Deling… the city that never sleeps. On the surface, the crown jewel of Galbadia, where fat cats and their fancy dames schmooze up to President Vinzer "Cactus Jack" Deling, parading around the beltway in sports cars, packing into classy restaurants and opera houses. Beneath, a dark underworld of vice - drunks, gamblers, and hookers all clambering from one gutter to the next, eking out some poor excuse for a living. A city for high-lifes and low-lifes; for revelry, and for murder.
The shopping district on the beltway was aglow with bright electric street lamps and flashing neon storefronts. Hordes of shoppers roamed the sidewalks, some pressing into popular boutiques while others stumbled half-wasted out of watering holes.
It was a tough enough district to drive through on a slow day, pedestrians carelessly spilling onto the street, not giving a fig for oncoming traffic. But this evening, it was an absolute zoo. A large crowd had gathered near the entrance of a shadowed alleyway, held at bay by a couple of soldiers as another cordoned off the area with yellow tape. The cause of the commotion was sure to get everyone's attention: the Triple Triad killer had struck again.
Inspector George Lacarte of the Deling City militia was in the passenger's seat of a squad car, inching forward through the throng to reach the scene of the crime. The driver, a blue-uniformed sergeant in a shiny metal chestplate and round steel helmet, honked and cursed at the crowd. But Lacarte himself was deadpan. His thick elbow hung out the open window as he brought a lit cigarette to his mouth, the embers glowing orange in the depths of his black eyes, the smoke rising past his big, bushy eyebrows as it curled around the brim of his jaded brown fedora. His face looked old, but in the sort of way a man looks when aged before his time - his skin wrinkled and yellow, his teeth stained from coffee and tar.
No politician would exactly point to Lacarte as an example of Deling's finest, but those within the force knew two things well enough about him: he always got his man, and you always wanted to be on his good side. But anything more about him, no one knew. He didn't hang out with the boys after their shifts, was never seen anywhere in town while off-duty (except when passed out in a cocktail at the Galbadia Hotel). In fact, it didn't seem like he had any life at all outside of work.
The driver blasted a particularly loud honk as he shook his fist at the crowd. "Get outta the way, you moron!" he shouted at one man, who replied with an angry gesture and a curse muffled by the noise around him.
"Forget it, Frank, I'll walk from here," said Lacarte, nonchalantly tossing his cigarette in a nearby gutter. "Get yourself back to the station and relax. I'll phone if I need ya." He rolled up the window and stepped out of the car, tugging up the collars of his tan trench coat. Upright he wasn't a very tall person, a modest 5'8 for anyone toe to toe with him. But as he walked, people were quick to clear out of his way; with a bulky square chest and a permanent scowl, he was able to part the crowd in ways the squad car couldn't.
In only a minute or two, Lacarte had reached the crime scene. As he ducked under the tape, a militia man hurried up to him with a face like a plump cherry. "Inspector!" he saluted. "Looks like the TT killer's at it again, sir."
Lacarte gave a dismissive grunt as he fished for another cigarette, reflecting on all the similar incidents he had investigated these past couple months. There were often signs of a struggle - a toppled waste bin here, a spatter of blood there. The walls and pavement usually had scorch marks from some kind of electrical surge. But the true link between the crimes was the token left at every scene: a solitary Triple Triad card, a worthless low-level monster printed on its face - a literal calling card left by the killer.
"The perp hasn't given us much at his other jobs, Tom," mused Lacarte, holding a new cigarette through clenched teeth. He lit it with a match and blew a couple of puffs. "What makes this one so special?"
"You know how he never leaves a body?" Tom raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head excitedly. "This time he did."
Lacarte couldn't help but lift a curious eyebrow of his own. "Ok Tom, let's see the stiff."
Tom led Lacarte deeper into the alleyway. Almost like the flip of a switch, the sounds of the street became muted, the bright lights darkening to a brooding, shadowy dimness. Up ahead was a dumpster, a forensic photographer snapping pictures of something on the far side of it. As Lacarte bent the corner of the dumpster he stopped, pausing to take another puff of smoke. "Hoo boy," he said under his breath.
The entire side of the dumpster and a nearby brick wall were charred black as if a bomb had gone off. A lamp fixture on the wall above the scene should have given ample light, but the bulb was shattered, the filament snapped. Another electrical surge, Lacarte thought. The body itself was that of a middle aged man, the tattered remnants of his tuxedo scorched and burned. At first they couldn't identify him, the entire visible side of his face a grim mess of seared flesh. But as the coroner turned his head, they could see his soft, pampered skin under rosy cheeks, combed black hair with a copious amount of product, a diamond-studded lapel pin on his breast. The man's sky-blue eyes were frozen open in horror.
"Winhill," muttered Lacarte.
"Who, sir?" asked Tom.
"Come on, Tom, do you live under a rock? Otto von Winhill, Deputy Secretary of the War Cabinet!" Lacarte wiped his nose. "Damn, this'll bring in the spooks for sure."
On the ground next to the body, Lacarte saw the tell-tale signature of the killer: a face-down Triple Triad card, its gold and blue backing obvious to any player. It was sticky with blood; Lacarte had to peel it off the ground with a pair of forceps. He turned it over to show its face, revealing it to be a Buel - a common card in starter decks. He examined the artwork with a repugnant scowl, grimacing at the grotesque face of the Buel. The bat-like creature seemed to be grinning back at Lacarte, laughing at him with its pale empty eyes, the four white rank numbers in the top corner smeared with blood.
Lacarte threw down the card in disgust. But as he did so, his eyes fell on another card, lying just a foot away. This wasn't a Triple Triad card, but something white like ivory, a very slight gold border around text printed in a chic, italicized font. He could read it without even picking it up: a member card for an establishment called "Yuki's Card Club".
An unmarked car with tinted windows rolled up to the alley entrance. "Here come the spooks…" growled Lacarte.
Three men dressed in plainclothes - trench coats and fedoras like Lacarte's - stepped out of the car and strolled unhindered into the alleyway. The middle one Lacarte recognized. "Hey there, Steve," he said with an ironic smile. "Here to drag me in for kissin' Deling on the wrong ass cheek?"
Steve was the same age as Lacarte, an old colleague from the force before he joined Deling's Secret Police, but he was a little taller and a little thinner, clean shaven, younger in his looks. It was clear he was taking much better care of himself than Lacarte.
Steve shook his head regretfully. "I'm takin' over, George."
Lacarte chuckled, though he wasn't exactly surprised. "Give me a chance, Stevie. You know this is the first break we've got in this case."
"I know that, George. But Deling's gettin' impatient. This is his third Cabinet member to get iced… he suspects a coup attempt. I've gotta get involved."
Lacarte gave a sad shrug. His gaze wandered past Steve's shoulder, out across the street to the building on the far side. Two broad oak doors opened under a big semicircular awning, white with gold trim. In black lettering, in the same font as the membership card, was the name Yuki's Card Club.
But more striking than that was the person leaning under the awning: a dame, a bombshell of a dame - brunette hair, pinned in a large bun behind her head; a killer red dress, the cut showing off legs that'd make any man go gaga; long white gloves pulled up past her elbows, her arms folded under a pair of jaw-dropping melons. Her eyes, golden like honey, were watching Lacarte with a half-amused, half-studious expression. She was young enough to almost be a kid, easily half Lacarte's age, but she was cool as a cucumber. There was more about her than met the eye, that was for sure.
Before Lacarte could wonder any more, she gave him a quick little wink and turned back into the club, the twirl of her dress like a million bucks.
Lacarte blinked as if he had been dreaming. "Okay, Stevie," he said, still looking at the club entrance, "the show's all yours." He tipped his hat to Steve and moseyed back toward the street.
Steve shot him a suspicious glare. "And what're you gonna do, George?"
Lacarte stopped and puffed a last breath of smoke. "I dunno, Steve," he said, not turning around. "I'm thinkin' I'll try my luck."
Steve shrugged and turned back to the scene of the crime, but he would never find the white member card, tucked away in Lacarte's coat pocket.
Outside the carousel doors of the Galbadia Hotel, a woman stood. She was an elegant creature, her eyes blue like the jewel in her silver tiara, her long brown hair over a red and gold shawl. Underneath she wore an ivory evening dress, its length trailing to the ground. Looking closely she seemed care-worn, hiding some secret burden. But she deftly covered it all up as she waved at passers-by, bowing gracefully at those who greeted her.
The hotel staff didn't have a problem with her loitering; the Queen of Cards was well known around the world, a traveling promoter of Triple Triad and the culture surrounding it. But to those ignorant of who she was, she might have seemed out of place - dressed in a get-up like a princess, standing on the curb like a panhandler.
Some, on occasion, would get the wrong impression entirely. "Yeah, baby!" came a call from a car pulling up to her, three young men whistling out the windows. "How you doin' tonight, sweetie?" asked one in the front passenger seat. He had a handsomeness about him, a loosely tucked collared shirt with a tie over his shoulder, smiling at the Queen from under his blue fedora, his teeth pearly white in his wide grin. But his eyes were wicked and yellow, lusting after her like a ravenous wolf.
The Queen blushed at the rudeness of the men, but kept her composure. She extended her arms in royal welcome. "I am the Queen of Cards," she said regally. "Do you wish to challenge me?"
This was, of course, part of her act - to trade with and challenge worthy opponents to Triple Triad games, spreading new rules from continent to continent. But the shameless and lecherous men hooted with laughter. "Yeah sweetie, if you're offerin' a good time, I'm up for any challenge!"
The Queen rolled her eyes; one of these rogues again. Not that she didn't have pity and compassion for women of the town, many of whom sold their bodies because they could offer nothing else to a cold and cruel world, but being mistaken for one was something she never tolerated.
From the folds of her shawl she drew a single Triple Triad card, holding it up for the men to see. On its face was a large beast - shaggy white fur over the blubber of a walrus-like body, horns and tusks like giant blue icicles - a great Trabian Snow Lion.
She held the card just long enough for the hooligans' smiles to fade before letting it go. Instead of falling, the card floated up as blue lights twinkled around it like fireflies, a sound like tiny windchimes jingling from the paper. As the lights grew brighter, the card faded, the faces of the awed men appearing through it.
But just as the card completely disappeared, a chill wind blew up from behind the Queen. Passing her it transformed into a snowy gale, narrowly focused like a microburst on the hoodlums. As the wind struck the car a sudden frost enveloped it, the rapid temperature change cracking glass and peeling seat leather. The men panicked, catching their hats and covering their frostbitten noses as the driver floored away.
The Queen shook her head as she watched the fleeing car with disdain. But then behind her, she heard the voice of Lacarte. "Hi Dolores," he said with a wily smirk. "I see you've still got your old parlor tricks."
The Queen turned quickly on her heel to face him, her brow scrunched in frustration. "Ooooh!-" she moaned irritably, her body shaking with agitation before striking Lacarte on the cheek with a brisk, dainty slap. "Ooooh! Thou art a villain, George Lacarte! How darest thou speak to me?!"
Lacarte massaged his stinging cheek, but the smile never left his face. He really didn't expect any other kind of reception; his relationship with the Queen was so far gone that a slap was as good as a kiss.
But he knew he couldn't indulge in small talk, unless he wanted to be dealt a card of his own. He got to the point.
"I need a deck, Dolores."
The Queen flushed crimson with anger. "A deck! From me?!" She broke out into cackling laughter. "Knave, hast thou truly no shame? Hast thou forgotten all the cards of mine thou lost, gambling them in the dens and clubs while under the inebriations of thy foul spirits? Hast thou forgotten our son whose deck thou also lost, the true reason for my wanderings, seeking to restore what thou hadst ruined?!"
"Dolores, angel…" Lacarte pleaded in a more soothing voice. "I haven't forgotten, and I haven't played a game since. But this is business. I'm goin' after a serial killer."
The Queen's shoulders relaxed. She was silent for a moment, gazing steadily at Lacarte with a somber, brooding expression. "The card killer… I have heard of him," she answered darkly. "And thou art fortunate that he is one whom I detest more than thee." She pulled a deck of cards from her sleeve - not a very thick one, but enough to do the job. "Very well, I lend thee a deck. But thou shalt return with all of its cards, or not at all."
"Thanks, angel," said Lacarte, pocketing the deck. "I'll bring it back in one piece."
"Hmph," grunted the Queen as Lacarte turned away. "If thyself remaineth in one piece."
The front doors of Yuki's Card Club opened into a low-ceilinged reception hall, decked out in thick red carpet and mirrored walls, attendants in shiny maroon suits waiting to check the coats of Deling City's elite. From the entrance you could see a long archway, beyond which came the sounds of the tables muffled by a thick haze of cigar smoke.
Lacarte stepped into the reception hall, checking his fedora and trench coat. His graying black hair was slicked back on his head, the tar stains on his teeth scrubbed to the peachy color of shucked oysters. He brushed some ash from the breast of his pinstripe suit and took a deep breath; he had never dreamed he'd enter this joint again, but now that he was here, he might as well finish the job.
Before Lacarte could take another step, the host behind the reception counter called out and waved him over. "Monsieur Lacarte! Mon dieu, I did not expect to see you again!"
The host was thin - twig thin - his maroon suit wrapping around him like a flag around a flagpole. He had greasy black hair combed all the way back to his neck, round eyes bulging out of his gaunt face like a rat on dope.
Lacarte grimaced, but greeted the host with a forced smile. "Yeah, well, you know how it is Pierre - a fighter always thinks he has one more in him, ya know?"
"Of course," Pierre smiled deviously, wondering how much the house would wring out of Lacarte tonight. "Would you like your old table, monsieur?"
"No thanks, Pierre. I'm gonna take a look around first."
"As you wish, monsieur," Pierre bowed and welcomed Lacarte with a wave of his hand. As Lacarte walked away, Pierre leered after him with a thin, nefarious smile.
As Lacarte entered the main hall, the sudden change in atmosphere hit him like a truckload of gin. There were a dozen or so tables upholstered with fuzzy, tan-colored fabric, marked up with three-by-three game grids and betting boxes. Around each table were fancily-dressed clients, laughing loudly as they tossed in their chips. The noise of the room was almost nauseating: the clinking of cocktail glasses, the hoots and cheers of the crowd, the groans of losing players. There was music too; in one corner of the room was a standing base and upright piano, drumming out the riffs of a rhythmic boogie.
Lacarte scowled until he was scowling out of his skin, every wrinkle in his dour face oozing with detest. He had ruined his life here, and seeing these bums and drunken broads partying in this den of sin, some of them even profiting from it, made him want to puke.
He tried to ignore them and focus on the job, scanning the room like a hawk, looking for the mark that his gut told him he'd find. But his eyes settled first on a dame sitting idly at the bar: a bombshell of a dame in a red dress, brunette hair in a bun, her bare back leaning against the bartop as she watched the tables. She was the very woman Lacarte had seen outside the club - he'd have to be blind not to recognize her. And as he stared at her, her gaze came to rest on him, an inviting smile parting her lips.
Lacarte swaggered up next to her and leaned against the bartop, a suggestive twinkle in his eye. "Haven't seen you around before, miss. Mind if I buy you a drink?"
The woman giggled at him, tucking one of her loose bangs behind her ear. "As long as you don't expect a favor in return, mister."
"Don't worry angel, I'm more chivalrous than that," winked Lacarte. At a wave of his hand the bartender poured out two gin martinis. The woman and the detective raised them in a silent toast, exchanging playful smiles before drinking.
Lacarte watched her as she drank, the gin and sweet vermouth moistening her delicious red lips, her curved eyelashes fluttering with mascara. He felt his blood boiling with desire, but also with shame; she looked barely old enough to be out of school, and here he was with the hots for her like a cradle robber.
As she lowered the glass from her lips, she gave Lacarte a quizzical look. "You're Inspector Lacarte, aren't you?"
"Guilty," said Lacarte. "Didn't know I was so famous."
"Only in certain circles," winked the woman. She watched him over her glass with a devilish grin. "How do you feel about cards, Mr. Lacarte?"
"Honestly, darlin'?" Lacarte held up his martini and gave it a light swirl. "Cards'll bring a man down faster than this drink."
The woman nodded knowingly. "Cards are power, Mr. Lacarte - in some ways quite literally. And like any power, they can corrupt."
Above the usual din of the crowd, Lacarte heard a particularly triumphant laugh. He looked to its source and saw a man with short black hair and a sharp black suit, standing over a game table as he raked in his winnings. He had a wild lust in his eyes; the others at the table, dealers and spectators alike, kept an arms-length away from him, looks of fear on their faces.
"Excuse me, miss," Lacarte said to the woman as he downed the rest of his drink. "I think I've found my next opponent."
"No worries, Mr. Lacarte." She raised her glass to him. "I'm interested to see how you do." Lacarte hesitated a moment, puzzled by the studious, almost academic expression on her face. Why did it suddenly feel like he was being tested, watched like a rat in a maze, seeing how long it'd take him to get his cheese? But he didn't have time to press the issue - he was on the scent. He nodded curtly to the woman, rested the empty glass on the bartop, and headed over to the table.
The man who he had seen laughing was sitting again, grinning gleefully as he shuffled his deck. This close, Lacarte could see that he was barely older than a kid, not unlike the babe at the bar. What was this, Lacarte wondered - junior hour? But although he was a kid, he was like a spoiled kid, a cruel kid. In every way that the dame looked smart and attractive, this guy looked like he grew up torturing animals while mommy let him get away with it.
A sly smile stretched thinly across Lacarte's face; this was the one, he was sure of it. He spun the empty challenger chair around and took a seat. "Well!" he exclaimed aloud, "looks like someone's lucky today."
The young man jumped, checking around for who had spoken before he noticed Lacarte across from him. At first he looked worried, staring blankly like a deer in headlights. But when he saw Lacarte wanted to play, his fear faded into a smarmy smile. "Yeah, gramps," he replied smugly. "Care to try breaking my streak? It's a big one."
Lacarte grinned back with bared teeth, accepting the challenge like a stalking leopard. "Yours won't be the first I've broken, kid." His opponent narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but shook it off with a dismissive shrug.
The dealer spoke. "The rules are Same, Plus, Sudden Death, trade rule Diff." He spun a small wheel fixed to the rail in front of him, an arrow on it flipping back and forth between Lacarte and the current champion. "Monsieur le challenger plays first," he declared, inviting Lacarte with a hand wave.
Lacarte smiled inwardly as he scanned his top five cards. Dolores had given him an average deck - nothing to brag about, but with enough heat to keep things interesting. He actually had a chance… he took a mental note to thank her for it as he selected an Iron Giant and played it to the middle of the grid, its ranks decently strong on all sides, the fives and sixes giving a lot of opportunities for Same and Plus combos.
His opponent glanced at him with a cocky smirk. "Life on the edge, eh? That's good, you're like me." He pulled a card from his hand and played it to the left of the Iron Giant - the dragon Tiamat, strong eights on her top and right, enough to capture Lacarte's modest Giant. "You got a name, gramps?"
"Yeah, I got a name," Lacarte teased as he played his next card - a dark-winged Elnoyle on the other side of the Giant, flipping it back to his color. "But I'd love to know yours first."
"Ok gramps," the man playfully conceded. "I'm Toby." As he introduced himself, Toby played the lion-like Catoblepas above Lacarte's Elnoyle, not only capturing it but defending his own left flank with a solid seven.
Lacarte grunted. "I'll give it to ya, kid, you've got a good hand. A lucky deal."
"Oh, it's not luck, gramps," Toby gloated as he swept a loose hair back onto his combover. "I've got divine intervention on my side - a guardian angel, you could say."
"Do you now!" Lacarte chuckled as he played a scaly brown Abyss Worm to the left of Catoblepas. "Plus, and Combo", announced the dealer. Toby's eyes flashed with irritation; with a relatively weak card, Lacarte had recaptured both the Elnoyle and the Catoblepas - he was in the lead, six cards to four.
Lacarte leaned back with a smug expression. "And let me guess: your angel's into cards?"
"Of course!" Toby answered proudly. "A collector, really." He tossed down his next card, the undead giant Gargantua, to capture the Abyss Worm. They were now tied up, three squares left to play on the lower third of the grid. Lacarte grumbled to himself - this kid's deck was packed with rare cards, and while the Plus rule leveled the playing field a bit, he didn't think his mediocre hand could keep up much longer.
Toby grinned triumphantly, as if he knew what Lacarte was thinking. "So, gramps, you gonna tell me who you are?"
"Yeah, that's only fair," Lacarte threw down his last best card - a blubberous gray Oilboyle, to the bottom left. An eight rank on its right side… a strong defense under simpler rules, but in this game weak to combos.
But Lacarte wasn't here to win - he was here for justice. "I'm Inspector George Lacarte of the Deling militia," he answered bluntly, "and I'm here to bag a killer." Toby's reaction convinced Lacarte better than a confession - the widening of his eyes, the twitch of a muscle in his neck.
But Toby soon relaxed with a condescending laugh. "Well, Mr. Lacarte, I hope your police work goes better than your game." And with that, he played his last card. It was one Lacarte had never seen before - an old man, in his early seventies perhaps, finely dressed in a tuxedo with cummerbund, short silver hair finely combed. Everything about the portrait communicated an aura of honor and prestige, except for his eyes... wide and hollow, the lids so far open that his eyeballs were almost popping out of their sockets, forever frozen in a look of perpetual horror. Lacarte knew the face: Horace Mortivir, the former Secretary of Commerce… and the first victim of the Triple Triad killer.
The spectators gasped; the men broke into sweats, the women covered their faces. Even Lacarte couldn't completely hide his shock; a dark shade swept across his face, as dark as when wearing his fedora. "That's... quite a unique card, kid," he muttered.
"Only one in the world, gramps," Toby taunted. "And I'll wager it clinches the game, no?"
Lacarte looked at the last card in his hand - a paltry orange Fastitocalon fish. The Mortivir card had taken the Oilboyle, and his open side was too strong to capture.
"Yep…" Lacarte resigned with a faint smile as he threw down the Fastitocalon. "That's game."
The spectators sighed with despair as Toby gleefully scooped up the cards he had won. But then came a sweet, silky voice from behind Lacarte. "Dealer, may I play next?" Lacarte spun around to see who it was and nearly bumped into the brunette from the bar, her breasts practically in his face as she leaned over the table. He looked up at her and saw her serene smile, but with eyes cool and sharp, beaming at Toby like a hawk hunting a snake. Lacarte looked back to Toby; his mouth had fallen open, his forehead dripping with cold beads of sweat as he stared back in a stupor.
The dealer raised an eyebrow at Toby. "Well, monsieur, do you accept the challenge?"
Toby said nothing, simply nodding his head in jagged, halting motions.
"The champion accepts. Please, mademoiselle," the dealer said as he gestured toward Lacarte's chair.
Lacarte rose, his bemused eyes never leaving the steely-eyed vixen whom he still knew nothing about. "Here you are, miss," he said as he offered his seat.
The woman smoothed her dress against her hips as she sat down, her hands tracing the contours of her fine legs. From some secret pocket in her bosom she pulled out a glossy deck of cards, shuffling them in a single hand. "Shall we begin?"
Toby fumbled with his deck as he averted his eyes, mumbling incoherently.
The game was furious. Lacarte watched as card after card flew down, two titans in the heat of battle, raising seas and leveling mountains. The woman's cards were a little weaker than Toby's, but she always kept her cool, sacrificing weaker cards to capture one of his.
Soon the grid was filled, and the dealer spoke. "The round is a draw - Sudden Death. Please claim your captured cards."
Toby cried out as if he had just been kicked in the stomach, while the woman's thin smile widened. They were to play another round… but according to the rules of Sudden Death, they would play with the cards they captured - and the woman had robbed from Toby most of his original hand.
The next round went as fast, but despite Toby's desperation and even a well-played Plus Combo, in the end he was defeated.
Lacarte stared in wonder at the woman, determined to press her for answers. But she simply nodded ahead of her and said, "Your quarry is getting away, Mr. Lacarte."
Lacarte turned sharply and saw she was right; Toby was making a run for it, toppling his chair and spilling a drink as he hurried away.
Lacarte rose and straightened his suit coat, looking down sternly at the woman. "When I get back, lady, we need to talk."
She answered with her same, knowing smile. "I look forward to it, Mr. Lacarte."
Behind the club, Toby burst out of the loading bay into the night, stumbling over trash cans and spilling the rubbish on the ground. But as he turned to escape up the alley, he saw none other than Lacarte, back in his trenchcoat and fedora, blocking the way.
Lacarte chuckled at Toby's look of shock. "It's over, kid. How 'bout you turn yourself in and nobody gets hurt?"
"Hah!" Toby laughed dismissively. "You think you're gonna stop me?!"
Lacarte pulled his service revolver out of his pocket, aiming from the hip. "Last chance, kid. Either I bring you in or the coroner does. Your choice."
Toby said nothing, a fey smile on his lips. He darted forward, but Lacarte didn't waste a second; he fired a round right for Toby's heart.
The bullet, however, never hit him. As suddenly as a gust of wind, a shimmering golden wing materialized and swept in front of Toby. It absorbed the bullet like a shield and then disappeared, back into the shadows.
Lacarte narrowed his eyes; nothing from his previous experiences had even remotely prepared him for this. "What the…" he muttered.
Toby, however, began to giggle, and then to laugh, almost maniacally. "I told you, Lacarte, I have a guardian angel!" He laughed more, pinching his eyes and waving as if to ward off the humor. But when he looked at Lacarte again, his face was wild and sinister. "Let me show you!"
He pumped his fist into the air, and suddenly from around him came a surge of magical energy, green orbs strobing like broad daylight in the gloomy alley. Lacarte winced as the whine of the magic neared a deafening pitch, the currents seeming to rip the very air. The orbs around Toby spun faster, floating higher and higher until they met the low roof of a sudden storm cloud. Blue streaks of lighting lashed out from the cloud, wantonly striking the alley walls.
And then from the cloud came a terrible boom, and a great ball of cackling electricity descended down like a king from a throne. It nestled into the ground, and out like a chick from an egg rose an enormous winged monster - a golden thunderbird, its outstretched wings rippling with green light, a serpent-like head leering down at Lacarte.
"Not so tough now, are ya gramps?" jeered Toby. He thrust his arm forward and the thunderbird dove for the hapless detective, waves of lightning in his wake. Lacarte turned and leapt up the alleyway, but a great thunderbolt struck at his feet, hurtling him like a ragdoll against a wall. He fell face first into the ground, his body shaking from the surge of electricity, his skin smoking, his muscles seized.
He was sprawled out and groaning in pain when Toby came up with a flash of wicked inspiration. "Still alive, eh? Hmm… you've got guts, and I dig your style… Yes, you'll make an excellent addition to my collection!"
Lacarte was breathing heavily, his face in the pavement, fighting through the pain as he tried to push himself from the ground. But then the pain melted away as if rinsed by a hose, and in its place came a weird, tingling feeling. He looked at his arm where the coat sleeve had burned away, letting him see the charred flesh underneath. But where blood should have been there was a bright white light, like an artist had erased parts of his arm. A spec of blood dropped to the ground, and Lacarte saw that its color wasn't red, but blue… a deep, warm, cerulean blue, like an ocean in a comic book. Lacarte marveled at it… it wasn't blood; it was ink.
He looked up in shock, but before he could cry out he felt a tremendous pressure on his chest and back, crushing him, flattening him to a pulp. It was then he remembered the image of Mortivir, the open look of surprise and horror on his card… God, that was it - a card! He was being turned into a card!
"You… sonuva!..." Lacarte huffed with his last breaths. Toby laughed once more, shuffling his deck to make room for his next trophy. Lacarte collapsed forward, no longer able to see, no longer able to resist...
All of a sudden, he heard Toby cry out in dismay. Then he heard a voice: "This ends now, Toby. He's coming with me."
"No!" Toby shouted angrily. "He's mine! - we're a team!"
"Ha!" laughed the newcomer. Though he couldn't see her, Lacarte could tell by her voice who it was: the woman from the bar, the one who had been stalking him all evening. "Maybe he likes you cuz you're good at cards. But I'm better!... Let him decide who's more compatible!"
More shrieking gales of powerful magic. Lacarte made one last effort to raise his head; with blurry vision he could see pulsating streams of purple energy flowing between Toby and the woman. It seemed like some kind of transfer was taking place, the energy drawing out of him and into her. For a moment, Lacarte thought he saw a shape like a bird of prey, blindingly white, moving along the stream. "No... NO!" Toby screamed, clawing at the air with his bare hands.
And then everything stopped. Trash that had been caught in the magical torrents fell to the ground. Lacarte gulped deep breaths of air as he felt the pressure come off of his chest. The only sound he heard was the pitiful whimpering of Toby, curled on the ground and sobbing.
Though Lacarte could breathe again, he still couldn't see and could barely move; the pain had returned, his burns sizzling.
But then he felt the magic of a Cure spell, little green lights floating into his body, removing the pain like the afterglow of a massage. "Don't try to move," he heard the woman say. "You need a couple minutes to finish healing." He slowly looked up through bleary eyes, seeing her return a pair of three-pronged daggers into leather sheaths on her thighs.
"Your friends are on the way, Mr. Lacarte. And as for Toby, do whatever you want with him; I've got what I came for."
Lacarte's head began to swim, his vision to blur again. "Your…" he murmured, almost in a faint.
The woman raised a curious eyebrow. "Hmm?"
"Your… number?"
The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lacarte. I can't stay." She turned toward the street, but before leaving she gave Lacarte one last wink: "Thanks for the drink." And then she was gone, lost into the Deling City night, out of his life forever. Another one through his fingers, Lacarte lamented. But feeling the soreness of his wounds, he thought maybe that staying clear of her was for the best.
He propped himself against the alley wall, training his gun on Toby in case the bastard tried anything. But there was no need; Toby didn't move from the spot, and in under a minute Lacarte heard sirens arriving on the street. Militia men hurried past while a familiar face knelt down beside him.
"Hi Georgie," smirked Steve. "How was your luck?"
Lacarte chuckled weakly, the lingering pain making it difficult to laugh. But with help from Steve he was able to get up.
Toby was led past in cuffs, his wardrobe dirty and disheveled, his face stained with tears. Pathetic, thought Lacarte; the kid was nothing without his precious "angel".
Looking back to where Toby had lain, he saw a deck scattered on the ground. "Steve," he asked, "can I have the kid's deck? Not the victim cards… I just need a peace offering for Dolores."
Steve smiled, encouraged to see Lacarte taking a small step toward mending his messy life. "Of course, George."
They turned together, Steve helping Lacarte limp out of the alley. "Stevie," he remarked with a grin, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
In Balamb Garden, SeeD operative Xu stood at attention as Headmaster Cid reviewed her report.
Cid read through page after page, raising an eyebrow on one occasion and letting out a bemused "huh!" on another. After closing the last page, he set the report down on his desk and folded his hands. "So how did Toby manage to leave with an unauthorized guardian force?"
"A lapse in protocol, sir," Xu began. "When he was expelled his GFs were removed according to procedure, but the assignment system wasn't updated timely; he was able to reacquire one and walk out the front door before we noticed anything was amiss."
"Hmm, we should review our termination policies and retrain the staff," Cid observed. "How is Quezalcoatl? No lasting damage, I hope?"
"No, sir," Xu replied. "He was shaken by the experience, but it was ultimately his loyalty and devotion to the Garden that enabled me to draw him. A couple of weeks and he should be ready for reassignment."
"That's good to hear," Cid nodded. "We should screen potential candidates closely this time - Quezalcoatl's Card abilities are dangerous, and we don't want another Toby getting hands on them. Any ideas?"
Xu thought for a moment, reflecting on the cadets she had been observing. There was one… a quiet boy with wavy brown hair, the top of his class under Quistis, his disciplinary record clean (except when provoked by Seifer). He didn't play Triple Triad, which maybe would make him incompatible, but she had seen him lingering around the games, silently watching the cards with an eager glint in his eyes...
"I can think of one or two," she mused.
"Alright." Cid sighed. "It's a shame about Toby. He was on his way to becoming an excellent SeeD."
Xu shook her head. "Cards are power, sir, and so are GFs. Toby was expelled because of his card obsession… do you think he could have handled GFs any better?"
"No, I suppose not," Cid resigned. He smiled approvingly at Xu. "Your performance has been exemplary. I think a promotion is in order... does 'Head of Exam Operations' sound good to you?"
"Yes, sir!" Xu saluted excitedly. She was about to turn and leave, but paused with a sudden afterthought. "Oh, one more thing, sir…"
"Yes?" asked Cid.
Xu blushed a little under a coy, inward smile. "Can I keep the dress?"