lets be james bond

[Dave Strider]

Sometimes, even the clearest directions from the future looked downright stupid in the past. Dave had just given himself a prime example, sprayed onto the Strider Base’s wall in cherry-red paint. He gave his past selves a location (the Midnight Crew Casino), a time (three days in advance, to take place that evening), and a list of numbers (Roulette table 3, blacks, reds, and even a green), and yet he forgot a vital detail: the why.

Which left the receiving Dave standing outside with a forged fortune-cookie slip bearing a list of assuredly lucky numbers (with a few alterations for believability) and absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do with the evening. At another Dave’s suggestion, he’d started out early, and even after he’d picked a suit (the snazzy plush-red suit), tied his bow-tie, shined his shoes, and worked out a car-pool with a couple other Daves, he still had a good hour before the numbers rolled in.

And yet, he thought, striding into the casino with a Strider flair, spare time at a casino never hurt. With an hour, he could hit the bar, explore the grounds, maybe snatch a couple hands of Blackjack before taking a seat at table 3. Honestly, he just hoped that whatever he was (would be? Already had in the future?) setting up worked out, whether it had to do with the money or not.

But for now, the present moment, he set his sights on the bar. Dim lights, scarlet glow, rows and rows of multicolored bottles making a stained-glass collage on the back wall…Credit to the crew: they had a nice bar. The room’s tables were mostly full, but half the bar counter was open, so Dave took a stool, stared from behind his shades at the bartender just long enough to creep the poor fellow out, then ordered a Vesper (perfect ironic reference) and sat back while the bartender did his job. He could only hope his life mimicked Bond’s in both drinks and women.

[Spades Slick]

The Midnight Crew Casino was the center lounge for criminals throughout Alternia. From petty thieves to full blown bank robbers everyone knew about the place, and were able to go in as they pleased if they had the money. Of course the word was out enough that even law enforcements knew of it, but getting close to there was more difficult then it sounded- Going down the wrong allies could get you in a lot of trouble if you were part of law enforcement. Depending on the fighting skills the wandering do-gooder was mugged, or the lawbreaker was knocked out and turned in. The later was much less frequent. So, people tended to stay out of the shadowy, narrow streets.

There was more than just arriving at the Casino, though. Nobody in the right mind would enter if they didn't belong- everyone knew the Midnight Crew themselves owned and supervised the place, and no one messes with Spades Slick, or anyone else associated with him for that matter, unless incredibly experienced in combat or just incredibly stupid. Either way you have a high chance of getting beaten to a pulp or killed.

Usually Slick stayed in the back. He was the type of person who wanted to be left the fuck alone, but Slick was in more of a good mood today, so out he came. As he walked past, a fistfight at one of the tables stopped abruptly from a mere distasteful glance put their way. "Wreck my furniture and you pay for it, dumbass," he added, annoyance creeping into his voice. They went back to playing cards. Usually when Droog's around in the front everyone grows half a brain and keeps in line. He had to take care of some business though, and so Slick's stuck with a room of idiots.

He took a seat at the bar, leaving a couple stools in between himself and the other figures. The bartender gave a tall guy in some shades his drink, and then approached a bit cautiously. "The usual," The BT turned to the endless array of bottles, pouring some whiskey into a glass and delivering it. Slick sipped his drink, glancing at the kid sitting to his right. He seemed familiar, somehow, though Slick couldn't put his finger on it. He definably didn't come to the MC Casino often. Or maybe he did, but Slick was in the back. He decided that he really didn't care, and took another taste of the alcohol.

[Dave Strider]

Dave didn’t frequent the MC Casino, but he knew enough to know that the owner, Spades Slick, was shady in appearance and action, and the borderline pants-crapping fear of the bartender gave a better hint. He couldn’t be sure, but Dave had a feeling that if the shadow-guy wasn’t the real Slick Shady, he was someone on that level.

On any other trip, Dave might have let it well enough alone. And yet his mind kept straying to the roulette numbers. He hadn’t given himself a reason, but it might not be just money. Sometimes he had to time-travel just to fulfill a requirement on something that had happened before. Maybe to get to the bar and meet this guy for something important in the future, he’d had to leave himself a message, and in order to make sure he’d follow the message, he added the numbers to make him think it was for money. Or maybe it was for a meeting and money.

Or maybe he was being a goddamn moron and overthinking everything, and even now his future self was (would be?) pulling a facepalm x2 combo at the amount of unrestrained idiocy his past self indulged in.

Either way, if there was one thing time-travel taught you, it was to go with the flow and trust that you, being yourself, would follow your instincts and get to the future right. Dave watched the suspected-Slick, picking out the guy’s order through the constant clatter and chatter of the Casino. “The usual.” Another clue. It was like fucking Blues Clues up in there. Dave tapped a finger against his own glass, debating whether or not he wanted to say anything. It could be trouble, it could turn into a brawl, he could lose any chance at testing out his lucky numbers…

Ah, what the hell. His gut told him to investigate, and he’d investigate. He wasn’t getting out of his seat, though. Suspicious crap like that ruined everything. Instead, he took a nonchalant sip of his drink, turned his head just enough to get that ‘I see you, but should I care?’ look, and spoke. “A usual, huh?” he asked. “You a regular or do you just scare people till they remember your order?”

[Spades Slick]

The guy to the right seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of something as he tapped his glasses' lenses thoughtfully. His face was unreadable. After a small silence he spoke up, giving Slick a sort of sideways glance, like he was sort of noticing Slick, but not really.

Slick looked back at the kid flatly. He obviously didn't know who he was dealing with. Usually he would have pulled out a knife and said a really horrible one liner, but he didn't feel like it. Slick considered his options- he could either humor the kid or tell him to shut up and mind his own business. But, like said before, he was in a good mood. Slick decided to mess with him a bit.

"Both," He replied, going back to his drink, "a friend of mine owns the place," Technically he didn't lie, the rest of the Midnight Crew did own the Casino as much as he did himself. Slick just happened to be around more. He sipped the whiskey, pool tables cracking the cueball across the felt lining. "Haven't seen you around here, though," He added.

[Dave Strider]

Well, suspected-Slick had a hell of a poker face, that was for sure. He looked somewhere between impassive and mildly irritated. It seemed like something suitable for Slick.

Dave added another point for the ‘He’s Spades Slick’ side, but according to this fellow, his friend owned the place. Either he was some sort of body-double for the real Slick and they’d done a real good job on the fake-arm and eyepatch, or he was lying. Point for both sides on that one.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t guess it from my stunning poker face, but I don’t gamble much,” Dave said, allowing himself a twinge of a smirk. “I’ve got a fortune-cookie’s lucky numbers, a friend’s recommendation, and my own amazing skills. I figure I can gamble the evening away.” He tapped a finger at the base of his glass. Maybe he oughta ask for a name before suspect-Slick went from mildly-irritated to downright silent. If he got anything out of the conversation, he wanted it to be a yes or no on Spades. It felt like the thing to look for. “Anyway, let’s get rid of some of the stranger danger. What’s your name?”

[Spades Slick]

Slick snorted a bit. Fortune cookies. Is that what gambling has gone to? He did admit the kid had a pretty good poker face, but it wouldn't do you any good without experience. He seemed relatively in sync with how things went in the Casino, though. "I wouldn't place my bets on printed numbers, kid," He replied. He took another swig. "Games like these are all luck and strategy. Mostly luck."

The guy tapped his glass pensively before speaking again, now asking for his name. Slick was pretty much sure this guy was not from around town, now. Otherwise he would've known it was Spades from the very start- He had a freaking robotic arm and impaled eye. Slick thought out his strategy. He could continue to play the guy like he was a fucking piano or give him his real name. Heh, truth, yeah right. "Jack Noir." Saying his old name left a bad taste in his mouth. Those days were long gone, and generally sucked. Noir was gone. With the city he made a new identity.

[Dave Strider]

“So gambling is about luck, but lucky numbers are useless? Hell, maybe I should borrow a four-leaf-clover and flip a coin to make choices. That’s obviously completely different.” Dave rolled his eyes, more for his own amusement since sunglasses and dim lighting hid his eyes. Two points for the Spades Slick side, one for the derogatory ‘kid’ nickname, and one for being an uppity prick about gambling technique, high-and-mighty behavior suiting of a casino-owner. Maybe the latter deserved two points…Hell, by now it could earn three. Dave was pretty sure this was Spades Slick, and if not, then he was at least a double, someone to take the real Slick’s place on the rounds.

And then, the moment of truth (in a figurative, dramatic, ironic way; he’d bet 50-50 on the guy lying). Suspect-Slick tapped his glass, considered his options (75-25 on lying; who had to think about their own name?), and then answered: “Jack Noir.”

…Ninety-nine to one he was lying. Noir? Seriously? Where did he think he was, a badly-made murder movie? Dave stifled a chuckle, rolling his eyes behind his shades. Definitely not a body-double then; more likely this was the real Slick. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to play along. “Okay, Jack,” he said. “Name’s David Brody.” Dave kept himself from the same mistake of over-contemplation by sharing his own name, an alias for an alias, right away. “So, anyone ever told you you’re the spitting image of Spades Slick? Or is it just ‘Dress like your Casino-Owning Friend’ day?”

[Spades Slick]

Slick pinched where the bridge of his nose would be, a bit of annoyance. The guy certainly was a smartass. It made his blood boil a bit. He really must not come here often. "I meant the luck of the game itself. Not clovers and that shit. You can't control luck, you can only hope that you're lucky."

The kid thought he was lying about his name, not that it changed anything. It was predictable that he would lie in a response, though, which kind of worked out. He didn't really want many people knowing it anyway. "David, huh?" He sipped his drink. Someone was hooting loudly at roulette table number three. Slick growled something under his breath.

David's last comment set a wide sharp toothed smile came to Slick's face. It held malice and mocking, but was a smile nonetheless. "Heh. I was starting to think you were from out of town or just incredibly dimwitted. Took you long enough," he snorted distastefully. "Pretty boring alias if you ask me, though."

[Dave Strider]

Slick looked dangerously close to a facepalm, so Dave gave himself a mental pat on the back. Good job. Best sarcasm. “I’ve got luck,” Dave assured him. “I have luck set down. Luck is so down it hits the center of the world and then I’m on fire.” Luck became easier to control once you had time-travel. So easy it wasn’t fun.

Dave didn’t like the way ‘Jack’ said his name, almost like he doubted it. Like it mattered. The first name matched, so Dave wasn’t likely to miss it, and he’d lived with Bro long enough to react to “Brody.”

The cheering caught his attention, though. Dave turned to pick out the leaping and screaming from the crowd. Much to his amusement, the excitement centered around the shining spire of roulette wheel number three. If his future-self’s directions had anything to say about it, that wouldn’t be the last celebration at that table. To be safe, he took a look at his watch. Still time, still time.

And then came Slick’s shark-grin, triangle teeth lined up with the tattered entrails of a true smile dangling between the peaks. Dave grimaced. “Oh, sorry, next time I’ll just ruin the surprise right away. I’ll walk up and gasp and ask ‘Oh my god are you Spades Slick?’” Dave added the perfect fangirl-ish tone to his voice, clapping his hands on his cheeks for good measure. As quickly as he’d put the charade up, he melted it down, dropping his hands to encircle his glass and leaving nothing on his face but a faint smirk. “But you’re right. Jack Noir is a boring name. You gotta work on it, bro.”

[Spades Slick]

Slick eyed him warily. He seemed uncannily confident about luck. In fact, he had the whole time. Now that the thundering roulette table had been brought to his attention, fortune cookie numbers could be used there. It was a bit odd that he mentioned a friend's approval, too. Suspicions were rising. David's attention went to the roulette table, an amused look coming to his face. He looked to his watch. Slick would be sure to keep an eye on him. Well, he only had one eye, but that's not the point. The guy seemed pretty bright, but dimension warping methods were still hard to come by. The Felt were the only people who had a plentiful supply of time devices, and that's only because they're associated with Lord English. Still, it wasn't impossible.

God, that was annoying. The type of voice that made someone want to stab themselves and puke blood. He sounded like a little girl who just saw Egbertman. He made a mental note to put EM on his hit list. Man, that thing was getting long. "You're lucky you didn't. I would have stabbed you on the spot." He hissed with loathing. He ran a claw down his glass, carving slowly into it. "I was referring to /your/ pseudo name, 'David.' But I suppose Jack Noir is cliché for a Casino owner."

[Dave Strider]

“Oh, really? I’m lucky I didn’t?” Dave asked. “What a shock. I’d never thought I would have luck, where’d you get that idea?” He rolled his eyes and finished off the last of his drink, quickly signaling the bartender for another of the same. Truth be told, Dave knew he was lucky. Huge swords weren’t good concealed weapons, and for the sake of getting into the casino scot-free, he’d opted for a hidden dagger instead. Not the most powerful, especially considering most of the building probably had a gun or a knife of their own stashed on their person, but he had a feeling his future self wouldn’t send him to a casino just to get shanked to death.

The barman dropped another drink in front of Dave and snatched the other glass before scuttling away. Dave wrapped his fingers around the glass and pulled it closer, but didn’t lift it to drink yet. Instead, he turned back to Slick, tilting his head in disingenuous confusion. “David’s my real name,” he said. “You’re just being paranoid. People call me Dave, sure, but that’s the same thing. You gotta relax. That’s why your pseudonym’s so awkward. It’d be like if I’d walked up and said I was James fucking Bond and I owned the Casino Royale.”

Slick caught him checking the time, but Dave shrugged it off. “I always got somewhere to be. Cool guys like me are always busy, it’s luck alone I found the time to be here.” To emphasize his cool-guy stature, Dave nudged his shades into place. “I gotta meet some more friends to ride around town, spend the night under neon lights. How ‘bout you? I imagine you’ve got some swanky casino business going on, like a boss or something, right?”