To some, poker was a way of life; it was an art of survival in much the same way hunting had once been, back in the days when the world – and the Millennium Earl, for that matter – were still young. A way of earning cash fast without the need to input a great deal of physical effort, it was certainly a fail-safe, bread-winning occupation – if, that is to say, one had the necessary skills to make it so.
For the likes of Allen Walker this was most assuredly the case – or had been in the days of his youth, spent relentlessly paying off his Master's debts.
For others – people like the young Bookman, Lavi, for example, though the idea had yet – if ever – to occur to him, being that he was exceptionally poor at the game – it was an enjoyable way of ridding beautiful women (or men – female perverts were not so uncommon in this day and age) of their bothersome layers of clothing. Aleister Crowley for one, was among the many unfortunates who could attest to the game's penchant for dispossessing people of their garments.
But for Tyki Mikk of the illustrious Noah Clan, poker was neither of these things.
Certainly, he'd stripped many a handsome lady or foolish poor-man to their breeches and beyond in his time, and his skill with the cards had earned him plenty a pretty penny or two over the years; but to him such delights were merely a bonus.
He supposed – although to say so didn't quite do the concept justice – poker was a sort of summary of his 'White' self while Tease was it's counterpart, symbolising his 'Black' self. As a man who loved having his alter-egos, that would definitely explain his adoration for both cards and the carnivorous butterflies very nicely. The cards were his tools of entertainment as Tyki the miner and the Tease were his tools of entertainment as Tyki the Noah – and of course, the real fun was having them both.
But even as a physical embodiment of his life masquerading as an ordinary human... even this wasn't what defined the game for him.
"Something on your mind, Tyki-pon?"
At the sound of that hated nickname he paused in his shuffling, the deck – his favourite deck – coming to a standstill in his gloved hands.
"Not in particular," he answered his niece, speaking with the reserved politeness of a gentleman trying not to be rude.
She smirked an knowing smirk, telling him without words that she knew he was lying. But Road, for all her childish fronts, was a girl of great intellect and tact; she went back to her doll, twisting it this way and that like a surgeon using a model to find the best entry point, feigning disinterest.
Tyki knew better though. Road was still watching him, despite appearances, waiting for an opportunity to sound him out about his preoccupation again.
In the end he'd probably tell her. He always did, because she had that infuriating gift of persistence that had even seen him playing dolls, of all things, with her once upon a time. He only wondered – and briefly at that – if she'd be able to understand something so personal to him.
His love – though really 'love' was the wrong word to use to describe his fixation – of poker had started, probably, back when he first developed the stigmata on his forehead.
A young man in his early twenties, Tyki truly had been a mere miner in those days, working his days away in the pits deep in the heart of Portugal. And not just he; his elder brother and his old friends too – friends that he guessed were either long dead or pretty close to it by now. His memories of the time before he became Noah were fuzzy at best but he recalled, if nothing else, that those had been happy times for him.
When the wounds had suddenly split open in his flesh one clammy night, spraying blood all over his highly concerned brother, Sheryl, across the dinner table, Tyki – quite apart from being in sheer agony – had panicked. He'd known at the time what the stigmata was supposed to mean – that he was one of God's chosen ones – but he'd found it difficult to believe a lifelong atheist such as himself had been shown favour by a God he didn't even follow.
So, wrapping his constantly bleeding, incessantly aching head in clean bandages, Tyki had searched for answers. He found them, eventually, in the form of the Millennium Earl and little Road but not before he'd found poker.
It had been a particularly long and fruitless day of hunting – seeking a cure he might never find, one that he wasn't even sure existed – when he happened upon the little gathering on a street corner just south of the mines. Many of the men (women did not loiter in streets like these, where rape was a forgone conclusion rather than a remote possibility) were fellow miners and their excited cries and laughter had lured Tyki in.
They'd been gambling, playing a game they caller 'poker' and betting for money. The concept was new to Tyki – he'd only ever earned money in the mines – and after a quick breakdown of the rules, he'd joined in.
Tyki had lost every game that day. Every single one. But surprisingly, in those hours spent squatting in the filth of one of Portalegre's grimiest streets, he'd been able to forget the pain of the stigmata and actually enjoy himself. For that brief time his affliction – which hadn't, he would later learn, actually reached it's peak yet – was not so daunting.
He'd learned something during his introduction to poker too. Poker was not just a game; it was a fine art. The finest, in his opinion. Those who played fairly, following the rules and leaving it up to the cards were fools; the only way to play poker was to cheat. The true knack of the game was not getting caught.
As it turned out he wasn't the only one privy to poker's best kept secret. The cheating boy he'd met on the train while in his White form was very partaking of poker's golden commandment.
Tyki Mikk smiled at his remote recollections, pocketing his deck and readjusting the hat on his combed black hair. He stood and approached the Ark portal that would allow him to travel to the location of his next mission, musing that if he didn't hurry back to Eaze and the others soon he'd miss the miner's festival. He'd promised to return in time...
"What're you smiling at, Tyki?" Road quizzed slyly from the floor of the Earl's weird inter-dimensional home, casually tearing an arm off her doll.
"Nothing much," Tyki drawled, unspecific as usual.
"Liar. You always say that."
"Well you always ask stupid questions." he chuckled. Seeing the pouting frustration on her grey, typically Noah-like features, Tyki quickly pacified her with a small promise he may or may not keep. Frustration where Road was concerned could progress to murderous rage in nought to twenty – something Devitto and Jasdero found out anew each time they met her thanks to their natural gift of being exceptionally annoying. Tyki didn't feel like getting stuck with pointy, colourful candles today.
"Later, Road. I'll tell you later."
And he entered the Ark, bound for some human city somewhere. There was going to be a party there he did not want to miss.
As he stalked through the bright streets of the Ark, Tyki picked up his former train of thought about the meaning poker held for him.
No, he thought, opening a door on his left. Poker isn't just a game or a way of making money. Poker, for me, means sanity. Because like that first game in Portalegre, it helps me forget when forgetting's all I really want or need. And what more can a peon of the Earl really ask for?
And that, he supposed as he stepped through the door, was – above even the cheating – the true poker master's craft.
A weird little idea that came to me about Tyki and poker... obviously. Truth be told, Tyki's duality fascinates me so I really wanted to write a contemplative piece for him. And of course, there's a little Road too. Just 'cause she's so cute. :P
If you're gonna review me then I thank you in advance but DON'T, whatever you do, ask me to 'update soon' or say anything about updating at all, really. Quite apart from this story being 100% finished, it bugs me when people do that. If you're gonna say something, say something worth reading please – like your opinion for example. :D