A little background to an incident mentioned in an earlier chapter of Beast Saga. Also, a slight experiment in a style of narration I don't normally use.
If you've ever heard the song "A Good Run of Bad Luck" from the movie "Maverick", you've got a pretty good idea of the feel of this chapter.
Know When to Walk Away, Know When to Run
Somebody said once that there's a sucker born every minute. I'm not certain what a "minute" is, mind you, but I feel that the phrase is apt enough. In all my considerable experience, I've yet to meet a single mech or femme that I could not outwit. What can I say? Guile is a gift, and one I have in great supply. I pride myself, you know, on my own inability to be fooled. It's one of the reasons I enjoy places like The Skaro Mile: they know me well enough not to pull any fast ones...and they've learned to keep quiet if one of my more brutish companions happens to make off with the silverware.
Speaking of brutes...
I look across the room, low ceilinged and lit with soft red and turquoise neon lines. There are only a handful of my own species here, but we mingle well with the collected Quarks, Tharks, Sycorax and Verdolsnatches. Off in the corner, like some two-credit reenactment of The Pz-azz Raptor, my associates lurk. Honestly! They're working so very hard at being inconspicuous that they stand out like a sore servo. Blackout is sleeping, or perhaps feigning sleep. The Divebomb's pedes are propped up on the table- he really does have atrocious manners. Doom-lock is awake, as usual. It is my personal theory that he can't go one breem without doing something menacing. At the moment, the Cruellock half of the Shattered Blade Brothers is merely cleaning his energon longsword.
They're beginning to draw stares, and my only consolation is that they are both ugly enough to make my plumage all the more optic-catching. I jauntily toss back the remainder of my Barsoom Blitzkrieg- an expensive drink: the fruit they use in it only ripens once every twenty planetary revolutions, and it is traditionally served in a goblet made from the fossilized skull of a Quintesson. Quite a delicacy if you can afford it. Still, I haven't time to sit and linger over the fascinating tastes of organic fruit if my contact's information is correct. Helm held high, I saunter to the corner table and unceremoniously fling Blackout's feet from the surface. "Come along, my lazy louts," I say cheerfully. They don't complain: I don't pay them to talk. "We've got a job!" Ignoring stares, I march out with them at my heels.
-
So dis is it. Dis is how my lights go out: boredom. Sheer boredom. I can see the headlines now: YOUNG SOLDIER FOUND OFFLINE IN ENERGON DEPOT: BIG CONVOY RETIRES IN SHAME. Or maybe, "RATTRAP WAS THE BEST OF US," MAXIMAL COUNCIL SAYS; HUNDREDS OF FEMMES GRIEF-STRICKEN! Yeah, yeah I like dat one. I let out a cavernous yawn and lean back in my chair. I have literally become desperate enough to read those interspecies romance datapads meant for young femmes. Primus knows how they got to a place like dis, but I'm almost bored enough to read 'em.
In my "office", a desk and chair surrounded by flimsy dividers in the center of the warehouse, I take to my organic beast mode and spin the seat rapidly. I groan aloud. "Something, anything, please happen!" Out of the space behind the eastern divider, a lightly accented voice answers me. "I say, that sounds like my cue, doesn't it?" I whirl around. Dere's a shadow on the screen behind me: Saurian, but feathered. Dat's something right there: y'don't see a lot of archaeopteryx around. "Hey, what gives?" I growl, switching back to robot mode and drawing my gun. Can't be too careful now, right? "State your name and business!"
The screen is pushed to the side as dat archaeopteryx sort of leans his long neck in. He's something to look at alright, with the red and gold feathers and the black bars down the wings. The blue and green scales up dat neck of his make him look a little like a parrot though. Wonder if he wants a cracker? Then he transforms into a skinny mech with goggles covering his optics. I don't like dat: makes it hard to see what a mech's thinking. Then he starts talking again in dat fancy accent of his. "Of course! Pardon my manners. I am Archadis. You might've heard of me?" The name kinda rings a bell, but I ain't telling him dat. I'm bored and ornery right now, and I don't feel like playing nice.
"Nah, can't say I have," I yawn, crossing my arms. "Don't get a lot of news out here in Dullsville, y'know." He shrugs, like a Maximal solo-guarding a cache of energon ain't such a big deal. "Completely understandable, my friend. Myself, I'm just a wanderer, drifting here and there throughout the stars. I just happened to land here, hoping for a little civilized conversation. Eh, I'll take what I can get, I suppose." Dat sounds an awful lot like an insult. I don't think I like dis guy! "Okay, stranger," I say, standing up. Scrap, he's taller than me! Why does everybody gotta be taller than me?! "Why don't we get down ta business and you say what you really want?"
-
Hm. Well it seems the Maximal guard isn't gullible, though it may be a stretch to call him intelligent. If I'd known he was this sort of character, I'd have let the Shattered Blade Brothers deal with it. Still, I've already ordered them to empty the depot, so I may as well stick it out and distract this fellow. Now, how to do it? No story of mine is bound to impress him, and he doesn't seem to need anything. Ah, wait. I've got it!
Shall we play a game?
I take a deck of holocards from my subspace and idly shuffle them as if I'm just looking for something to do with my servos. Ah! There we go, there's the glint in the optics! You play cards, don't you, my friend?
I smile ingratiatingly and hold out the deck. "It's been quite some time since I've run across anyone who knew how to play. Perhaps you would honor me with a friendly game?" Hook baited, line set, he may protest at first but I've already got him. He fidgets a moment, then grumbles, "Praxus Hold 'Em or no game." Perfect! This couldn't have gone better if I'd planned it! I slide into the chair opposite his desk and say coyly, "Refresh my memory: don't you have to have something to bet with to play that game?" You do, of course. One player puts in the little blind, one puts in the big blind, put down two hole cards and let the betting begin.
-
He's after something. There ain't no way he just wants ta play a game. I'll betcha we'll end up playing a few hands, then he'll feel bold enough ta spill the beans. I sit down and scowl at him. "I got energon chips if you got 'em." Dat ruffled his feathers: here it comes. "Here's the thing, old fellow. I haven't actually got any chips on me. I'd bet the energon in my ship, but I'm down to 43%. Tell you what, why don't we start out with me 28 chips in debt, and I'll see if I can't gamble my way out of the hole. Sound interesting?" It's a no-processor decision. Maybe I ain't the greatest card-Sharkticon, but I ain't half bad neither.
-
I thought that'd get his attention. I hand over the deck so that he can shuffle it. I have to pretend things are on the level, after all. Oh, so that's how it's going to be. He shuffles with a finesse I'd have thought impossible for such ungainly servos. Clearly, this mech has more experience with the game than I'd assumed. But, live and learn, I say. We'll see if there's anything to this "Rattrap" besides fancy shuffling. If not, I win the game (as I always do) and use only my not-inconsiderable natural talents to do so. If he does have more skill than appearances suggest, well, there are other ways to win and I am not above taking the occasional shortcut to obtain something I want. A mech has got to eat, after all.
"One half chip in the pot, small blind," I say coolly as he deals my hand of cards. "One chip. Big blind," he growls, briefly glancing at his own cards. Now let us see what kind of player you are, my rodent friend. An aggressive, or a passive? I get my answer soon enough as you open the betting with an ambitious three chips. I just want to see how you play for now, of course, so I see your three chips with three imaginary slivers of energon of my own, further racking up my "debt". He sets down the first two cards: king of guilds and ten of moons. I glance down at my own cards, a nine of moons and a two of daggers. I've had worse hands, of course, but it remains to be seen whether or not it's a hand worth continuing.
-
A king of guilds and a ten of moons. Dat would be pretty helpful if it was a ten of guilds, but there it is. I peek at my cards real quick, but I'm mostly watching dis Archadis guy. I got a queen of guilds and a nine of guilds: dat's some pretty crazy luck for a mech like me, all things considered. Lets see just how deep into debt dis mech is willing to go! I throw another three chips into the pot, then set a quarter cube on the table, just waiting. Yep, there we go, I got your attention now! I draw the next card and lay it down. It's a two of knights, curse it. I bet the three chips again, because if I don't, he's gonna know I didn't get the card I wanted.
Last card of the hand, last chance. It's a queen of daggers. Well, at least dat gives me a pair of queens, king high. We bet one more time, then flip our cards. "Pair of twos, king high," he says with a little smirk. I wile the smirk right off his faceplate as I show my own hand and claim the winnings. I grin, cause I ain't bored now. "Play another hand?" I ask. He agrees.
-
Hard to believe we've really been sitting here for two hours. By now, Doom-lock and Blackout have likely cleared a good half of the depot. Thus far I've allowed the Maximal to win a good third of our games to build his confidence. He certainly does have a competitive streak in him! I'm not certain he could stop if he wanted to. Not that I'd stop him, of course. The betting has gotten rather grandiose as we've gone on, and he's begun to wager cubes from storage. I had hoped he would! This will be the last game, I decide. I discreetly take one card from beneath the feathers decorating my left shoulder guard. It is my joker, my wild card. It is programmed to read the patterns of the deck and conform itself to be whatever card is needed to win.
This can, of course, be risky when playing with more than two mechs because there is an increased chance of someone else drawing the same card my joker is imitating. When only two play, there is less of a chance of being caught. I begin to win game after game, and the rodent begins to look desperate. I think it's finally beginning to dawn on him that he's going to lose most of the energon he was ordered to guard. "Pair of threes, pair of jacks, ace high," I declare, and his faceplate crumples.
-
How did it come to dis? We've been at dis for two hours and I've managed to lose all my pay and a good chunk of the depot! Big Convoy's gonna kill me. I don't know what dis guy's secret is, but he's got no visible tell! Wait, what the- dat card flickered! Dis rat smells a rat. I narrow my optics at the feathered con-mech and glare. He's too busy subspacing all my energon from the table to notice. "Funny thing about wild cards," I say, suddenly switching off the deck's main control node, "Dey go back to default when the other cards are turned off!" As I thought: the flickering card fades into a joker pattern. The nerve of dis guy! The sheer, scrapping nerve! "Cheat!" I roar, jumping up from my chair. I'm about to go over the desk and throttle the mech, but he moves way too fast.
-
Well, it seems as if the jig is up. Before the Maximal can attack, I transform to beast-mode and flap my wings sharply, creating an air current that knocks him backwards a few feet. "Blackout! Doom-lock! Take what you've got and get the ship running!" I shout into my comm, "It's time to go!" Just in time, I dodge a laser blast that would have singed my cheek. "How very rude of you!" I say indignantly, feigning outrage. "Don't be a poor sport! Pay your debts like a mech, why don't you?" He says some things that even a brigand such as myself would blush to repeat. I dart in, switching to robot mode in .067 seconds and kicking his legs out from under him. As he lays stunned on the floor, I can't help flipping a single energon chip in the air. It lands with a soft clink on Rattrap's chestplate. "Keep the change, old boy, it was a fascinating tournament," I say in a haughty farewell. Then I step outside of the dividers and into my waiting ship. I wonder how long it'll take him to find the black feather I left on the desk? It is my personal calling-card, after all, and I'm rather proud of it. Ah well, we can't all of us be victors in this life.
-
Gone. All of it, gone.
I don't know how he did it, but dat sneaky Scraplet managed to get not just the cubes he won (by cheating, I might add), but everything else in the depot as well! The west divider fell down as the Con and his pals took off: the warehouse is completely empty. The only bright side of dis is dat I was outnumbered and can stick to saying "One distracted me while the other two robbed the cache" on my report. I glare down at the chip in my servos. I'm half tempted to chuck it out into deep space, but on second thought, I tighten my grip and subspace it. I'll keep the stupid thing as a reminder of what happens when I let my guard down. So help me though, if I never see a deck of cards again, it'll be too soon.