly killing himself with the Book and then having to kill the burning monster he’d once been. “That’s literal by the way, not metaphorical.”

  (Then again, I suppose that entire ‘Story’ was a whole lot of thematic symbolism.) That was the only explanation he could come up for why he’d fought his younger self in the book set after killing his squad and going on his little rampage. Both of which were after he lost his arm.

  (Probably something about facing my past to face my future or some shit. That seems like the kind of thing Briar would enjoy.)

  “Surprisingly, reliving some of the worst moments of your life, and literally killing your personal demons is actually pretty therapeutic.” He confessed with a wry grin. “Enough so that you don’t immediately burn down the library responsible for putting you through all of it, and actually hear them out on what everything was about.”

  He went quiet there. Oh, he was sure that both Ace and the mercenary crew were all curious about just what everything had been about, but he wasn’t going to explain all of the high level eldritch magic he’d only half deciphered through his various conversations with Briar. (Especially not when I’m pretty sure she’s printing artificial Akashic Records.)

  Governments would go to war for just one of those, let alone if his theory was right. Both to own them and to keep anyone else from having one.

  “Alright, so they put you through ‘trauma therapy’ and you signed up with them? Just like that?” Ace asked with just a touch of disbelief.

  “It was very effective therapy.” He had to underline.

  “I’m sure it was.” Ace huffed with a shake of his head.

  “Alright, then if ‘trauma therapy’ wasn’t a good enough reason to sign up with someone, what reason would be good enough?” He pointedly asked, given how they were trading a story for a Story.

  “Hmm. Well, if we’re doing this, let’s go ahead and do it right.” The gambling man nodded before downing his entire glass. “Once upon a time there was a street rat. A smart street rat, or at least he liked to think so as he conned idiots who looked down on him because of his age. He made a lot of money for someone his age, almost none of it legally.”

  “Of course, making money this way also made a whole lot of enemies. The kind that didn’t care one way or another if they were working over a kid or an adult.” Whether consciously or not Ace’s thumb began to trace the scar over his eye. “As one would expect this didn’t exactly work out for the kid… Not that was enough to stop him. It just made him get even smarter.”

  Ace pulled out a casino chip and started to flip it across his knuckles. “The kind of smarts that can make someone very dangerous when they put it to use. Let him pull even bigger jobs than he’d ever risked before so that he could make those motherfuckers pay.” With a grin he caught the chip in a fist and squeezed it.

  “Though doing that kind of thing will get you a whole lot of attention.” Ace chuckled with a shake of his head. “The kind that gets you a meeting with some equally dangerous people. People who like people who are smart enough to survive whatever the world throws at them and still keep pushing their luck.”

  He narrowed his eyes when Ace trailed off, something very clearly missing from his Story. “You joined to push your luck?”

  “Well, I mean there was also money, power, booze, women, all of which were fun for a time.” Ace admitted, refilling his glass once more.

  “Fun for a time?” Fischer repeated.

  “Eh, once you’re on top of the game and the deck is so stacked in your favor that you can’t lose? What’s the point of playing the game any longer?” Ace asked him.

  “The love of it?” He suggested, despite knowing that sometimes people just went through the motions because that was what was familiar. (Love has nothing to do with it.)

  “And when the game loses the thing you love?” Ace shook his head, before leaning back in his seat. “That’s when you start letting yourself get sloppy just for the chance of bringing back the magic.”

  “Even if it might kill you?” He couldn’t help but frown.

  “Well that just means the game is finally fair.” Ace grinned, a touch of madness to it.