Book III: Casino Royale (VIII): Down The Rabbit Hole

  --- Gregory Fischer ---

  “So anything you can share while your boss eavesdrops on us?” He found himself asking as they made their way to whatever out of the way corner of the casino they were going to be using for this little clandestine meeting. “Or is he such a control freak that you can’t say two words without him getting mad?”

  Rabbit let out an almost amused huff as they slipped into the halls the staff used to get around unseen. “Eh, he’s a control freak but he’s probably the best at what he does.”

  “Which is why you choose to follow him… apprentice or recruit?” He had to wonder given the girl’s age and her clear expertise in explosions. (She’s a little too advanced to be self taught, but it says a lot whether her boss found a kid with talent and refined it or flat out turned her into a weapon maker.)

  “Little of column A, little of column B.” Rabbit eventually answered. “Had some… fun a few years back, the boss found me and taught me how to have fun without getting caught. Along with how to actually make money with it.” She leaned back with a grin as she covered her ear and whispered. “Between you and me, I think he was just getting too old to keep up with the tech side of things ya know?”

  (Meaning that she’s not just a bomb maker, and was recruited for her skill. A step up from the military at the very least.)

  “How about you?” Rabbit prodded. “How’d you get into the game?”

  “Military. Talent for magic moved me to a Practitioner’s unit. Was good at war.” (Scarily good…) “Lots of people willing to pay for that. Hated most of them, but found a… niche and boss I actually liked. And here we are.” He answered in a list of bullet point notes just vague enough to not tell them much of anything.

  “Oh, and what kind of boss do you like?” The young mercenary fished so obviously he couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

  “The kind that doesn’t micromanage in the field. More a Fixer than an actual boss.” He offered, knowing that could be taken as ‘likes his independence’ or ‘doesn’t follow orders well’ both of which were true, and both of which he felt he had in common with the kid in front of him. (Wonder if they can pick up the implication of it being an organization?)

  “So you’re a solo?” Rabbit frowned as she glanced back at him, apparently having missed that note.

  “Don’t worry, I can play well with others when I want to.” He assured the young woman, before drumming his fingers on his book. “As long as you don’t go for what I’m after, I’m sure we can reach some kind of accord.”

  Rabbit didn’t say anything else after that, either having found out what she wanted or realized he wasn’t just going to toss out anything more than vague answers and implications.

  Eventually though the explosives expert stopped in front of what looked like the entrance to a boiler room and told him, “In here.”

  Not at all worried -with a dash half-loaded in his head- he stepped into the room noting how cramped it was with the other three people already present and the fourth just behind him. (Wonder if they chose this room thinking a boiler would make me think twice about ‘blowing shit up with my mind’?)

  Given the facts that the boiler’s pressure was low and stable enough and the less convenient fact that he didn’t really have anything ‘explosive’ at the moment, he actually would not think twice about flooding the room in smoke and slamming a heat fist into someone’s face if it came down to a fight. (With the smoke they’d also be careful about drawing those guns of theirs.)

  Vague combat plan established, he actually took in the other three mercenaries in the room. The large grey haired man he recognized from outside, even if now that he was closer he could tell the man was probably in his fifties despite his muscles. The other two however he couldn’t be sure of because their attire was clearly more combat oriented or the animal masks on their faces.

  The male of the new pair was a muscular blonde man wearing a ram mask with swirled horns, yellow highlights, and rectangular pupils on the mask’s eyes. His gear, cargo pants, and an orange vest padded and armored. (So not stealth, color is probably meant to draw attention, melee specialist probably.)

  His eyes drifted to the more feminine of the pair, a long haired woman with a fox mask covered in red highlights and whiskers that matched her hair. (Which is a different length from Katarina’s.) What truly drew his attention to her however was the large rifle at her side, one that was clearly three different kinds of custom work. (Why use a revolver for the magazine?)

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Right, so… Rabbit,” He glanced at the violet haired woman behind him, before looking at the other two. “Ram, Fox, and…” He looked at the grey haired man curiously.

  “Owl.” The man answered in a clipped tone. “So Rabbit has apparently brought you here in pursuit of a collaboration between our groups.”

  “To be fair you’re the one who told her to bring me here.” He felt the need to point out, given how his wording screamed ‘I will throw my subordinate under the bus if this blows up’. (Something I’ve had more than enough of over the years…)

  Owl narrowed his eyes. “So let’s skip the misdirection and bullshit, and get to the point. You say you’re not here for the same thing as us, a Grimoire of some kind. Why should we help you get it?”

  “But misdirection and bullshit is so much fun.” He half-whined, both because it was his vice and this man was reminding him a little too much of some people he’d happily killed over the years. (Such as making it sound like I’m begging for his help.)

  He caught a smothered laugh from behind him, and upon seeing Owl’s eyes narrow at Rabbit cut in more seriously. “It’s less about you helping me get what I want, and more about me helping you get what you want. Now whether that’s the prize pool in general, the casino’s vault, or something you’ve specifically been contracted to acquire… well, we’ll need to exchange information for that regardless of what either of us wants.”

  Owl watched him for a moment before asking, “And how do I know you won’t exchange that information with Ace later?”

  “You don’t.” He shrugged, are of the way everyone around him tensed. “The only guarantee you have, is that if you’re a better way of getting what I want than him then I’ll help you and screw him over.” The fact that what he wanted was Stories, and that he was fairly certain he could easily get those from all parties involved… (Well, no need to point that out.)

  “But you’ll also do the opposite if he can help you more than us.” Fox noted from the side.

  “I will.” He admitted. “But well, that’s a gamble you’ll have to decide if you like or not.”

  Owl gave him a considering look. “If we were to work together what could you bring to the table?”

  “A decent amount of firepower.” He noted, igniting a flame on his thumb with a snap of his fingers before killing it and generating a small bit of smoke. “Truthfully though I’ve got a preference for handling things with a bit more subtlety if I can help myself. After all, burning bridges when you don’t have to is… foolish, don’t you agree?”

  From the twitch of the other man’s face he could tell that jab went through.

  “So what was your plan for getting a hold of your prize?” Owl asked him.

  (Conning all of you seems to be working for me.) “I’ve got a couple plans, for instance a co-worker of mine is working the ‘honorable’ angle of actually trying to win the tournament.” He told them with appropriate air quotes given their mutual professions.

  Owl’s eyes narrowed once more at the mention of a ‘co-worker’, an unspoken threat that Fischer wasn’t as alone as he initially implied.

  “Huh, we’ve got Oni working that angle for us.” Ram threw out there.

  “I’m sorry, Oni?” He found himself asking, because the translation spell the Library gave him was stuttering a bit with what that word meant. “I don’t think that fits the uh… theme?”

  “Wolf is an idiot…” Owl sighed, looking ten different kinds of done.

  “And a weeaboo.” Rabbit tacked on.

  (The fuck is a weeaboo?)

  He wasn’t sure why, but he was almost glad Maeve was the one biting that bullet.

  --- Maeve Roisin ---

  The tournament was going fairly well if she was allowed to say so herself.

  While it had taken her a moment to learn all of the local hands, the game itself was still similar enough to the ones that she knew that she could pick it up fairly easily. Not that anyone realized it with how well she was acting her way through this amateur hour.

  (How these people are ‘professional gamblers’ with their poor acting skills is beyond me.) She knew she had centuries of experience both on the stage and in the political court but really (this is just getting embarrassing.)

  She’d been hoping for something of a break with someone at least half competent by discussing things with Fischer in the fifteen minute break between tables, but hadn’t been able to find him anywhere she looked. Given how he was her senior in this profession, she wasn’t too worried about him disappearing, especially since she knew how to return to the Library on her own if it came down to it. (He’s probably off securing a Story of his own if this path fails.)

  The entire concept of ‘collecting Stories’ seemed a bit odd to her, given how easy it was to just gather gossip or a tall tale from any random passerby at the local tavern, (which means there must be another angle to it I’m missing.)

  She could only just barely keep track of the conversations she’d eavesdropped on between Fischer and Briar about the magicks the library employed, and even then most of it flew over her head given how little it had to do with the vampyric blood magicks Maeve was actually familiar with.

  Regardless though she’d continue to do her part and play these games, an admittedly far more relaxing work than anything she’d done since… he ruined the Carnival. (No, don’t think about it…)

  She shook her head as she took a seat at her second table, before taking in the competition around her. Most of whom were human but one or two of whom were very clearly something else. Some of which she even recognized from her many years, even if she couldn’t quite name their actual races in their native tongues.

  Not that any of that mattered as the cards were handed out, their various skills at acting and seeing through the performances of others being the true deciding factor of who would be winning this table.