Introduction
In the dim light of the club, Lieutenant Sullivan furiously studies the cards in his hands. He looks up briefly to study his opponents. To his left, a turian man, new to the game of poker, ponders his own hand with a furrowed brow. To his right, an Alliance private on leave drunkenly fritters his month's pay away.
The man across the table from him is sitting upright with a posh posture and a completely blank expression. He is athletic with a slight frame, but still intimidating for a reason Sullivan cannot quite discern. He is dressed in a smart, custom black suit of a somewhat retro style. Heavy stubble fringes his prominent jawline and his head is covered with a dark brown, medium-short clean cut. His green eyes glare over a prominent nose bridge deep into Sullivan's mind. They have been playing for hours, but he has given away no tells. His expression is best described as stale, like a wall in a mental asylum. Sullivan grows increasingly enraged with the man every second. It doesn't help that he has lost so much to the guy in the last few games.
The man, who calls himself 'Cayden', breaks the silence with a smarmy query. "Do you want a kiss?" he asks in a deep baritone. Sullivan is confused. Smoke dances in the air around Cayden's head as he continues, "Usually when someone stares that hard at me, they want a date."
"Like you can talk," Sullivan replies, furrowing his brow, "You've been staring a hole through my head for the last 20 minutes." Sullivan doesn't know what happened. At first, he was wiping the floor with the guy, but there was a sudden turn around and he can't seem to catch a break now.
"I'm out," the turian suddenly interjects. "I'm no longer in the business of getting my carapace kicked at a game I barely understand." He chuckles, putting his cards down on the table and standing up from his chair. As he steps past Sullivan, he pats him on the shoulder and whispers, "Good luck with this one." He nods toward Cayden and continues, "That look in his eyes is the same you see on a hardened vet in a live fire situation."
Sullivan flashes a quick smile at the old soldier, "I'll keep that in mind." The turian pats him on the back once more before taking his leave. Sullivan returns his gaze to Cayden, attempting to discern any kind of clue. Cayden must be cheating somehow, but he can't figure out how.
"I'm going to assume the kid's out too," Cayden tells him assuredly. Sullivan looks over at the kid while keeping Cayden in his peripherals. The kid is resting awkwardly face-down on the table: having succumbed to his drunkenness while smitten with an asari waitress across the room. The turian and the kid turned out to be easy marks, but Cayden is some kind of rounder. He never gives away his bluffs and seems to have an acute omniscience for everyone else's.
Sullivan pushes the last of his chips into the pot, contemplating the odds of Cayden beating his four-of-a-kind. "Are you sure about that?" Cayden asks mockingly. He shifts forward in his seat, leaning across his mountain of previous winnings. "Must be a peach of a hand." Cayden smiles a wide, toothy grin. "I must be deranged, but I suppose I'll just have to call."
Sullivan drops four nines onto the table defiantly with a victorious smirk. Cayden places his own hand on the table with a seasoned card shark's flourish, clicking the cards against each other. Sullivan cannot believe his eyes. That son-of-a-bitch has a straight flush in spades, two through six. "Isn't that a daisy?"
"You cheating motherfucker," Sullivan proclaims accusingly.
Cayden smiles triumphantly. "What an ugly thing to say. I've never cheated in my life." He drags the pot towards his already-impressive horde.
Sullivan's anger boils over and he slams his fists into the table, sending cards and chips flying and drawing the ire of nearby patrons. "That's exactly what a goddamned cheater would say!" he exclaims in exasperation. Cayden calmly begins to gather the chips that were scattered around back into his pile. "Are you mocking me?" Sullivan indicts.
"Does this mean we're not friends anymore?" Cayden answers with disturbing composure. It just enrages Sullivan further. "You know, Sullivan, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it." Cayden stacks his winnings neatly into a small container he produces from under his chair and closes it with a satisfactory click. He hands a chip to Sullivan. "Here, now we can be friends again. Get yourself a drink."
Sullivan's rage boils over at this last patronization. He springs to his feet, knocking his chair into the wall behind him. He slams his palms into the table in accusation. The thumping music drones on through the flickering lights and low hanging smoke, diffusing some atmospheric tension. Cayden shrugs, then places the chip on the table. "We're done here," Cayden begins, "Clearly you have lost your cool." He pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and an engraved golden flip lighter from his pocket. He lights it and takes a long, thoughtful drag, the deeply red cherry piercing the blue light of the club like a spark.
"Look," Cayden begins, sitting forward and motion across his chest, "can't we just talk this over? I'm really no good in a fight." Smoke escapes from between his strangely perfect, white teeth with each word. Sullivan grits his teeth. The cocky, smug demeanor of this man is just too much to handle. He rips a pistol from the breast pocket of his jacket and points it at Cayden. The barrel shivers just a few inches away from his forehead.
"Slow down, cowboy," Cayden responds, recoiling back into his chair and raising his hands up to his ears. His cigarette dangles dangerously from his lip. The pistol tremors with Sullivan's hand. "Look," Cayden says, removing the cigarette from his mouth with his left and exhaling some smoke. He starts to crush it out in the ashtray next to him on the table. "I don't think you want to shoot me, and I certainly don't want to be shot." With unnatural speed, Cayden grabs the barrel of Sullivan's pistol and shoves the pistol barrel into his nose. He feels the bridge of his nose crack on impact and his hand squeezes the trigger accidentally as it bounces from his face. A second shot rings out as the shot from Sullivan's pistol harmlessly imbeds itself into the ceiling. Sullivan feels a quick tinge of pain in his chest, followed by numbness. Cayden calmly sets his own pistol down on the table with his right hand, then pulls Sullivan's from his grip and sets it down next to his own as Sullivan slumps back into the chair.
Screams ring in Sullivan's ears with a supernatural echo, then become muffled and are replaced by ringing. His vision is clustered with red dots. A woman's voice comes from an adjacent table. "He was going to shoot you!" After a moment of clarity, Sullivan's vision goes dark.