Author's Notes:
Hello, everyone, and welcome! So, a few weeks ago, I announced my submission guidelines for this year's Request Fest. For those of you unfamiliar with the tradition, it's where I take requests for pairings/ideas and write a fic based on one of those requests. This year's submission came from TheOddFandom, who asked for an angsty Ryuuo/Syaoran fic. Current projections put this fic at about ten chapters, which will put it at around 25K total (so . . . relatively short, at least compared to the sprawling behemoths my fics tend to become). For now, I'm planning on weekly updates, with a short break somewhere in there to work on/update some other fics.
Aside from the original request, this story also draws a lot of inspiration from the Gentleman Bastards series by Scott Lynch, particularly the second book, Red Seas Under Red Skies, in which the team pulls a heist on a prestigious gambling house. There won't be any heists in this story, but for those of you who've read the Gentleman Bastards series, you will find a lot of similarities in terms of the design elements. And, of course, the characters belong to Clamp, but you already knew that.
Thanks again to everyone who submitted a pairing/idea for this year's Request Fest, and thanks to the rest of you for reading/reviewing. Your appreciation makes my work feel worthwhile.
Chapter One
Syaoran surveys the cards in his hand, eyes flickering to Sakura as he places a pair of Suns on the table. Across from him, one of their opponents, a portly man draped in red and gold silk, lays down a trio of Diamonds, a perfect complement for the cards displayed by his partner moments ago. Syaoran holds his breath, watching Sakura. He trusts her luck—with it, they've won enough money in the seedier gambling houses to meet the minimum bids here at The Red Band—but this game is as much strategy as chance, and given the proceedings thus far, they need an exceptional hand to win the round.
Sakura's eyes flick between the cards in her hand and those on the table. Then, unsmiling, she spreads her cards out in two piles—a pair of Crowns and a trio of Daggers.
The dealer whistles. "You must have one lucky star over you, girl," she says. Syaoran lets out the breath he's been holding. They gambled recklessly this round, relying on Sakura's luck to propel them to one of the higher tables, but evidently Sakura's supernaturally good fortune does not extend to her gambling partners—after a number of poor hands early on, they'd nearly tipped beyond the point where her luck could save them.
"We're taking a short intermission for the Spectacle," the dealer says, sweeping the cards off the table. "Anyone who wants to stay can reserve a spot, but it's going to be half an hour 'til this table's running again, so if you want to keep playing, you'll be better off finding a game in one of the lounges."
"Thank you," Sakura says, gathering up their chips. "But I think we'll cash out for now."
"Sure, sure," the dealer agrees easily, her ponytail bobbing as she takes the stacks of gambling chips and switches them out for money. Relatively speaking, it's quite a sum, enough for several nights at any of the five finest hotels in the Upper City, but it means little to their group. Paper money doesn't hold its value outside its original world, and though they can use some of it to buy precious metals to sell later on, the majority of it will be funneled back into these games.
Once Sakura has finished collecting their money, they leave the table, slipping through throng of wealthy merchants and politicians. Kurogane joins them moments later, and the crowd thins as nearby gamblers swerve to avoid him. He's playing the part of their hired bodyguard, while Fai, perched on one of the bar stools, holding a wide, blue-tinted glass by its delicate stem, gathers information about the rules and traditions particular to The Red Band. As he sees them, he tips his head in their direction, a hollow smile touching his lips.
"How did it go?" Mokona asks, poking her head out of the black leather satchel Fai purchased along with their clothes.
"We won," Sakura says. Her smile is as false as Fai's, and fades in seconds. Syaoran looks down, trying not to think of Tokyo, but the guilt rushes back anyway. If he'd arrived only a few minutes earlier, he could have spared all of them so much pain.
"Hear anything interesting?" Kurogane asks, managing not to look at Fai directly, though the question is obviously meant for him.
"No confirmation on those rumors, but I've managed to pick up a fair understanding of how this gambling house operates. You've seen the arena, I presume?" He nods toward the center of the room, where a railing separates the card tables from a massive sandpit set into the floor. Syaoran glances uneasily toward the arena, though he can see only a sliver of it from where he stands. It reminds him entirely too much of the long-unused fighting pits his clone once visited with Fujitaka.
"Yeah, it's weird," Kurogane says. "They put it in the middle of the room so everyone has to walk around it, but they haven't had anyone in it all night."
"Evidently, it's only used once each day, late in the evening," Fai says, neither responding to Kurogane's point nor precisely ignoring it. "Apparently, those who stretch their credit too far can perform there in exchange for having their debts forgiven."
Kurogane snorted. "Sounds like a lousy business practice."
Syaoran glances toward the pit, disquiet rippling through his chest. He's seen many worlds through his clone's eyes, enough to know that settling debts is rarely so easy. A gambling house cannot survive long by forgiving those who lack the credit to pay for their habit, so something else must be going on here.
"These games," Kurogane says, voice low. "How often do the participants survive?"
Fai's answering smile is thin, humorless. "Perhaps one in ten. Better odds than having one's throat slit, I suppose."
Syaoran bites back a surge of nausea as the lights dim. They've only been in the Undercity a few weeks, but already they've heard whispers of how The Red Band handles those who fail to pay their debts. While anyone caught cheating ends up with their throat slashed in the courtyard, those with outstanding debts tend to simply disappear. Now that they're here, it's swiftly becoming obvious that those disappearances are even more sinister than the rumors imply.
As the last of the lamps are extinguished, a pair of spotlights burst into luminescence, their wide beams focused on the pit. A wooden platform dangles above the sands, suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains. Three people now stand on the platform: two women dressed in skintight bodysuits that shimmer like flame, and a man in a sturdy tan jumpsuit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," one of the women says, making a flourishing bow to the audience. Belatedly, Syaoran realizes that all the tables have been cleared, that everyone in the room has turned to watch the show. Even in the dark, Syaoran can see the anticipation on their faces, the excitement. "We apologize for the interruption—"
"—though we assure you it's worth your while," the other woman breaks in. "And we thank you for your patronage. It is because of your loyalty that we remain the most prestigious gambling house in the Undercity. And so—"
"—without further ado—"
"—we present—"
"—this evening's entertainment!"
"My, my," Fai murmurs, sipping from his wineglass, "They certainly have their act down." But there's a bitter note to his voice, one that wasn't there before Tokyo, and when Syaoran glances at him, Fai's shoulders have tensed. "Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce until the performance is over."
They turn to Sakura, awaiting her decision, but rather than nodding, she takes several uneven steps toward the pit. "No," she says at last. "I'm going to watch."
Fai draws back in surprise. Kurogane regards her steadily. Syaoran glances back and forth, waiting for them to insist that they head to one of the lounges, away from whatever is about to happen, only to realize they aren't going to stop her.
When it becomes clear she will face no opposition, Sakura moves to join the murmuring ring of people standing above the pit. Kurogane and Fai flank her without a word, and after a moment, Syaoran trails after them. By the time they've reached the railing, the wooden platform has been lowered onto the sands, and the man in the tan jumpsuit steps off the edge. Syaoran can't see his expression from this angle, but he can see the man's hands shaking as he watches the platform rise.
"Behold the rare northern wolfcat!" cries one of the women on the platform, gesturing to an iron gate at the edge of the arena. Two small, furry mounds stir in the shadows, kicking up dust as their long black claws scrape at the bars. "Though no larger than a house-cat, these creatures have been known to take down mighty bears in the wild, tearing open throats and leaving deep furrows in the pelts of their prey. Hunters and trappers alike fear encountering this creature for its unrivaled viciousness, but tonight, our brave volunteer will fight not one, but two of these savage beasts, using only his bare hands!"
A murmur of appreciation ripples through the crowd. Syaoran glances around, shocked by the hunger on the spectators' faces. They're actually enjoying this, he thinks, sick.
"Would you care to place a wager, young master?" someone asks. Syaoran whirls around to find one of the black-clad attendants standing behind him, holding a clipboard and looking at him expectantly.
Sakura turns as well, frowning. "People bet on this?"
The man's mustache twitches. "House tradition. Patrons can gamble on the outcome of the Spectacle—it can be quite lucrative, if you have an eye for such things. Odds for this event are four-to-one in favor of the wolfcats, if you'd like to place a bet."
"I see," Sakura says, her voice devoid of emotion. "Perhaps another time."
The man nods and moves on to collect wagers from the next cluster of people, utterly indifferent to the potential cost of this game.
"This isn't right," Syaoran whispers.
"No, it isn't," Kurogane says, crossing his arms. "But we've staked too much on our plan to risk intervening now."
Syaoran looks away. They've spent weeks searching for the feather, visiting lesser gambling houses and listening at taverns for hints of anything unusual. The rumors indicate that the owner of The Red Band has recently acquired a powerful magical artifact and intends to make it the prize for the Grand Tournament two months from now. To cause a scene here, where the tournament is being hosted, could bar them from entering, thus forcing them to try to steal the feather instead—a much riskier proposition.
The gate separating the wolfcats from the arena begins to rise. Despite their name, they resemble neither wolves nor cats, but oversized weasels, with blunt noses and rounded heads. They could almost be mistaken for pets, except for the way their fur bristles as they hiss. The moment the gate rises high enough for them to push their bodies underneath it, they rocket into the arena, snarling. The man in the jumpsuit lifts his hands, planting his feet, and seconds later, the first wolfcat launches itself toward his face, teeth glistening. The man bats the creature away with the back of his fist, flinging it into the wall of the arena, but the other latches onto his ankle, tearing ferociously at the thick fabric of his jumpsuit even as he tries to shake the creature off. By the time he does, the other has bitten down on his hand, snarling, wrenching its body from side to side. The man slams the creature into the wall over and over, a series of awful thuds, and blood splatters across the sand, earning rapturous cries from the audience.
Syaoran glances at Sakura as she leans against the rail, then at Kurogane and Fai, both looking into the arena with grim expressions, and suddenly it's too much. His stomach pitches, and it's all he can do to keep himself from throwing up as he shoves through the crowd of slavering spectators, not caring where he ends up, so long as it is away from here.
None of the other patrons pay him any notice; they're too busy watching the wolfcats tear into their victim, calling for blood until their exultant cheers swallow up the man's cries for mercy.
He ends up in one of the lounges, surrounded by wood-paneled walls and plush maroon carpet. He skirts the edges of the room until he finds an unoccupied chair at the bar and sits, burying his face in his hands until the bartender strolls over. "What'll it be?" she asks, leaning forward, her hips pushing up against the edge of the counter, elbows resting atop the polished surface.
"Just water," he says, his voice thick.
"Overdid it a little, huh?" the woman says, pouring him a glass of water, garnished with a lemon wedge. Gingerly, he takes a sip, closing his eyes. "Let me know if you decide you want anything else," she tells him before flitting off to tend to her other patrons.
Syaoran says nothing. He feels sick, but not from drinking. He's seen many injustices, both from his own perspective and through the eyes of his clone, and he knows there is little he can do to change things here. He is merely a visitor to this world, and while he might help a handful of people, he cannot fix the broken system that makes up the bedrock of this city. And in any case, recovering Sakura's feather has to come first. He cannot afford to make ripples here, not yet.
A glass clinks down on the bar next to him. He lifts his head, startled, then stills as he takes in the features of the boy sliding onto the stool next to his: long red-brown hair, thick eyebrows, a warm expression. "Guess I'm not the only one dodging the night's circus," Ryuuo says, lifting his empty glass.
Syaoran shies away. It's been three weeks since they left Tokyo, and he's still unaccustomed to being around people. It should be easier, he thinks, but unlike his clone, he has spent the last seven years isolated, trapped in a tube, and every unexpected movement or brush of skin makes him flinch.
He doesn't know how to respond when someone looks at him like a person instead of a ghost.
"Sorry," Ryuuo says as the bartender sets another glass in front of him. "Not my business. You looked a little lonely, so I figured you might want company."
Syaoran meets Ryuuo's eyes, gauging his sincerity. Kindness, too, is foreign to him, but this time he manages a response. "I appreciate it."
Ryuuo beams, and the room seems a little brighter for it. "I saw you and that other girl playing Crowns at one of the tables," he says, swirling his glass. The amber liquid catches the light of a nearby sconce, glittering gold. "Managed to catch a glimpse of her last hand. You two must be pretty lucky, turning the game around right at the end like that."
Syaoran thinks of acid rain and empty eye sockets and the iron tang of blood. "She is," he says, wishing luck had been enough to help them in Tokyo.
Ryuuo eyes him for a moment, his easy smile fading. "Neither of you seemed real happy about it, though. Looked kind of depressed, actually. You take a big loss before your luck turned around?"
Syaoran shakes his head. "She lost someone recently. We both did." She lost the person she cared about more than anyone else, and I lost everyone else. It shouldn't feel that way, he knows. It wasn't him that the others cared for, not really. But when he thinks of the warmth they showed his clone, the solidity of the bonds between them, he aches, guilty and grieving and empty in a way he doesn't quite understand.
"Ah." Ryuuo peers down into his glass. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he says, though it isn't. Ryuuo meets his eyes, his expression sober. He's older than the Ryuuo his clone met in Outo, but only by a year or two, and a little more refined in appearance, wearing a white jacket with brass buttons and matching slacks. His hair is still a little wild, though, stray tufts of chestnut sticking up at odd angles.
A muted cheer pulses through the walls, accompanied by the stomping of feet. Ryuuo's expression turns grim. "Guess the guy didn't make it."
Syaoran looks toward the main room, though of course he can't see anything through the walls. His earlier nausea returns, just a whisper of it, and he sips his water, trying to block out the noise. He can't, not really, but he can pretend, and that . . . that's fine.
"There'll be a few more rounds before the card tables start back up," Ryuuo says, sliding off his stool and slipping a deck of cards from his pocket. "You want to play a quick game?"
He hesitates, thinking of Sakura, of the importance of winning enough money to afford the tournament fees. "I shouldn't."
"Come on, one game," Ryuuo insists, tugging him toward a secluded table in the corner. "Just something to keep us occupied while we wait for the show to be over. You don't even have to put any money down."
"I . . ." He trails off at Ryuuo's hopeful look, and something fractures inside him. "All right."
Ryuuo smiles, excitement flashing in his eyes. Syaoran cannot help but notice they are nearly the same shade as Sakura's. But unlike Sakura, who has withdrawn and become cold since Tokyo, Ryuuo's expression is warm and welcoming, and a bittersweet ache pulses in Syaoran's chest at the sight of it.
"Let's play," Ryuuo says.
