Contemporary AU, more Gatsby than gameverse - plays fast and loose with details that don't fit into my worldbuilding. Either a possible precursor to canon or merrily divergent, depending on your sense of the game's era and how many spoilers you prefer to hang over everyone's heads.

Trinity had been traveling long enough to properly savor the Wembley that the chauffeur had suggested when settling her in for the ride, then for her excitement to ebb into a calm anticipation that she relished just as well as that sweet slow burn of liquor. Her heart kicked up at a sharp turn onto the gravel crunch of a private road, even before the chauffeur spoke for the first time in a good half hour.

"Ms. Carrington? We are about to arrive."

Trinity opened the box on the soft leather seat beside her. It had been left on her front stoop, unsignaled by knock or doorbell as if its very presence would alert her to such - which it admittedly had when her cane tapped it en route to the converted barn that housed her sculpting studio. The parcel was covered in smooth paper unmarred by postage or labelling, tied in a wide silk ribbon without any tag or other such form of address. Trinity thought it might have been mailed to the village postmaster by some odd sort with a fancy for posh surprises, some spendthrift seeking to jump her commission queue with a gift of gewgaws. Or perhaps it was a prank, which only served to deepen its intrigue.

The box was indeed intriguing, but not at all in jest, despite the joker within the hand of playing cards etched on its lid. It contained another sort of card with a lacy carved overlay that opened in the center, an enticing pair of doors. The Braille text inside was framed in swirls of filigree.

You are warmly invited to a masquerade ball
At the one and the only - The Sexy Brutale

Trinity smiled as she wrapped her tongue around this name yet again. It was truly singular, luscious as velvet and sensual in its brashness. The estate house and casino of one Lucas Bondes, a gambling man who had demanded a bloody lot of Carrara marble in exchange for a far greater sum of money. Three years' toil, and then some, as his whims strung onto each other like carnival beads. Perhaps this invite was an apology more so than a bonus.

Indulge in our treasures, succumb to your vice
Our pleasures are naughty, but also quite nice

If she had not known otherwise, Trinity might think she were being invited to another sort of private club featuring pleasures of the flesh and pain beyond the emptying of one's purse. Or that she might not wish to accept this invitation at all, given the quirks of some of her clients. Such as that nutter who had commissioned the seven princes of hell, Beelzebub and Belphegor and that whole lot, for his private chapel - never mind the irony of such an opulent Lucifer and Mammon condemning their respective sins of pride and greed. Said irony had financed a jaunt across the pond for a good long week of relaxation and a touch tour of art at the Smithsonian - and had served as a referral to Lucas, who seemed to take some pride in befriending such nutters - so Trinity took it with in stride with a smirk of appreciation.

Arrangements were made, transport will arrive
On the ninth of September, promptly at five

And that had been it. No card for a response, no address or phone number or means of electronic communication. No question of whether she were available and interested to attend, only the implication that she would - an arrogance whose extravagant surety made it all the more tempting. Trinity thought she might receive train tickets, some other such itinerary. Instead this hired car had picked her up as stated for a direct and personal ride to the tumbling mouthful of a Suffolk village whose lord of the manor had built his home, hundreds of years ago, on the land where the Brutale now stood.

Trinity lifted her mask from its protective cloud of tissue paper. She fit it easily to her face with tactile appreciation for the delicate silk wings, the handsomely carved thorax, the pert pair of antennae. Fabric covered the holes, painted with the raised outline of its own pair of eyes. Perhaps this butterfly motif had been equally considered for her - a part she was to play, graceful and flitting and exploratory. Trinity supposed her sculptor's hands would suffice for grace. And she did love to wander - first to the chagrin of her parents, and now throughout the countryside, guiding herself home via stone paths and hedgerows and the sound of traffic along the lane.

Trinity had commissioned a gown just as bespoke from the Norwich dressmaker who handled her alterations. Something sumptuous and daring and bold, some salacity that would knock the jaws off the pompous rot with whom she was forced to socialize to keep her spendy contacts. Thus here she sat in the sleek embrace of satin, low on her chest and slit high to her hips - in fishnets and feathered gloves and a collar to match. Her hair, just trimmed and conditioned with hot oil, spilled below her waist in a silken waterfall. Trinity was cocooned in luxury, wings folded and waiting to soar.

Tires stopped on the gravel, doors opened and closed, idling engines rumbled back to life and moved on. Distant music filtered in, the lush meandering of smooth jazz. The car halted, and a valet opened Trinity's door. She took her cane, took a breath, and took the hand up and out.

"Ms. Trinity Carrington! Welcome, welcome, to The Sexy Brutale. What a joy it is to host you at last." Lucas Bondes kissed Trinity's hand, taken with permission, with genteel lips and the slightest tap that must have been the nose of his mask. "And what an honor for you to have accepted my humble invitation."

As a client, Lucas was a man of mystery. He requested ideas in vague and figurative form, refusing photos of Trinity's preliminary clay models so the result would remain a surprise - even though it would be one flipping expensive surprise after carved in full scale. This carnival ringmaster act was somehow expected, yet still stunning, every bit as humble - which was to say, not - as his invitation. Trinity smiled as words came back to her, as if Lucas were that much of a charmer, or perhaps even a hypnotist. Or both.

"With a poem like that, how could I refuse?"

"Some do, if you'll believe it. If only they had the smallest clue of the delights they were missing out on."

"Well, I'm more than happy to find out for them."

"You're a brave one, my dear, and just as exquisite as your artwork." Lucas offered an elbow to guide Trinity over the threshold. They stepped out of the evening chill into the warm embrace of murmurs and echoes and laughter, of perfume mingling with the ghosts of cigars. "As your statues grace these halls, so shall you as well."

Trinity had stock answers for every brand of polite flattery and an imagined parent over each shoulder reminding her to be modest and gracious, especially toward those with connections that might benefit her in the future. Against the sinuous bombast of Lucas' voice, that whole lot rang silly and false. Lucas kept worse company closer at hand. What would he do - turn around and ship her right back home?

"Do you whip those sorts of lines out for everyone, or am I just special?"

Lucas laughed. "I might say something similar to my goldsmith if he wore such a gown so well."

"Have you ever asked him to try one on for size?"

"That would be an extraordinary size. He doesn't exactly share your figure."

"I'd think my dressmaker could draw up a design to fit him. If nothing else, she'd see it as a challenge."

"Now that would be quite the bonus for his next commission."

Stone gave way to plush carpet, muffling the click of cane and heels. Up ahead was a thrilling syncopation of dinging bells, dice shaken and tossed, the burring spin of a ball. Trinity had placed her share of bets in smoky dens of wood and leather, her escape from vapid chatter in the frothy sort of parlor that would implode at the merest thought of flatulence. Men tended to underestimate her enough when they were sober. As the brandy flowed, they became downright stupid. An actual casino might not afford such opportunity. But it would be all polish and verve instead of creased cards and threadbare upholstery and a lethargic roulette wheel whose ball was literally dropped on the regular by whichever drunk happened to be running it.

"Was this the plan?" Trinity teased. "Take me right to the the tables and take all my money?"

"Not necessarily. You could take all of my money instead."

"That's unlikely to say the least."

"Yet not at all impossible. But really, though - if I did intend to fleece you, I would have first taken you to the bar. Poison your wits and loosen those purse strings and all."

Trinity's aperitif had long since worn off, and her mouth felt distractingly tasteless. "You know, I could use a drink."

"That can easily be arranged. So, what's your game? A spin of the slots? A rousing round of poker?"

"Fluttering about until I decide where to land." Trinity indicated her cane. "Or until I bump into something of interest."

"An adventurer and a comedian. You'll do very well for yourself here." Lucas chuckled. "Shall I set you free to spread those wings?"

"If you don't mind."

"Believe me, it is a pleasure."

Trinity released Lucas' arm and leaned idly on her cane, pondering her options as the sounds of the casino organized themselves by distance and direction. The zip and rattle of the roulette wheel began to call to her. It felt right, a natural followup to her remark about landing wherever - letting go and letting fly, and the chips to fall as they would.

Trinity moved into an open spot at the roulette table rail as the croupier called out for the others to make room. A passing waiter offered a drink on the house, a unique and potent specialty. She tried to make sense of the strange cocktail - Spider's Kiss, as it was named - and thought to start small with odds just below even. A modest cash outlay, a short stack of chips. A bet on red to hopefully boot her into the black.

Black won. Trinity placed her next chips to follow. The ball dropped red. Trinity went to even. The wheel took its time, drawing out the drama. After an age and a half during which Trinity thought she identified the tastes of cranberries and peppercorn, the ball bounced home. Zero.

To hell with the long game of being lucky to come out ahead. To hell with the whims of this bastard wheel, one step ahead of Trinity and waggling a fifty-pound note at her on a string around the next corner. With a grandiose declaration, she placed all her chips on good old unlucky thirteen. A two-finger salute to go bust with a bang - or revel in the irony of her fortune turning on this dime.

Thirty-six to one did as expected. Trinity asked for directions to the card room, torn between the strategy of poker and the simplicity of blackjack, which did have its optional challenges and commensurate rewards. A hand in her luck either way, perhaps some competition as well - and plenty more casino to explore if those odds failed her once again.

Trinity took a slow tour around the tables, sipping a Blood and Bone - which thankfully tasted of neither, or at least her vague idea of such repugnance. A sharp flutter of cards jolted her with a surprising thrill. She turned toward this precise and upbeat rhythm with a curious tilt of her chin, wondering if the croupier were showing off audibly for her to enjoy as well.

"Madame Butterfly! Would you like to join us? This seat won't be open for long."

That warm, gentle hand of a voice drew Trinity right onto a plush velvet stool neatly described to her. She bought a larger stack of chips this time, parking her cane and drink as the croupier paused to switch over to Braille decks.

"Should I know you? I'm not sure we've met."

"We haven't." Trinity smiled, and a sashay crept into her words. "This is my first time."

"At blackjack, or this establishment?"

So polite. So professional. Rather disappointing. "I've played a hand or two, just not here."

"Welcome to the club. If you excuse my being a joker, you'll enjoy yourself in spades."

Trinity raised a brow, hidden though it was. "I'm not sure if I should laugh or groan."

"Whichever you like, no offense taken either way. Do you need a refresher on the rules?"

"They're simple, are they not? Twenty-one is good - more than that, not so much."

"You can also split your pairs or double. Shall I explain?"

Trinity felt herself crossing that line between cheekily downplaying her skills and an outright guise of naivete. She had a twinge of guilt, as this fellow seemed upright enough, but the fun of her act was starting to grow legs. "I'll just stick with the basics for now."

"Sounds fine for a start." Amusement crept into the croupier's voice. "Your takeaway, then - don't hit too hard."

Trinity played her first few rounds cautiously, matching the croupier's own rules with that exact advice. Hit up to seventeen. Stay on anything above. He narrated the proceedings, punctuated with more fancy shuffling - a waterfall of cards, a whispered spread across the baize. His banter was smart yet casual, sometimes so corny that Trinity laughed despite herself, and with only the slightest poke of fun at a bad hand. Too wary of being rude, perhaps, but she began to find that endearing.

Trinity sipped her drink, reminding herself to slow down and keep her wits about her. "Come to think of it, perhaps you should know me."

"How so?"

"There are a few marble statues around here with my name on them."

A long pause. "Carrington? That's some incredible work. Rather disturbing at times, but that's Lucas for you. This place is his bazaar of the bizarre."

"Disturbing was just what he asked for. So thank you, and right on." She reached out across the table. "Trinity Carrington, to be precise."

"Redd Rockridge." His broad, firm hand nearly swallowed hers. He shook with just enough strength to respect whatever she might give back, and what seemed to be much more in reserve. "Sorry if I seemed a tad shocked just now."

"That I'm blind?"

"That Lucas wasn't lying about your - condition. If it makes for a good story, he'll stretch the truth until it snaps."

"I'm surprised you aren't accusing me of lying about my work."

"I might be a skeptic, but I'm also a pianist. I don't look at my hands. It's all muscle memory, sometimes a bit of touch to keep my bearings. I imagine you feel your way around as well."

"Oh, that I do."

Redd ignored Trinity's tone - still professional to such a fault, or perhaps simply oblivious - and cashed out the chips of the player departing to her left. A low grumble came from over her shoulder, followed by the slam of a drink on the railing and irregular creaks of the stool as its occupant, reeking of cheap tobacco, made a pompous show of settling in.

"Mr. Cobb." Redd sounded a touch weary. "Welcome back."

"Take a leak, lose your seat, is that right? Should I have pissed on the table instead?"

"You shouldn't have fallen in. You had ten minutes. It's been an hour. You know the rules."

"Rules, schmules. If fair was fair around here, I'd own that seat by now. My name in gold plate."

"Put your request in writing." The sarcasm dripped. "I'll be glad to pass it upstream."

Perhaps this Mr. Cobb went well back with the Brutale, perhaps much further than Redd. Perhaps Lucas owed him certain favors. Or perhaps he simply lost enough money to be worth the irritation of keeping the cash flowing. Regardless, Trinity recognized him as just another breed of the standard lout entrenched in every social circle she was privy to, a tumor that could never be excised. The only recourse was to tolerate him - ideally at his expense.

Redd seemed to relax throughout the subsequent rounds. As he dealt another, his voice took a sudden edge. "Eyes on your cards, Mr. Cobb."

A low mutter, only just audible. Like she'll even notice. And like she's good for anything else.

When her jack was paired with an eight, Trinity hid a smile. Her left hand raised her drink for a lengthy swig. With equal panache, her right waved for another card. If this twit wanted a show, she was eager to oblige.

Redd failed to conceal a note of surprise. "Are you certain?"

"I've played it too safe. It's time I switch up my strategy." Trinity inflated her next words with drama. "And so I dare these cards to defy me."

"You're hitting like my brother, then. That's more than a bit painful."

"For me, or for you?"

Redd flipped a third card well over the edge. With an airy shrug, Trinity put in more chips for the next round.

Just as she had hoped for, another grumble. Daft little bird, can't even count. Then a slap on the rail - and a touch of satisfaction in Redd's announcement of the card - as Mr. Cobb hit too high himself.

A thrill crawled up Trinity's spine at the unwitting prescience of those words. She had first counted cards on a lark, amusing herself as her table mates prattled on with the cheap sort of bawdiness that lacked any actual spice. She ended up winning back the price of the dress she had bought for that party. Further research had taught her systems beyond her offhand tally, even good across multiple decks, but the effort seemed wasted on tosspots who forgot their own hands more often than not. Here she saw a new challenge. A chance to give this wanker what for, though she knew the entire point was to not get caught - which, of course, was all part of the fun. She would however be pulling one over on Redd, who had done nothing wrong apart from possibly being too nice. But he was the house, and the house usually won.

When the decks were shuffled back for the next round, a mental ball began to spin. Even or odd. Heaven or hell. Play nice with Redd - or go for a tweak of Cobb's knob.

Well, Lucas had hinted that she might win big.

Clay plucked yet another sheet of the morning newspaper long since read through twice over, some bit about the Berney Brograve he had only just learned was an actual person rather than playground ghost story bollocks. He wadded it up, firmly and deliberately, like the collar of some tosser out to sneak himself a handful of chips or wallet or sequined arse and thus earning a hard fast trip outside for his efforts. There should have been some such foolishness by now, this far into a night where free booze poured like rain over a handpicked hodgepodge of the barmy toffs and dodgy sorts Lucas pegged as interesting enough to fill a guest list. Instead Clay was building a paper ball pyramid in the dull grey light of his monitor bank. He wanted to be a guest of the masquerade for once instead of squirreled away back here in his hidey hole until he had to go knock some heads together. He wanted to play a round or three, maybe to have a good poke at the worst of Redd's puns. He really wanted a drink, though he bloody well knew how much trouble that was on the job. If only some actual trouble came up - at least that would be interesting.

But this night hadn't all been a trip to the library, though Redd would have given Clay an elbow for putting it in those terms. There were the masks, custom to their wearers rather than the bog standard sort that casino guests could borrow for a slice of that Carnivale fun. And the fancy dress - except for Redd, whose idea of formality was adding a cravat to those sweater vests he had been wearing since he went away to uni while Clay was fighting his way up through the bareknuckle brackets.

And then there was that woman strolling about, all long limbs and supple curves and tight black satin flashing glimpses of stocking lace. When she walked in on Lucas' arm, Clay wrote her off as his latest conquest. Redd said he talked like a punch to the mouth, and his face bore the rifts from the same he had taken in the ring - like any of that would hold up against a marquis who could charm the knickers off a nun. Then Clay saw that her mask had no eyes, her cane was feeling out the floor, and she was off on her own at first chance.

Five of Spades poked his head in, a staffer in one of those playing card masks crossing anonymity with a way to call for one's particular attention. He turned toward the stack of paper. "Never knew you were an architect."

"I am now. Better that than a chair warmer, huh?"

"Somebody's got to hold it down."

"I guess so. I'm not holding down much of anything else right now."

"A bit of a shite night, isn't it? I've got that sort of problem. Floating around with no work to pick up for me to look busy." Five of Spades shrugged. "Unless you happen to be sitting on something."

Clay nudged his arm rest. "You're looking right at it."

"You know, that's not a bad idea. Want to pop off to the loo? I'll park myself in here, keep an eye out. Build you a Hadrian's Wall to keep out the - whoever's going after your pyramid."

Clay wanted to pop off to something else, and he bit his tongue hard enough to derail that train of thought. That was no way to think about a woman he hadn't even met, and who looked to be having a nice chat with Redd anyhow. Not that Redd ever took any of his admirers back to their flat - or even for drinks, as far as Clay could tell - but he would be the last man to roadblock his own brother when it finally happened. He still wanted to talk to her, no harm in a friendly hello - with that confident way she moved, maybe his voice wouldn't scare her off after all. But what would he say? I've seen you around - on my security monitors. Creepy.

"I'll buzz you if there's a problem." Five of Spades settled in as Clay took a moment to stretch. "What am I looking out for, exactly?"

"The usual. Grabby fingers, rough arguments, blokes swapping cards under the table. You'll know it when you see it." Still with an eye on that satin sylph, Clay took a sudden and much closer look. "Unless you won't."

Redd had reached up and tapped a curved horn of his ram mask. He took pride in handling himself - subtly and diplomatically, as he said - rather than calling in Clay, who he nicknamed the nuclear option. The bulk of his towering shoulders scared off most offenses before they started, never mind that he hated to lay a rough hand on anyone. But his table was stuck with a certain smelly prat who kept popping back up on the guest list like a mole to be whacked. Mr. Cobb wasn't the worst of the high rollers Lucas put up with for their loose and oft emptied wallets, but he was a reliable pain in the arse who acted like the house should be wiping his own with its collective tongue. At least Mr. Cobb had kept his trousers on this time, in contrast to an occasion when Clay had thrown both him and said garment into a lavatory for reassembly. Maybe he had found some other way to break the generous limits of Redd's patience.

Or maybe not, as Clay counted Redd's raised fingers. The piss artist wasn't the problem. Rather, she sat to his right.

Ms. Mystery.

"Hold the fort. I'm going in."

"Nineteen high. Trinity wins again." Redd slid her the payout with a note of wonder. "I've never put stock in beginner's luck, but this streak is giving me second thoughts."

"Or you're giving her all the good cards." Mr. Cobb rifled out a wad of bills. "Looking to get lucky yourself?"

"I'm looking to start the next round in about ten seconds. Buy in now, or stay behind."

"'Stay behind', says the man dumping rubbish on me all night. Whose fault is that now?" An abrupt stacking of chips. "Joke's on you, boyo. I'm about to catch up."

Trinity rode even higher on this latest outburst of hot air, which Mr. Cobb had long since given up on keeping under his breath. Redd was dealing two decks, which made her think a bit harder, but she had been staying on the count and fortunate enough to turn a profit. Though perhaps too much too quickly, as Redd's surprise seemed to verge on suspicion. The edge of this shuffle was turning toward the house, and so would the winds of fortune blow elsewhere.

"Well, best of luck to you, fine sir," Trinity proclaimed with equally strong doses of grandeur and insincerity. With a considered hand, she placed the minimum bet. "I just might be done pushing my own."

Redd's words began to take a wary edge. "Then wouldn't you rather cash out?"

"That would be sensible, now, wouldn't it?" Trinity feigned a long swallow of her drink - a Fang of the Viper, gin spiked with spices that lingered on her tongue and deceptively bloomed in her stomach. "But I'm in too deep now to pull out before I've finished."

Still so professional - and clearly not oblivious in that regard. "Carry on as you are, then."

Trinity lost that hand and the next, and she won the last by sheer accident for which she merrily credited her cocktail. She expected the proverbial angel on her shoulder to repeat Redd's words, to suggest she end on this convenient high note and quit while ahead. Instead she heard the twin whispers of her own Lucifer and Mammon, delighting in that she was still getting away with it - and there was much more to be won.

Redd shuffled back the decks in a brutally percussive flurry. His efficiency almost sounded annoyed, and Trinity wondered if this was more on her than her bloviating neighbor. She thought to just play, just like normal, allow herself a hand or three and then relax at the bar with her profits. But the numbers continued to stack in her head, and the small cards came early and often, and the count began to tilt hard and fast against the house.

One more round. That was all. Trinity ponied up half her chips to make it a meaningful end.

Seven and four made eleven, and the count of tens fit on one hand.

Trinity doubled down. Go bold and go out with a bang, however the fates chose to spin it. A big show to end this little charade.

Redd took a hit and reached twenty. The man to Trinity's right folded. When Trinity was dealt a queen, her dizzying cloud of euphoria nearly muted the tantrum of Mr. Cobb going bust yet again.

Redd gave congratulations on every round he lost, even to the likes of Mr. Cobb. This time, he was silent. A gravelly voice approached Trinity from behind, all business and machismo.

"Big winner, huh? Let's go get you all cashed out."