X-Men: Mutants of the Caribbean
A Lover's Gambit
The sun cast grey shadows as set below the tiny pirate town of Los Cados. In the streets there was drinking, inside the Pale Mermaid, the was even more drinking. The town was a buzz with the excitement of the Carnival de la light, the celebration of the Xandiar—the benefactor.
Remy Lebeau sat drinking alone in decidedly dark corner of the Pale Mermaid. With only his drink to keep him company he stared into the poor excuse for liquor like it was his lover's eyes. He only saw his own glowing red.
Around him the din hummed with the excitement of the festival. Pirates stole from each other, then won it back in cards only to lose it all to the enterprising whores. Half an hour ago a minstrel had shown up and had taken out a case full of various instruments. The crowd had solidified into one large foul smelling ruffian and had begun to grow restless waiting for the man to tune his fiddle. He was a gruff looking man with dark hair that framed his face like picture. He had a dark beard and chops to match and wicked looking eyes. Remy watched him struggle with the tuning pegs until one of the strings snapped and whipped across his cheek. The minstrel's eyes filled with rage, he struggled to contain it, he fought the anger down and tried to fix the instrument as best he could. The crowd began to disintegrate. The pirates spat at the minstrel's feet and somehow, as they all made an effort to get as far away from the failed musician as possible they all managed a good kick to boots.
"Get a REAL job," one of the ruffians cried with a thick Irish accent. This pushed the minstrel's buttons.
"Who said that?" He growled and scanned the inn with wild eyes, but no one fessed up. Remy went back to trying to read the secret message on the bottom of his glass. When he looked up the "minstrel" had slouched down into the chair across from him. His head was in his hands, his fiddle had returned to its case.
"You were turning it to tight," Remy said.
The minstrel looked up at the dark stranger in front him. A tall, lean man with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail, a thick brown coat was draped over the back of his chair, next to a sword and pistol hung on a ornately crafted sheath. The stranger's eyes were obscured by the shadows.
"What do you know about playing?" the minstrel grumbled.
"Enough to know you didn't do it," Remy said caustically.
"Some things are hard to forget," the minstrel said, the words rumbling deep in his raspy throat.
In a private room in the Pale Mermaid a battle of the highest urgency was being played out. Jack Sparrow need a ship, and the man across from him, once a great commodore in Her magesty's navy but do to injury had become reckless and eventually unemployed, had one, however he also seemed to have all the cards.
"That's a royal flush for me…and what for you? Ah…another pair. Well done," the former commodore smiled a thin smile as he pulled the pile of coins and trickets towards him.
"Not bad…really," Jack said a slight slur in his voice betraying the large amount of rum he had put back, "for a thief."
"What?" the commodore's eyes widened, his neck stiffened as Jack's compatriot, a large Russian (often reffered to as The Large Russian) grabbed his wrist.
"Keep shirt on, Cyclops," the Large Russian grunted. The commodore narrowed his one good eye (the other covered by a patch).
"What have you got?"
"Three threes," the Large Russian said and plopped them on the table, his mouth spread into a wide grin.
"Wh-wh-wha?" Cyclops muttered, "but that doesn't mean anything!"
"Could you please be a doll, Peter and explain how cards work to this one eyed sea monster?" Jack grinned as the Large Russian bore down on Cyclops, thrusting his three pain in into the Commodore's one good eye.
"look at threes, they'll make it all go down easier," the Large Russian said as he pulled back his fist preparing for a mighty punch.
"But I wasn't cheating!" Cyclops pleaded, "I'd never cheat- it isn't GENTLEMANLY!" The Large Russian stopped and pondered this statement. He looked back to Jack. Jack bit his lower lip and peered at the man in the dirty, faded lace pleading for his life.
"Then how do you account for four-too-many-aces?" Jack asked as he approached. The Large Russian relaxed his grip on Cyclops' throat and he fell to the ground.
"they're not mine!"
Jack and the Large Russian shared a smile.
"Oh really? Then whose cards are they?"
"I borrowed the deck-."
"You borrowed it?" Jack turned to the Large Russian.
"Sounds like 'Steal' to me," the Large Russian commented. Jack nodded and cocked an eyebrow at the cowering man.
"Who'd you steal such an untrustworthy deck from, eh?"
"I-I-I-."
"They're mine, mon ami," a dark voice said from behind.