Thieves, Malcolm Graves had always believed, should adhere to a certain set of rules. First: never trust anyone. Second: never get involved. And third: always work alone.
Unfortunately, he also had never been very good at following rules. Perhaps that was why he'd made a living breaking them. And after all, he'd never believed in anything like destiny either.
He was not a resolute sort of fellow.
Something had run through the air when that man had walked in. A chill, a spark- whatever it was, atmosphere in the bar had become heavy and thick. Graves looked up sideways from his drink. His hand immediately flicked to the trigger of the gun concealed under his cloak, the cool metal soothing. With a quick glance around, he noticed the other patrons were having similar thoughts.
Graves immediately decided he didn't want to get involved. The regulars of this particular tavern were no fools, and criminals all. For that reason, it was one place one could to for a fair game of cards. This man looked far from honest, his eyes darkened and hardly visible under the rim of his hat.
Ain't no one gonna take kindly to that. Graves thought as he sipped on his whiskey, the ice cubes clinking loudly in the dead silence. The newcomer made his way to a card table with a lazy swagger. "Deal me in, boss." He drawled.
The dealer eyed him critically, gave a snort, and began shuffling.
From the corner of his eye, Graves watched carefully as the man won, and then won again. He clicked his tongue. Whether it was blind luck, skill, or what he suspected was the truth… it made no difference to the brigands who were his opponents. Poor fool. He wasn't surprised when after a few too many rounds the whole table, the stranger included, went heavily out the back door into the alleyways.
There were a few crashes but no voices, and soon even those faded away.
Graves finished off the last drops of his eighth drink and patted his pockets for another coin, but found them woefully empty. His ears were slightly flushed, but he was just in the zone where he wasn't quite drunk but was almost miserable. He glanced back over to the table where the group had reseated themselves. Something told him that he wouldn't be able to get his alcohol money from them.
He sighed, turning to walk out. Something stopped him.
"Damned curiosity..." He muttered, and spun on his heel to slip out the back.
The alley looked empty when he poked his head out. For a moment he thought the stranger had run off. Smart move. As he started out to the main road, something soft making contact with his boot told him he was wrong.
There was the stranger, a bit scuffed up and covered in what looked like the contents of an upturned garbage bin. He grunted as Graves' foot made contact with his side. Last chance to leave this fella alone. Ya don't wanna get mixed up in this.
"Picked the wrong guys t' mess with." He found himself saying, holding out a hand for the other man to pull himself up. He merely shook his head, brushing some rotting food off his shoulders.
A moment of quiet passed between them, punctuated only by the stranger's slightly labored breathing. Graves turned to move, putting his hand back in his pocket.
"To whom do ah owe the pleasure?" The thin man coughed then, maintaining his composure even while nursing the scrapes on his face.
"Name's Graves. Malcolm."
"Wasn't askin' fer yer real name. Ain't nothin' dumber than an honest thief." The man snorted and closed his eyes in derision. "Or soon deader."
"Ya ain't seem much cleverer yerself. Don'tcha know what kinda establishment this is?"
"So ya were bein' honest. Must be damned lucky to live this long. Sure ain't yer smarts that're doin' ya any favors. "
Blood rushed to Graves' face in half shame, half annoyance at being insulted again- by a man who was down in the dirt no less.
Fool me twice, he thought bitterly. Pokerfacing had never been his strong suit; he'd always gotten his way by straight-up blind robbery.
When it came to card games and gambling, he'd lost far more than he'd care to admit. (Which, of course, he'd always recover later in the back alley.) Using force was less cowardly, he reasoned, pointedly ignoring his lack of ability to do otherwise.
He did know, however, when to shut up, which seemed something the other was lacking. He'd learned that an imposing silence could be more persuasive than a gun to the temple. In the meantime, he gave the man across from him once-over. He was tall and lanky, with an expression unreadable even with his eyes visible. There were traces of a beard along the edge of his thin jaw. Long hair shifting over his shoulders, the stranger only shrugged in response. Graves quickly decided he could easily take him in a fair fight.
Tightening his jaw, he stared the man straight in the eye with the best blank expression he could manage. "Ah just wanted t' prove ya could trust me. Fair's fair, what's yer name?"
The man raised an eyebrow at that. "Do fairness and trust getcha far in this town, cowboy?" Graves swore he could see a hint of amusement- maybe, probably further ridicule- in the edge of his thin lips. It was quickly gone as he leaned back against the wall and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. "... Ah'm Fate."
It was Graves' turn to snort. "Fate? Ya really think ah believe that?"
"Ain't any less believable than yer name. Graves."
He supposed that was fair.
"So, Mr. Graves," Fate continued with a level expression. "What can ah do ya for?"
Graves stopped. Truthfully, he didn't know himself. The man calling himself "Fate" had proved nothing besides having an undeserved sharp tongue. "Ya swiped their money while they were punchin' ya, eh?"
It was a big bluff. He did make up for a lack of gambling skill with sheer good luck though, and the look he got in return was a mildly impressed one. Silently, Fate pulled aside his vest, revealing a sizable amount of coins.
Graves scoffed, trying to pretend he wasn't impressed. "Must be desperate t'eat if yer gettin' beat fer it."
"Easier this way. Ain't no one comin' after ya, they think they've scared ya away fer good, yer pockets're heavier fer yer troubles. Everyone wins." Fate was smiling now as he looked Graves up and down. "Though... sure would be easier if ah had someone to watch m'back at the tables. Might not hafta have an... altercation."
Big words. Graves suspected he was being made fun of again. "What're ya tryin' t'say?"
"Ah'm sayin' that maybe the two of us could make use of each other. Benefits. Partners." He looked him dead in the eye. "Ah could use ya."
Vigorously Graves shook his head. "Uh-uh. Ah don't do partners."
"Then why'd ya follow me out here? Weren'tcha lookin' fer me t' trust ya?" A pause. "… Wanted to rob a beaten man? Guess it's polite to have a conversation first."
Graves let out an offended noise. "Ah ain't that type."
"Then tell me... what type of man are ya, Mr. Graves?"
"Ah'm-"
"Ya got the muscle. Ah got the gamblin'. Ah think this could work fer the both of us." Fate paused, smiling. "Ya'd turn down a beggin' man? Ah'll prove this ain't a trick. 70/30, in yer favor."
The clink and shimmer of gold just under Fates vest made Graves shiver a bit with excitement. He forced his beating heart to slow down with a deep breath. This man seemed like the last person he could trust, but what if this was fortune flipping his life around? There must be some reason he decided not to leave this sweet-talking stranger in the trash.
Still, his instinct was crying out for him to be cautious. "We do one job. Ya give me 100%. Then ah'll decide on yer... generous offer."
"Ah gotta eat too..." Fate trailed off, looking away. It was true that the man was skinny, scrawny even.
Graves relented. "90%."
"Ya got yerself a deal!" Fate exclaimed as he grabbed Graves' hand, shaking it vigorously. He had a glimmer in his eye. "... Partner."
Any sense of apprehension Graves had faded away, the sound of coins echoing in his ear. After all, in the worst case scenario he was confident he could fight this man and run. He wasn't the one with anything to lose.