maskormenacelogs | Only at first did it have its appeal // OTA

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Only at first did it have its appeal // OTA

WHO: Kaz Brekker

roughworkdone and you!
WHERE: Maurtia Falls
WHEN: Through February
WHAT: getting back to life post CNC2020
WARNINGS: violence, Kaz warnings

I. Statues and empires are all at your hands

A. Kaz spends time in and out of the casinos and gambling dens all over Maurtia Falls. An accomplished card sharp and experienced in controlling decks and keeping track of the shuffle and deal, he wins and takes money off the house. Kaz doesn't play games he knows he won't win. When he's done enough damage, he intends to offer his services to the floor bosses: they can either hire him or he can keep making the house look bad.

He also finds back room games. These are mostly to collect funds, but also to learn what kind of off-the-books games are being run throughout the city. No matter where he plays, Kaz Brekker allows himself to be memorable: he wears his gloves at the casino tables, though now and then he'll take them off for the back room games when he needs to manipulate cards with more precision. The crow-head cane that accompanies him is also hard to forget.

But he doesn't want to be forgotten. He want floor bosses to know that their place is about to lose money when he walks in.

B. It's not, strictly, a legal game. Someone has hired Kaz to run it, though. His hands are bare as he shuffles and deals; he can control a deck just fine with his gloves on, but they make people suspicious. Kaz Brekker's hands are pale and clever, quick and deft. There's scar tissue across the knuckles on one hand, but otherwise they are unmarked.

The aim of the game is for the house to win, ultimately. Kaz intends to make sure that happens, one way or another. Even skilled card players will find themselves losing hands and losing money.

Someone accuses Kaz of cheating somehow as he completes a shuffle for a new game.

"You're welcome to leave if you have a problem with how I run a game," he says placidly. "Or we can take this outside after the rest of the table is finished."

II. Water to wine and the finest of sands

A. The damp weather is putting Kaz in a foul mood. He leans into his cane as he heads down the street, collar turned up against the aggressive mist that can't quite settle on being rain or fog. The city is more like Ketterdam now than when he arrived; familiarity breeds contempt. The weather doesn't keep him from making his rounds: checking in with the brothels, a handful of street dealers, bouncers at the gambling dens. Kaz pays for his information and he pays well. Once his morning business is concluded, Kaz goes to the cafe he likes. He wants to be warm and dry for a while since it is, technically, his day off.

He settles at a table with a cup of black coffee and whatever pastry was recommended to him. He misses the familiar smells of his Ketterdam haunts, but to get that he'd have to sit in one of the diners, and he wants something more quiet. He checks his phone, getting used to it and already finding it a liability. He has one or two others - burners - that he can just get rid of as necessary. Only legitimate business on this one. And Kavinsky. But he's fairly certain Kavinsky would be getting in touch with him regardless of their business arrangements.

It's enough to make him want to throw his device into the canal. As it is, he tosses it down onto the table with mild annoyance.

When a shadow falls over his table, Kaz looks up and lifts a dark brow.

"What business?"

B. On a sunny day, Kaz finds himself a bench in the park where he can sit and soak it up. His cane leans against the bench beside him, always close at hand. For a while he just sits, apparently content to be warm and still.

He catches a clumsy flutter from the corner of his eye and turns his head to see a fledgling crow hopping toward him.

"Go away, beggar."

The crow just looks at him, expectant and waiting. Kaz rolls his eyes and draws a small plastic bag out of his coat. He produces a peeled hard-boiled egg and holds it up. The fledgling watches it. They seem to be in a small stand off until the awkward-looking crow manages to flutter onto the bench. Kaz offers the egg as its reward.

"Keep this up and you'll be fat and slow. Perfect cat bait."

III. Oh you'll no longer fear when your heart's turned to gold [cw: violence]

Blood fills his mouth; he can't tell if he's bitten his tongue or cut his lip. Kaz doesn't remember how the fight began. It's entirely possible that he started it. It doesn't matter. He ducks to dodge the next punch and slams his fist up beneath someone's sternum.

Even outnumbered, Kaz is a vicious fighter. No vulnerability is spared and his own pain simply becomes background noise. Any touch of skin to skin doesn't last long enough to set off his telepathy and Kaz revels in the freedom of it. His elbow slams into someone's neck; his head crashes forward to break a nose. There's no finesse to what he does, only the will to survive - to win - and the utter glee of unfettered violence.

Whatever started it, Kaz ends it. As the other boys - men? - stumble away, Kaz leans into a wall to catch his breath. His teeth are red with blood and he can't stop grinning.

IV. Who can you trust?

[Find Kaz anywhere in Maurtia Falls; he could have business in other cities if that works for you. Combine prompts, make up your own. If you want to plot something PM or ping me at givemedragons]

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Luxord, of course, hadn't bothered to take his gloves off. But he doesn't have the deck in hand so it's not like he can so easily cheat as the other man does. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have his own ways of foiling it. In fact, Luxord is the only one at the table maintaining roughly the same degree of funds that he had upon his entry into the game. But he does look a bit annoyed over the way the game is going. Of course he isn't truly annoyed. He does not have the ability to be so.

"The rest of the table will be finished soon," Luxord dismisses. "At that point I might be amused to play with a deck of cards that are not in your hands. Perhaps someone here will deal and you will put your own money on the line, if you are going to suggest that you are truly doing nothing to ensure that the House has greater advantage than it would normally possess?"

"If you'd like," Kaz answers, placid despite the sharp look he gives the man making the suggestion. It doesn't matter if he's dealt the cards or not: this is what he does. But his challenger can find that out the hard way if that's what it takes. Putting his own money on the line isn't going to dissuade him.

Other players start folding before long. Kaz makes sure one of them loses a big hand, though he doesn't react beyond a somewhat sympathetic look. That's the risk with gambling. He keeps a weather eye on his challenger through the rest of the game, trying to pick up on how he's manipulating the cards. He has to be.

Eventually, the rest of the players fold.

"And the gentleman wins," he says blithely. "We need a neutral party to deal."

How interesting. Luxord absolutely has kept himself mostly head above the water. He does smile at Kaz as he awaits a dealer. Strangely, it seems like they are retaining some of the other players as an audience, no issue there. Still, Luxord is quite interested by this turn of events and, when someone does step up to deal, Luxord waves him back from the deck Kaz is already handling.

"Tell me, sir, would you allow a changing of the deck. Yes, I expect you would refuse to play with mine, but I cannot be entirely certain that you haven't tampered with the cards."

Though he doubts it. Luxord would have seen that by now, would he not?

"Naturally. Is there anything to assure me that none of these people are plants?" he asks as he sets his deck down and takes one of the chairs. He sets a pair of thin leather gloves on the table. Keeping his hands bare for a game won't hurt anything.

"Or am I to take it on good faith?"

"No, there is not. Nor is there anything to assume that one of those gentlemen here are not working in association with yourself. There is no value to faith in this situation. No... This is more of... a gamble."

But he smiles.

"However, I am more than willing to allow the risk of you selecting our dealer, if you will allow me to select the deck of cards, from unopened packs."

"Mm," he hums his agreement to the terms. He scans the room and eventually chooses one of the players - a regular, Kaz knows him fairly well and he would know if the man had any ties to someone like this. At least he fucking hopes he would.

Kaz watches his opponent more than he watches the deck, though he keeps track of the shuffle and the deal after the cards are picked. It doesn't really matter who the dealer is or where the cards came from. Kaz doesn't bet with his own money and he doesn't play games he can't win.

"Who do I have the good fortune to play against?"

See, for Luxord half of the fun is to play against people who might, maybe, win. Still he is smiling, but the look does not reach his eyes as he accepts his cards to consider them, very pensive.

"Whether the fortune is good or not, or even in fact yours, is one left to question. It will yet be determined. I, though, am called Luxord."

The turns of phrase makes him roll his eyes. Cute.

"Kaz Brekker." He examines his cards, absently adjusting their order in his hand. "Are we just playing for money?"

They're playing for more than that and Kaz knows it. Luxord wants to know something or he wouldn't have called Kaz out, wouldn't have made the challenge.

Oh, they are playing for so much more. They're playing for honor here, and because of cheating. He considers Kaz and sets aside half of his chips. The other he puts back into his pocket.

"We play for this," Luxord answered. But truly, he's playing to prove things for himself. That he was not being less than skillful in his play. No, his thought was that the other man was manipulating things. And a man like Luxord hardly appreciates being played like that.

Manipulating games is what Kaz does. Even if the deck isn't in his control, he can keep track of the shuffle. Luxord is a good player, his face doesn't give away much at all, but that doesn't matter.

The game continues and Kaz looks for any small tell, tracks the way he passes cards and looks for any hint of foul play.

Whether he wins or loses tonight makes no difference to Kaz. He just wants to learn how Luxord plays the game. And he's willing to lose a few hands to do it - so he does.

The best part of being a Nobody is the absolute lack of emotional responses. He only has what he chooses to feign. Which means a masterful poker face. But for now, he isn't cheating. They aren't his cards, he can't control them nearly so deeply as he'd want, even if he wasn't dealing. So he just plays, makes careful moves, and focuses on that.

He too is willing to lose a few hands, mostly to try and draw some sort of responses from Kaz. And, after nearly twenty minutes of play he offers a smile.

"You truly are talented. Though the cards seem to be flowing a bit more... naturally without you as dealer."

Fett isn’t one for gambling. For some, perhaps it’s just a job, another way of making money through guile and luck. But for others, it is an addiction, and that is enough for Fett to hold the ‘profession’ in low esteem.

But sometimes, gamblers have money—and often, they have enemies.

This particular enemy had been described to him as a local, a young man who distinguishes himself with gloves and a cane topped with a bird’s-head ornament. He had also been described to Fett as a cheat and one who the client would pay good money to have run out of town—or worse, depending on his level of cooperation or lack thereof.

Fett had been given a gambling chip to track him by. He now holds it in a bare hand, the only part of him not encased in armor, as he follows the trail.

As it turns out, his target has more enemies than just his client. Once Fett is close enough, it’s simply a matter of using his jetpack to boost onto a nearby roof and follow the sounds of the altercation to its source.

It appears his target is outnumbered. It also appears that he isn’t deterred by this fact. Fett considers ending things before they begin, but then, he supposes it wouldn't interfere with his job if the target was roughed up some before he got there. Besides, Fett enjoys fights—especially uneven ones.

The target fights like a brute, all savage, opportunistic force. There is no attempt at defense, just a relentless barrage of blows in an unbroken chain. And yet, his ‘technique,’ if it can be called that, is undoubtedly effective against his amateur opponents. The man knows he’s winning too, if those flashes of grinning teeth are anything to go by. Fett watches unseen from above, absorbed by the spectacle.

By the time it’s over, the target emerges victorious—barely, by Fett’s evaluation. Though his opponents are now stumbling away, the man has done plenty of damage to himself and failed to prevent much more. But now that the fight is over, Fett’s job begins.

When Kaz leans back against the wall, he’ll have an instant to register a blaster leveled at him from the opposite rooftop, and avoid a stun bolt aimed dead at his chest.

Kaz flings himself to the side to avoid whatever the hell was just fired at him. He scowls and draws a gun from a hidden holster to fire back: it's a simple pistol, but he's never had a problem with the efficacy of bullets.

Heart pounding and adrenaline up, he ducks behind a dumpster and tries to keep an eye on whoever the hell is shooting at him.

"Hey!" he yells, voice rough like stone on stone. "What business, asshole?"

Well, there's no reason he can't attempt a conversation with his would-be assassin.

Fett sees that reach for a holster and steps back from the ledge just in time to dodge a projectile. The target uses an old-fashioned slugthrower like most of the natives here—at this distance, it wouldn’t even dent Fett’s armor. When he looks again, the target is shouting up at him from behind a dumpster.

“Delivering a message,” Fett calls back, lifting his left arm towards the target with his wrist bent downwards. There’s a click and hiss as something detaches from his gauntlet and shoots through the air—a concussion rocket, aimed at the base of the dumpster. On impact, there’s a shriek of metal as the entire dumpster is flung to the side by the blast, exposing the target behind.

Fett fires off another volley of bolts, aiming to stun the man long enough to close the distance between them. After all, this message is the kind best delivered personally.

"You could deliver it to my face like we're civilized individuals!" says the boy who is bleeding from his mouth and nose, whose knuckles and ribs are bruised from a brutal fight.

Then the dumpster goes flying. Kaz ducks down to avoid being hit. What the fuck was that? He doesn't have time to react to avoid the full volley. In a desperate bid to find more cover, one of them hits Kaz and he goes down with a grunt.

For a second, all he can hear is his own heartbeat.

He shoves up onto his forearms, apparently intent on dragging himself to cover if he has to.

The second the target falls, Fett is already moving, jumping down into the alley with just enough power from his jetpack to soften his landing. When Fett’s boots hit the ground, the young man is still struggling to drag himself away, too stubborn to realize that he’s already lost.

The next thing the target will feel is a strong grip closing around his wrist and twisting violently to force him to drop his weapon. His whole arm is then wrenched back and pinned against his spine, held in place by an armored knee. The muzzle of a blaster, still warm, is pressed against the back of his neck.

“Stop struggling.” The words are focused, almost to the point of calm. “No one’s paying me to kill you.”

Which doesn’t mean he won’t—only that he’d prefer not to at his current rate.

Kaz will never stop struggling. However, he has the sense to stop fighting for a minute once his arm is wrenched behind his back.

"Again," he rasps, "we could have had a far more civilized conversation if all you had to do is deliver a message."

Especially if no one is planning to have him murdered.

"Or is it your policy to make things as undignified as possible?"

“Clarity is my policy.”

And clarity means demonstrating potential consequences of not taking the message seriously. The blaster held to the target’s neck is one such consequence.

“I’m told you have a gambling problem,” Fett continues, impassive. There’s a muted click as he drops something next to the target’s head: a gambling chip, emblazoned with the name of a familiar casino around the center. “Cheating problem, too.”

Fett believes it. The target seems to have earned the ire of more than just his client—either he’s a cheat or he’s cursed with tragically good luck.

“I’d suggest a new hobby.” He taps the chip with a gloved finger. “But the client says never seeing you in the area again will suffice.”

[lmk if this is ok, I can edit if not!]

Kaz laughs when he feels the still-warm barrel against his neck. His gaze lands on the chip and a smirk ticks his mouth.

"Unless your employer is offering me a job, you can tell them I don't take orders. And unless they're paying me to relocate, I'm not moving."

One hand behind his back, but the other is free. Like lightening, Kaz has a knife in his hand. The clap of thunder that follows is the way it jams into whatever soft part might be closest to him - foot, side, whatever. Even if all he does is make a hole in armor, this messenger will know what he's made of.

Refusing Fett’s generosity is already is a stupid move. Swinging a knife at his side while he has a blaster to the man's neck, even more so. The blade catches in the sturdy fabric of the flight-suit, preventing it from penetrating far, but still manages to draw blood.

Fett doesn’t give the target a chance to try and free the knife for another swing. He fires a stun-bolt directly into the man’s neck.

The target goes limp immediately. Fett keeps a blaster on him anyway, taking a moment to search him for any other hold-out weapons within reach. Only then does he step away, free hand going to where the knife had punctured his flight-suit. The wound underneath is shallow, but Fett is irritated all the same. He should’ve pinned the other arm or checked for blades earlier. This is what he gets for trusting in the rationality of gamblers.

He turns his attention quickly back to the unconscious form at his feet. An angry red burn is already forming on the man’s neck. Fett can’t say he pities him for it. Unceremoniously, he uses an armored boot to roll the target over, stepping back for a moment to survey the damage done to him in more detail. In reality, Fett hadn’t done very much at all. The blood and bruises marking his body are all the aftermath of a fight that had ended before Fett had even arrived.

Fool, Fett thinks. The man could’ve walked away from this encounter with nothing more than the injuries he’d already earned. But instead, he’d chosen to antagonize a far better-armed opponent and now would face far more unpleasant consequences.

Fett reaches for a pouch at his side and draws out a length of fibercord to bind the man before he wakes. Maybe he’ll test the effectiveness of dangling him off a building or two. That tends to be a good fallback for targets with high pain thresholds, like this one seems to possess.

But as Fett prepares to bind the man’s wrists, something stops him—a glimmer against skin. A sudden sense of misgiving runs through him. He crouches down, turning the man’s hand over for a better look. It’s difficult to see fully in the light, but when Fett shades the skin with a hand above, that faint outline becomes clearer: a tattoo marking the man as another imPort.

Fett’s eyes narrow under his visor. This is… trouble. Immortality had not been a factor he’d ever had to consider in his own galaxy, which is why he’d made his policy clear to the client: he doesn’t take hits on imPorts. Which means, either the client hadn’t done the necessary research—or he’d knowingly lied. Either option is unacceptable.

Fett puts away the fibercord, staring balefully at the body before him for a moment longer. There will have to be repercussions for this, of course. Making a clear example is the only way to ensure such a mistake doesn’t occur in the future. But right now, he has a more immediate problem to deal with...

When Kaz awakens, he’ll find himself alone, propped up against an air conditioning unit on a rooftop. A quick glance at his surroundings will find an accessible fire escape with which to descend the building—and at his side, two objects: his knife, lying flat, and the poker chip, resting under the tip of the blade. Further inspection of the chip will reveal a single word written on its varnished surface:

Apologies.

When Kaz wakes, he's angry.

And on a goddamn rooftop. Without his cane.

Damnit.

As he regains sensation in his fingers and toes, he looks around for the would-be messenger. He's pretty sure he's alone up here, though, that's when he notices the knife and chip. He eases forward to pick up both. The knife disappears, but he reads the brief sentiment on the chip. A smirk ticks his mouth.

Well, someone is going to be sorry as soon as Kaz is through with them. He just needs of the walking dead man that sold his fucking name to bruiser.

With a quiet grunt, Kaz gets to his feet and limps to the edge of the roof to look down. He can see the flash of the crow head down in the alley still, he just has to get back down there. He's not accustomed to traveling through shadows on purpose yet, so it looks like he'll be taking the long way down.

The great thing about a city like this is that there are all kinds of people in it. Better yet, the great thing about living in a city like this one, with all those different people all around him, is that his life gets made really, really easy without having to do any legwork. In some ways, he's finding that Maurtia Falls isn't all that dissimilar to the slums of Midgar. Maybe even the not-so-slummy parts, too. But the fact that it isn't Midgar means he has to watch his step, because smart as he is, he doesn't know all the ins and outs yet. What the smart moves are to make. And the types of people, diverse though they are, aren't identical.

So Reno spends a lot of time just watching. Patience is a beautiful, blessed skill and gift that he wasn't actually really born with, but when the situation demands it, he manages. Taking very little action and simply standing in the right place at the right time to catch pieces of conversations, to witness surreptitious transactions taking place, learning details and committing them to memory, that's how you start to get a foothold. He's already starting to recognize familiar faces who seem to be up to the same kind of antics he normally would be, if he were feeling more confident in his surroundings. Truth be told, that confidence is born strictly from a lack of backup.

He's just not used to being totally on his own. Never has been before.

But it's not like he's scared. Just waiting. Being patient. It's easy to find friends if you know where to look. And find one he begins to suspect he does. It's over the course of some time that Reno observes Kaz, making damn good and sure to stay out of sight of the guy every time. He can tell just by watching that he's not the sort that'll take lightly to being stalked, and it's not like he can blame him; if he caught someone watching him, he'd probably try to kill them, too. Reno sees and hears enough to feel good about approaching him, after awhile, but the setting is everything and that means, unfortunately, more stalking.

The diner's a good place. Never mind the, uh, unfortunate mood his target seems to be in. He can work with that. In spite of all the many unfortunate qualities he possesses, he's also disarmingly friendly when he needs to be, and it's that sort of attitude he has when he walks right up to Kaz's table. He'd planned on saying something else, but— he just smiles wanly, eyebrows raised. "Couldn't help noticing you look as sick of that thing as I am."

It doesn't take Kaz long to figure out he's being tailed. He doesn't change anything, but he does start to pay attention. Even Inej, the Wraith, couldn't hide from Kaz once he learned how to spot her. He is surprised that his stalker decides to make themselves known in the diner.

It's the red hair. He's seen it before. It's a difficult feature to forget. Kaz's poker face, however, is impressive and he continues staring as the person smiles at him.

"A necessary annoyance. I'll ask again: what business?"

It's a risky play either way, but he'd like to think he knows how to tell a good gamble from a bad one. He's not bothered by the cold welcome—in fact he finds it kind of a relief. Not to mention more than a little familiar, being leered at while he smiles like an idiot. Sort of. The expression may be out of place, but there's nothing about the features of his face or the way he wears them, even while smiling, that says stupid and unaware. He knows exactly what he's doing. He can't get the calculating look out of his eyes. It's there permanently.

"Got an offer for you. I was hoping we could make these necessary annoyances a little less annoying."

He looks at this new face hard. After a long moment, he nods to the seat across from him.

"Sit."

Kaz shifts to make himself comfortable again and lets his phone rest on the table. The boy is calculating, possibly plotting, and he isn't going to forget that, especially as the conversation turns toward a job.

"Don't dance around with me, I have a bad leg. Spit it out or go away."

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Only at first did it have its appeal // OTA

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lmk if this is okay!

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