Soul Sister

People were always so easy to fool. An innocent smile and some pleases and thank you's later, they were all putty in his hands. He never underestimated the power of good manners. It was one of the first skills his master had taught him, because back then he'd been too weak to handle any real weapons. But this first weapon was still one of his deadliest, as he opened his wide eyes and did his best not to smirk unbecomingly.

"What about you, boy, are you in?"

Allen smiled. It was a very cheerful, nonthreatening smile, because he'd practiced it that way too many times for it to ever slip again, after that beating in the alleyway.

"Oh, yes, please." With one hand, he shoved the approximate amount of dough into the center, surreptitiously also bringing some back in his sleeve.

One by one, his competitors folded. And no one could ever find out what the smiling boy was doing behind that cheerful exterior, calmly pocketing cards and money left and right without anyone being the wiser. They were even less angry than the first marks he'd grifted, because nowadays, he had the common courtesy to make the pile appear smaller by taking from it beforehand so that they wouldn't feel like they were losing so much at the end. He was shaping up to be a true gentlemen in every respect, and he was sure that these fine friends saw him as a model they wish they could emulate.

There was only mild grumbling as he swept what looked like a moderate final sum off the table, bowing to his erstwhile companions, who had lost more money than they'd seen on the table that night. But it just wasn't his night, because there was another player in the house tonight.

A smooth, practiced shuffling created the perfect arc of cards flying from one hand to the other. Like Allen, this pro wore gloves, and like Allen, he sported a flawless smile. It was elegant, playful, and inviting.

"Care to sit for another game, boy?" Another shuffle, then a swipe of his hands spread the cards on the table, facedown and mysterious.

Allen shrugged carefully, not wanting all his winnings to clink inside his clothing. Then he graced his newest mark with his trademark smile, announced his delight and sat down for an extra round. He couldn't win much more and still be able to keep it all hidden in his clothing, so this guy was getting off easy. Some stray onlookers sat down as well, ready to play now that a new game was starting.

Allen tapped two fingers on the table. Hit me. Again and again, around and around they went. The dealer won frequently, but Allen always got his cut.

The mound in the center never grew too large, and the dealer was beginning to eye him suspiciously, even though everyone else was elbowing everyone but him and accusing each other of cheating. And through it all, Allen smiled, the dealer dealt, and the game went on.

After the fifth time the stakes were raised, someone kicked Allen's shin. As they went around again, and people either folded or raised, the kicking grew more pointed. Golden eyes and an arched eyebrow carried a message for him: quit making the pot smaller. Allen simply smiled bemusedly in his direction, as though nothing was going on. A coin fell from his leg onto the ground, then another. The smile didn't slip an inch, but Allen was starting to worry. The kicking had to stop.

Soon it was just Allen and this dark dealer, who had obviously made him. A loss would be wisest, he decided. But, as luck would have it, he held winning cards in his hands, and he didn't carry anything but more winning cards up his sleeves. Shit. He folded.

It was impossible, but that manicured eyebrow crept up even higher, and a smooth, cultured voice said, "No, no, that can't be true. You've been on a hot streak all night, and they don't just end like that. Show me your cards."

"Some things aren't worth knowing," Allen attempted.

But the man simply flipped over the cards, and laughed, knowing full well he was right. " Ah, looks like you've won, my little friend. Here, take this with you." He kindly gathered up the modest sum, and deposited it into Allen's hands, where it remained. He had nowhere to put it.

A long plume of smoke flowed out from the dealer's mouth, as he tilted his head back and gazed down at him. "What's the matter, are you that reluctant? Don't worry, I can take the loss." Seeing Allen make no move to put any of it into his occupied pockets, his smile grew wider. "How admirable. Come on then, I'll walk you home."

One gloved hand met another, as Tyki removed all the money from his hands. "I'll even carry your winnings for you." He winked, knowing that this new acquaintance would be unable to refuse.

Caught between abandoning part of his hard-earned take and letting this stranger accompany home, Allen's brow ticked. This guy didn't seem likely to mug him, and he'd kept quiet about everything else so far. What was the worst that could happen? Still, the man had skills, and Allen was extremely wary of his good looks, due to his aforementioned phobia of good-looking men.

But, then again, Allen glanced at his money sitting in the dealer's palms, and the words came out as naturally as though he'd never had any misgivings.

"Thank you, sir, it's always nice to make a new friend." And they shook on it.