Crooked
Daniel Ocean
Warning: I do not own Zoids. This is my first Zoids fic, so be nice when reviewing-I'm more used to the Gundam universe. Also, this story is based on the 1919 World Series, just transplanted here. Don't worry, this has nothing to do with baseball, only Zoids. Some of you know what happened that year, and those who do not will find out via this story (or you can e- mail me to get the real story, not the Zoids story.)
By the way, I would like to thank fellow Fanfiction.net writer Jacob der Ludner for his help with the place names. The original version had place names severely messed up; I figured Zi's names came from Earth's for towns. I was quite wrong. ~.^ He alerted me to this and gave me some place names. If you want to read a fic from an experienced Zoid writer, I strongly recommend his fics.
On with the show!
Chapter One
Edward was inside the Southern Shore team hangar, flipped head down, dangling thirty feet above the floor. Trying to repair his liger's knee was not easy when you were growing light headed from too much oxygen. In the first few battles of the championship, the socket had grown worn down, and it had to be replaced before the Class A Championship.
Just, not so perilously.
"Hey!"
"Gah..." Edward slipped and flipped twice before his safety rope caught him, five feet from the floor. He swung, seeing the upside down image of Amanda, Southern Shore teammate and second pilot, casually snacking on chop suey. "Getting a head start?"
"I was hoping."
"You might want to wash up in an hour or so. You're covered in joint grease. You can't be seen like that."
"By whom?"
"By the governor and his daughter."
"The spoiled priss and her daddy dearest. I'm sick of her. And I'm sick of him too. Can't they get that we need to work and not jut baby-sit the girl?"
"The girl, technically, is the team owner. You know whose signature is on our checks?"
"Unfortunately yes." Edward wiggled to get himself swinging a little bit. "Could you help me, Amanda dearest?"
"No." She looked at him indignantly. "I've already got good clothes on. I don't want to get all greasy freeing you."
"Wow, what a friend."
"I'll go get Happy."
"NO! You are NOT going to get Happy! Do you know what he's like?"
"No, he's only been my teammate for the last two years."
"C'mon here. You know what he's like. 'Oh, little Edward is dangling from a rope? Haha! Do not fear-the great Oscar is here!' And you know what will happen next?"
"You'll land on your head. I can get something to pad that, too. I'll go get a box or something." Amanda started to walk away.
"No. No. You can't. You just can't. Amanda! I'll clean your Zoid! I'll fix the whole damn thing, if that's what you want! No, no, wait up there...please..."
"Daddy, when are we heading off?" Larissa Rainier was dressed in Sunday's best for Thursday. Being the governor's daughter, she was expected to look immaculate. She clacked into a waiting room next to the governor's mansion garage, wearing a sundress and heeled boots.
"Few minutes, hon. They'll all still be there if we're a few minutes late."
"Yeah, I know." Larissa scowled in the way only a sixteen year old would bother to do. "C'mon, it's not every day we get to see Zoids in the garage."
"You could if you wanted to drive herself. Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you."
"I've been busy. And I need a brush."
"At your little parties that you've been going to every night for a week now."
"Oh, Dad." She had slipped into a bathroom and went out clawing at her straight reddish hair with the said brush. "You know how it is."
"It's your team, you can go whenever you want. You choose not to go."
Larissa scowled again and left, fuming. "They NEED me for those parties. I'm the damn hostess and you just can't cancel an hour before something, you know."
It was two years since she had originally bought-or been given-the team. She loved Zoids. She loved watching Zoids, at least. She had all the money she needed, thanks to outer space mining interest that her father accumulated and left to her disposal.
Two years ago, as the last season was ending, the Southern Shore team had lost more games than won. Many of its members were aging, low-cost pilot, and untried rookies. Larissa, with the help of a staff, got rid of them all. Now it was the most powerful team out of the hundred that comprised Class A. Out of six hundred pilots, Ed Colner and Amanda Supardi were both ranked in the top twenty. A third pilot, Lefty Stand, was in the top hundred. The other three-the fourth pilot, Oscar "Happy" Freedle and two reserves-were average or better. All thanks to money. Freedle had just been released by his team for incompetence, and Colner was released upon the suspicion of assaulting a member of a media (never proved). The others were just lured by an extra zero or two.
At least for the first year of the season.
A year before, halfway into the season, the team had grown far too expensive. In the staff was a secretary that had written, in fine print, a clause in the contract, which cut their salaries if needed. The zeroes went away.
And the team just kept on winning, even with a 48-hour long strike in Zi orbit the last March because of the pay cuts. Even with the threat of not getting paid. Even with reserves on second-rate teams making as much and sometimes much more than the stars on Southern Cross.
"Larissa, time to go."
"I'm coming." She left the funk she was in and went down the stairs, looking to the limo that was to take them to the hangar next to the battlefield, fifty miles away. "Yeah, I'm here." The driver popped open the door for her, and closed it behind her. "Take the fastest way there. We're running late as it is."
"We're not." The tall governor had his head squashed against the roof of the limo.
"Oh. Well, go fast, anyway. Very important people we are going to see." It would not hurt her popularity to have a championship Zoids team. Nor would it hurt her purse.
"Yes, ma'am."
Rich Marion had, by age thirty, more than earned his first name. He had come from a poor family on the Far Moon, miners, and he had found the way into riches. His father and his grandfather had died from miner's lung. Marion's biggest threat was that he would be killed by a collapsing tower of thousand dollar bills.
All thanks to some meaningless numbers and games.
Amongst the miners, he had slowly built up a reputation as a good man to place a bet on. He kept an eye on the odds, and was honest on his games. He played The Dice Game every Wednesday night with magnetic die in Moon orbit, and made spending money for himself this way.
He opened a pool room on the Moon and ran it exceedingly well. It accelerated his growth of cash, and he opened two more. In the original he opened a betting window for Zoids battles. He went to the earth and opened up more there. In the corridors of the Wind Colony he opened a tiny casino, with only two tables-one of roulette and one of blackjack. It continued the growth of his cash, making his way to the upper-middle class.
He began to bet on the battles himself. The pool rooms he had placed were near Zoid battle fields, and they were eventually known as places to relax and eat without hassle. Marion took advantage of this, hanging around the halls, asking questions-"How are you doing today? Heard any news about other teams? How is the great Bit Cloud feeling today?" He could get information before the odds swung, and he began to compile a small fortune. His casino was fueled through betting money, eventually taking up a half of the block it was on-its hotel taking up the other half. He had to other smaller casinos-one on Mount Iselina and another in Romeo City.
Each had a number of betting windows.
And now, the biannual Class A Championship was here. Millions and millions of dollars could flow in during the twelve days of the championship. The year before, the Royal Cup had brought in three million over just a few days. And that was for lower level Zoids teams.
Marion was in a T-shirt and blue jeans, the dress of choice for him. He liked to blend in for his pool halls. This year, the championship would be north of the Sand Colony, and he had already packed for the town, maybe a hundred miles to the south. He had been already checked into his hotel after a private flight. Money treated its holders well.
He strode into one of his clubs, and as instantly enveloped by the sound of billiard balls tapping together and semi-drunken laughter. A smiling bouncer let him in free of charge and showed him to the cue rack.
He knew all of the pilots from all of the teams by sight. He had been blessed with a good memory, with allowed him to know hundreds of pilots by first name. It helped. Over at a near table he spotted a short man of his age idly tapping a cue ball against the bumpers-no other balls on the table, just the cue.
"Hello, Mark," said Marion.
Marcus Payne, Southern Shore backup, looked up. "Rich Marion. Good to see you."
"What are you doing here?"
"Trying to escape from my owner. Amanda and Ed aren't so lucky, though."
"That girl, Larissa."
"Yeah-that girl. The sadist from high school. You know how big she is?"
"Can't say exactly-not big at all. Thin, and short too."
"She's maybe five-two and a hundred pounds. And we are all scared of death to her. All of us. Ed was a amateur boxer, and he's scared of her. Never have your paycheck connected to a teenager."
"I'm sure I never will."
"Good." Mark looked in both directions, at the crowds and the neon images on the walls. "Listen. I have a proposition for you. But I can't discuss it here. We got to rent a private room."
"I'm sure we can talk about anything in here, it's only pilots."
"We do need a private room." Mark dug into his pockets and got out a key. "And I have already arranged for that."
"Okay, I guess." Rich saw Mark walk away, then jog for a short distance, toward the far corner of the pool room. He was taking a roundabout way there, weaving through pilots, mechanics, newspaper columnist, and the like. Rich just took the direct route toward the private rooms and got there first.
"Sorry," said Mark. The key was two-sided. One side opened the door to the hall of private rooms, the other opened up room 6. Inside was the typical decorum of any of the private rooms. It had two tables, a bunch of cues and chairs, and a complimentary pitcher of beer and eight glasses. Rich walked in carefully, not knowing what to expect.
Mark tossed the cue stick onto the table; he had carried it all the way there. "Rich, you've really made your money off of gambling, you'd agree."
"Of course. Kind of obvious."
"How much money would you have to bet on the Class A Championships?"
"Ah..." Rich took the cue and batted the cue ball around in the same nervous manner Mark had been doing it. "I don't know if that's any of your business."
"Listen. A lot of us are disgruntled at our little pay cut last winter, you know? I think we can put all of this in the bag."
Uneasy silence followed. "You mean...throw the championship?"
"It all depends on how much you can pay. We get a few hundred grand a year. If you can pay the team maybe five million..."
"I do not have that sort of cash."
"Come on. You must have some associates. You all can put up money on the finals. We will find a way to blow it and you can get up a nice little profit."
Rich was incredulous. "How...how many others are in on this?"
"I'll get more."
"You don't have anyone else yet?"
"I'll get more. Trust me." Mark took up his cue. "That's it. Think about it, it all starts in a week from tomorrow."
Rich walked out quickly into the September air. He heard distant bells, afternoon Sunday services were starting. He walked out to his car, parked down the street, and climbed in.
The numbness on his brain had started to recede when he got on the highway. It was an interesting plan, but not a very stable one. If Southern Shore wouldn't win, who could he bet on?
Then again, he could just as easily bet against the team.
He grabbed his cell phone and typed in a number. "Hi there, get me A.R...hey, A.R., I have a proposition for you. As long as you have a few million loose for the upcoming tournament. You do? Good. Now listen carefully...
Daniel Ocean
Warning: I do not own Zoids. This is my first Zoids fic, so be nice when reviewing-I'm more used to the Gundam universe. Also, this story is based on the 1919 World Series, just transplanted here. Don't worry, this has nothing to do with baseball, only Zoids. Some of you know what happened that year, and those who do not will find out via this story (or you can e- mail me to get the real story, not the Zoids story.)
By the way, I would like to thank fellow Fanfiction.net writer Jacob der Ludner for his help with the place names. The original version had place names severely messed up; I figured Zi's names came from Earth's for towns. I was quite wrong. ~.^ He alerted me to this and gave me some place names. If you want to read a fic from an experienced Zoid writer, I strongly recommend his fics.
On with the show!
Chapter One
Edward was inside the Southern Shore team hangar, flipped head down, dangling thirty feet above the floor. Trying to repair his liger's knee was not easy when you were growing light headed from too much oxygen. In the first few battles of the championship, the socket had grown worn down, and it had to be replaced before the Class A Championship.
Just, not so perilously.
"Hey!"
"Gah..." Edward slipped and flipped twice before his safety rope caught him, five feet from the floor. He swung, seeing the upside down image of Amanda, Southern Shore teammate and second pilot, casually snacking on chop suey. "Getting a head start?"
"I was hoping."
"You might want to wash up in an hour or so. You're covered in joint grease. You can't be seen like that."
"By whom?"
"By the governor and his daughter."
"The spoiled priss and her daddy dearest. I'm sick of her. And I'm sick of him too. Can't they get that we need to work and not jut baby-sit the girl?"
"The girl, technically, is the team owner. You know whose signature is on our checks?"
"Unfortunately yes." Edward wiggled to get himself swinging a little bit. "Could you help me, Amanda dearest?"
"No." She looked at him indignantly. "I've already got good clothes on. I don't want to get all greasy freeing you."
"Wow, what a friend."
"I'll go get Happy."
"NO! You are NOT going to get Happy! Do you know what he's like?"
"No, he's only been my teammate for the last two years."
"C'mon here. You know what he's like. 'Oh, little Edward is dangling from a rope? Haha! Do not fear-the great Oscar is here!' And you know what will happen next?"
"You'll land on your head. I can get something to pad that, too. I'll go get a box or something." Amanda started to walk away.
"No. No. You can't. You just can't. Amanda! I'll clean your Zoid! I'll fix the whole damn thing, if that's what you want! No, no, wait up there...please..."
"Daddy, when are we heading off?" Larissa Rainier was dressed in Sunday's best for Thursday. Being the governor's daughter, she was expected to look immaculate. She clacked into a waiting room next to the governor's mansion garage, wearing a sundress and heeled boots.
"Few minutes, hon. They'll all still be there if we're a few minutes late."
"Yeah, I know." Larissa scowled in the way only a sixteen year old would bother to do. "C'mon, it's not every day we get to see Zoids in the garage."
"You could if you wanted to drive herself. Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you."
"I've been busy. And I need a brush."
"At your little parties that you've been going to every night for a week now."
"Oh, Dad." She had slipped into a bathroom and went out clawing at her straight reddish hair with the said brush. "You know how it is."
"It's your team, you can go whenever you want. You choose not to go."
Larissa scowled again and left, fuming. "They NEED me for those parties. I'm the damn hostess and you just can't cancel an hour before something, you know."
It was two years since she had originally bought-or been given-the team. She loved Zoids. She loved watching Zoids, at least. She had all the money she needed, thanks to outer space mining interest that her father accumulated and left to her disposal.
Two years ago, as the last season was ending, the Southern Shore team had lost more games than won. Many of its members were aging, low-cost pilot, and untried rookies. Larissa, with the help of a staff, got rid of them all. Now it was the most powerful team out of the hundred that comprised Class A. Out of six hundred pilots, Ed Colner and Amanda Supardi were both ranked in the top twenty. A third pilot, Lefty Stand, was in the top hundred. The other three-the fourth pilot, Oscar "Happy" Freedle and two reserves-were average or better. All thanks to money. Freedle had just been released by his team for incompetence, and Colner was released upon the suspicion of assaulting a member of a media (never proved). The others were just lured by an extra zero or two.
At least for the first year of the season.
A year before, halfway into the season, the team had grown far too expensive. In the staff was a secretary that had written, in fine print, a clause in the contract, which cut their salaries if needed. The zeroes went away.
And the team just kept on winning, even with a 48-hour long strike in Zi orbit the last March because of the pay cuts. Even with the threat of not getting paid. Even with reserves on second-rate teams making as much and sometimes much more than the stars on Southern Cross.
"Larissa, time to go."
"I'm coming." She left the funk she was in and went down the stairs, looking to the limo that was to take them to the hangar next to the battlefield, fifty miles away. "Yeah, I'm here." The driver popped open the door for her, and closed it behind her. "Take the fastest way there. We're running late as it is."
"We're not." The tall governor had his head squashed against the roof of the limo.
"Oh. Well, go fast, anyway. Very important people we are going to see." It would not hurt her popularity to have a championship Zoids team. Nor would it hurt her purse.
"Yes, ma'am."
Rich Marion had, by age thirty, more than earned his first name. He had come from a poor family on the Far Moon, miners, and he had found the way into riches. His father and his grandfather had died from miner's lung. Marion's biggest threat was that he would be killed by a collapsing tower of thousand dollar bills.
All thanks to some meaningless numbers and games.
Amongst the miners, he had slowly built up a reputation as a good man to place a bet on. He kept an eye on the odds, and was honest on his games. He played The Dice Game every Wednesday night with magnetic die in Moon orbit, and made spending money for himself this way.
He opened a pool room on the Moon and ran it exceedingly well. It accelerated his growth of cash, and he opened two more. In the original he opened a betting window for Zoids battles. He went to the earth and opened up more there. In the corridors of the Wind Colony he opened a tiny casino, with only two tables-one of roulette and one of blackjack. It continued the growth of his cash, making his way to the upper-middle class.
He began to bet on the battles himself. The pool rooms he had placed were near Zoid battle fields, and they were eventually known as places to relax and eat without hassle. Marion took advantage of this, hanging around the halls, asking questions-"How are you doing today? Heard any news about other teams? How is the great Bit Cloud feeling today?" He could get information before the odds swung, and he began to compile a small fortune. His casino was fueled through betting money, eventually taking up a half of the block it was on-its hotel taking up the other half. He had to other smaller casinos-one on Mount Iselina and another in Romeo City.
Each had a number of betting windows.
And now, the biannual Class A Championship was here. Millions and millions of dollars could flow in during the twelve days of the championship. The year before, the Royal Cup had brought in three million over just a few days. And that was for lower level Zoids teams.
Marion was in a T-shirt and blue jeans, the dress of choice for him. He liked to blend in for his pool halls. This year, the championship would be north of the Sand Colony, and he had already packed for the town, maybe a hundred miles to the south. He had been already checked into his hotel after a private flight. Money treated its holders well.
He strode into one of his clubs, and as instantly enveloped by the sound of billiard balls tapping together and semi-drunken laughter. A smiling bouncer let him in free of charge and showed him to the cue rack.
He knew all of the pilots from all of the teams by sight. He had been blessed with a good memory, with allowed him to know hundreds of pilots by first name. It helped. Over at a near table he spotted a short man of his age idly tapping a cue ball against the bumpers-no other balls on the table, just the cue.
"Hello, Mark," said Marion.
Marcus Payne, Southern Shore backup, looked up. "Rich Marion. Good to see you."
"What are you doing here?"
"Trying to escape from my owner. Amanda and Ed aren't so lucky, though."
"That girl, Larissa."
"Yeah-that girl. The sadist from high school. You know how big she is?"
"Can't say exactly-not big at all. Thin, and short too."
"She's maybe five-two and a hundred pounds. And we are all scared of death to her. All of us. Ed was a amateur boxer, and he's scared of her. Never have your paycheck connected to a teenager."
"I'm sure I never will."
"Good." Mark looked in both directions, at the crowds and the neon images on the walls. "Listen. I have a proposition for you. But I can't discuss it here. We got to rent a private room."
"I'm sure we can talk about anything in here, it's only pilots."
"We do need a private room." Mark dug into his pockets and got out a key. "And I have already arranged for that."
"Okay, I guess." Rich saw Mark walk away, then jog for a short distance, toward the far corner of the pool room. He was taking a roundabout way there, weaving through pilots, mechanics, newspaper columnist, and the like. Rich just took the direct route toward the private rooms and got there first.
"Sorry," said Mark. The key was two-sided. One side opened the door to the hall of private rooms, the other opened up room 6. Inside was the typical decorum of any of the private rooms. It had two tables, a bunch of cues and chairs, and a complimentary pitcher of beer and eight glasses. Rich walked in carefully, not knowing what to expect.
Mark tossed the cue stick onto the table; he had carried it all the way there. "Rich, you've really made your money off of gambling, you'd agree."
"Of course. Kind of obvious."
"How much money would you have to bet on the Class A Championships?"
"Ah..." Rich took the cue and batted the cue ball around in the same nervous manner Mark had been doing it. "I don't know if that's any of your business."
"Listen. A lot of us are disgruntled at our little pay cut last winter, you know? I think we can put all of this in the bag."
Uneasy silence followed. "You mean...throw the championship?"
"It all depends on how much you can pay. We get a few hundred grand a year. If you can pay the team maybe five million..."
"I do not have that sort of cash."
"Come on. You must have some associates. You all can put up money on the finals. We will find a way to blow it and you can get up a nice little profit."
Rich was incredulous. "How...how many others are in on this?"
"I'll get more."
"You don't have anyone else yet?"
"I'll get more. Trust me." Mark took up his cue. "That's it. Think about it, it all starts in a week from tomorrow."
Rich walked out quickly into the September air. He heard distant bells, afternoon Sunday services were starting. He walked out to his car, parked down the street, and climbed in.
The numbness on his brain had started to recede when he got on the highway. It was an interesting plan, but not a very stable one. If Southern Shore wouldn't win, who could he bet on?
Then again, he could just as easily bet against the team.
He grabbed his cell phone and typed in a number. "Hi there, get me A.R...hey, A.R., I have a proposition for you. As long as you have a few million loose for the upcoming tournament. You do? Good. Now listen carefully...