diamonds will always look like stones; ( open )

[solitaire]

Date & Time: vaguely this week
Location: around the city and hold
Characters: remy lebeau & open;
Summary: a week in the life. many options, pick one and let's roll.
Warnings: tba

( a ) When you live dangerously, there is often a price to pay. He's been spending off nights exploring every inch of the city, from the tunnels to the ruins to the inhabited places. Sometimes, those escapades end in fights, sometimes he acquires injuries incidentally. He's been shot, by a fellow Transport, more than once. Such is his life, and he's used to it.

But he's far from stupid. He knows he has to take care of himself, if only to the slimmest extent. That means that tonight, just before night gives way to morning, he's shuffling around in the Transport Clinic. He doesn't want actual care, doesn't want anyone to see him. He's just taking what he needs, and then he'll be on his way. He rummages around for bandages, blood seeping through a not-yet-healed wound on his leg. He bites down on his lower lip, drops a bottle of something and winces as it clatters to the ground and it rolls away. Damn.

( b ) Some nights are better. Those are the nights he spends at his favorite tavern in the crumbling city, sitting at a back table and playing cards. He's taught the locals some of his games, learned many of their own in return. He laughs, they all drink, and the natives are blissfully unaware that he's slowly sucking them dry. He doesn't keep the money for himself, however, and really has no use for it anyway. Those coins find themselves in the pockets of those who need it most, going back into the establishments he frequents and the hands of children on the street.

Tonight the laughter is loud and the drinks are ordered readily. Remy's always up for a game, or a talk, with a fellow Transport, and if he sees one enter the tavern he'll wave them over with a hand still holding half the deck.

( c ) He doesn't like spending time around the Hold, truth be told. It's too militaristic, for his tastes, and when he can get away from that imagery it still tastes like a prison. But he can only get away with existing in the city alone for so long, and eventually during the day he circles back to the Transports' assigned quarters. He doesn't care much for the training rooms, either, but he can appreciate their functionality. So this afternoon, he slips into one of the less occupied rooms and gets to work. He keeps his skills sharp in various ways--boxing, sparring, target practice. He's not wearing his coat, keeps reaching up to brush his auburn hair off his forehead. After awhile, a comfortable layer of sweat on his brow and melting ache between his shoulders, he pulls out his deck of cards.

He shuffles once, twice, and then a third time. Each time, one card appears on top--the Queen of Hearts, the weapon he'd chosen for himself here. He hasn't done much with her, yet, not wanting to risk the consequences of her disappearing entirely if she blew up.

Today, he's bored, and idle. He flicks the card up between his index and middle fingers, examines it slowly. It flares, briefly, with the signature pink light of his powers. Experimentally, he tosses the card towards the nearest wall. He expects it to burst, bounce back. What he doesn't expect is for a deafening boom to sound, taking out the majority of the wall.

And, amongst the rubble? The Queen of Hearts, still in-tact.

( d ) And, if none of the above suit your fancy? This fellow can be found in all manner of places at all manner of times: out on the rooftops, in the outlands, in various places in the city. He's never still, and trouble seems to follow him as a rule.

Comments

[thephix]

The eyes mark him out as another Transport, since most of the locals seem to be entirely unextraordinary, and would mark him out as someone with magic back home, but she knows that might not be how things work, wherever he comes from. Still, it could be useful.

"Hi," She smiles, though it's more the promise of a smile than a completed gesture, "Got room for one more?"

[solitaire]

"For a lady? Always." He says things like that, dramatic and over-the-top in their chivalry, as naturally as anything else. He nods to the table, lifts the deck to deal her in.

[thephix]

That not-really-there smile twists a little more, something wry in it, as she slides into an empty chair, giving a cursory greeting to the other players around the table (they don't really matter, it's pretty clear that Remy is the centre of attention). She sheds her jacket, hanging it over the back of her chair, leaving her in a slightly threadbare, but strategically low cut shirt.

"Does our dealer have a name?" There's a comment about flash and substance on the tip of her tongue, but she decides to save it for a more opportunte moment.

[solitaire]

He smiles, teeth jutting out past his lower lip slightly.

"Remy. Remy Lebeau." This time the dip of his head is more like a bow. The cards spin out to their proper positions, the players take up their hands.

[thephix]

"A pleasure, I'm sure," This is so much better than playing at being Wendy, letting some of her own sharpness creep in around the edges instead of pretending to be scared and useless. It's a sharpness softened right now by some humour, as though she could be interested in whatever he might be selling, he'll just have to work for it.

For a moment, it seems like she might not be planning to give her own name in return, more focused on her cards and taking a sip of her scotch, but when just enough time has passed she looks back at him, "Max."

[solitaire]

When she doesn't respond at first, he slots her into a certain category of woman: the ones who make you work for everything. That doesn't really deter him, though it does remind him of someone he met recently, back home. He has so many names he doesn't mind giving them out, but he understands it isn't always the same for others. So he doesn't mind that she hasn't reciprocated, until she does.

His smile gets a little wider. "Well then, Mam'selle Max, I hope you know how ta play. 'Cause we don't go slow."

[thephix]

"I'm a quick study," Blithe comment and accompanying smirk aside, she does actually seem to know what she's doing, "What are we playing for?"

Gambling isn't a particular vice of hers, but that doesn't mean she can't enjoy it from time to time, and it's an easy way to get a little extra cash. Simpler than stealing or dealing, at least, especially when she'd feel guilty about stealing from most of the Exiles. It'll be different when she knows more about the crime trade here, but until then - gambling it is.

[solitaire]

Remy indicates the pot with one hand. It's mostly coins, the kind native to Exsilium, but there's also some trinkets, a ring or two, and stones that look semi-precious. In order to keep the game interesting, he fills out the pot himself, but no one else needs to know that.

"Whatever y'like, actually," he says. "Our standards ain't too high."

[thephix]

"So there's no chance of me winning myself a Ferarri?" Apparently she has a sense of humour, though she does at least post, adding a small handful of coins to the pot.

She's not sure the Exiles will get the joke, but another Transport hopefully will, since it seems like a large percentage of them are from versions of Earth around the 20th and 21st Century.

[solitaire]

"If you can get me enough in debt, I might have ta steal you one on our next mission." He nods, solemnly. She can take that as she will, though it wouldn't be the first time he's stolen an expensive car. The collection back home attests to that.

They're playing simple Texas Hold 'Em, each player getting too cards and Remy controlling the river at the center of the table. As he reveals one card after another, more players fold or lay their heads in their hands dramatically.

[thephix]

That actually gets a genuine smile, because if there's one thing she likes, it's fast cars.

"Do I get decide what model?" Not that she's honestly expecting him to steal her one, but at least it's put the idea in her head that she could borrow one herself, when she goes on one of these missions of the Initiative's.

She has a half-decent hand, a pair of jacks, which might not be enough to win but if nothing else, she knows how to read people and how to bluff, so she keeps calling or raising as she sees fit, rather than folding.

[solitaire]

"An' color," he says, with a nod and a wink. He reveals the last card--Jack of Hearts--and looks around at the table, waiting for the players to reveal their hands.

[thephix]

"Anything but red will be fine," Since she has to be contrary, for absolutely no reason other than that she can be. The will rather than would is deliberate, suggesting that she's entirely confident he'll end up enough in debt to owe her a car.

She places her cards face up with only a tiny flourish, "Looks like a good start to my night," Since she seems to have beat out the pair of kings and the two pair of fives and eights.

[solitaire]

"Not a fan of the classics, chère?" Remy laughs.

He eyes her cards, winks, and pushes the pot in her direction. "Let's see if your luck lasts, shall we?"

[thephix]

"They should be red if they're being raced," Which could betray her as being a little more Italian than she generally lets on, but it can just as easily be explained by her being a racing fan.

It seems like an unconscious sort of gesture, the way she makes neat little stacks of all her coins, reminiscent of someone more used to playing in nicer places than this, "If it runs out, there's always skill."

It's why she prefers poker to most other types of gambling.

[solitaire]

"Bien sûr," he agrees. He's been to Monte Carlo often enough to appreciate races, though that's never specifically been his game. He gives her a quick look, but doesn't seem like he's assessing anything. Just considering.

"Skill is luck. Didn't y'know?"

[thephix]

"Is it?" There's an amused huff of laughter, as if she's surprised by this apparent revelation, raising an eyebrow at him, "I always figured luck came to anyone, but you have to work at skill."

She's still alive because she took the skills her father taught her and used them against him, against other people. It's not luck.

[solitaire]

Remy's always had a peculiar relationship with luck. He tried to pickpocket the most powerful man in New Orleans once, and he succeeded. But then, he was caught. But then... the man adopted him. Life with Jean-Luc Lebeau had always been like that, twists and turns so deep you couldn't tell whether you were fortunate or not. Lots of parts of his life had been like that.

"Luck's a lady. You always got ta work, with them."

[thephix]

"I think you might be a bit of a romantic, Monsieur Lebeau," It's not a question, when she's sure that's the impression he wants to give. (Whether it's true or not will take a little more effort to figure out, on her part). The accent, the French words peppered through his speech, certainly help with the getting that image across. It's also not really an agreement or disagreement with the statement.

There's another comment on her tongue, about working for ladies, but she decides against it, swallowing that particular bitterness down.

[solitaire]

"Oui. My father always did say that was my worst trait." He laughs like he's told a great joke, but it's actually true. Jean-Luc bemoaned, often and deeply, Remy's sentimental streak. The thief he might have made without it.

He pauses like he's waiting for her to continue, and when she doesn't he just shakes his head. "Y'need a little romance ta get you through war, anyway. Otherwise no one would go see the movies."

[thephix]

Her eyebrows go up at the laugh, smile twisting into something a little more wry, since it doesn't seem that funny, and she's sure she's missing some context, "Mine always said I was too clever for my own good."

A grin, almost conspiratorial, but the words feel like broken glass on her tongue.

"This war of ours doesn't feel particularly romantic," She's careful not to say too much, with Exiles around, since they prefer not to acknowledge the Transports amongst their midst.

[solitaire]

“Ain’t no such thing, as too clever.” He says, and dips his head in a reverent way. Wits had gotten him through far more than powers or skill ever had.

He tilts his head, tuts sadly. “All the reason ta make up a few more sentimental stories, I figure.”

[thephix]

"Until it gets you killed, of course," She says it with a smile, her expression very much c'est la vie, "Though I suppose not being clever enough can have the same result."

There's something seemingly genuine despite the light tone, as though it might actually be a concern, whether being smart or not smart enough might get her killed.

"Do you make up a lot of sentimental stories?" She sounds faintly scandalized, but it's obviously feigned, edged with amusement. What does she care, if he makes up stories?

[solitaire]

Remy nods, very solemnly. "I don't always make 'em up, myself. But I like hearin' them. An' sharin' them."

[thephix]

"I am quite fond of stories," Not sentimental ones, particularly, she tends to prefer ones that are a little bit less kind, but there's no need to share that.

Instead, she swirls the the last of her scotch around in her glass before knocking it back, then offers Remy a smile, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Most of the time she'd ask him if he wants to buy her a drink, but sometimes it's fun to shake things up.