Rolling Bones: Bushwhacker - a Mechwarrior Story

Rolling Bones: Bushwhacker

Part One:

Great Gorge, Federated Commonwealth: 

March 14, 3043

"You know something, Mister?" Rick mused pensively as he hunched over the rough table and took a long pull from his cigar. "I think my Mama might've been right, all them years ago."

The man across from him quirked a dubious eyebrow but said nothing, instead reaching out a grubby oil-stained hand and taking grasp of the tin cup before him. He drained its contents with a wince and slammed the cup down, shifting his attention to the bottle of clear herbal spirits next to it. Finally after pouring himself another glass he returned his singular gaze to the cards gripped between thumb and knuckle. All the while Richard Henry regarded the silent man, allowing him to at least finish his drink and pour another before continuing. "Yessir, I believe she might've had a point back then, when she told me to stay away from card games with shady men in dimly lit cantinas."

"You calling me shady, Dick?" the man retorted. His face betrayed nothing of the hand he possessed; even if he had a terrible poker face the craggy windsheared lines, bushy steel-grey mustache, and ragged red scarf tied over his left eye would have made discerning any kind of tell fiercely difficult. Rick would have had it easier getting a tell off a statue, but that didn't mean he wasn't up for at least giving it the old Davion best effort. He shook his head and flashed a lopsided, good-natured grin.

"Nossir, ain't calling you shady at all." He continued. "But my Mama always told me that canteens such as this were best avoided. She always told me there was more to lose than C-Bills when strong drink and games of chance were concerned…" he paused to take a sip from his own tin cup, also containing the pungent botanical that his gaming partner had slugged back a moment prior. And like his partner he could not his that his face screwed up in reaction to the strong flavor. "...She also told me that reputable business was never conducted in such bars, either. Pirates, smugglers, and other such knaves came to practice their crafts in such establishments, soldiers of the AFFC had their own bars to drink in."

"Here you are though, Dick." The man across from him drawled. They had been staring at their yellowed and weathered cards for a good long while now, and the way his dancing partner drummed his mangled knuckles on the ragged table suggested he was growing impatient with Rick's stalling, but was at least willing to humor him a few seconds more. "And you ain't alone; take a look around, ain't hard to spot the FedCom boys in the room…" He waved an expansive hand about to demonstrate his point, gesturing to the small handful of men and women that were noticeably cleaner, better trimmed, and possessed a distinct lack of tattoos and other decoration that the more gruff clientele did. "FedCom boys're a lot of things, Dick, but subtle ain't one of them. Speaking of which, Dick; time to pay the ferryman, play or fold."

Rick's mouth twitched against his will; that was his tell, and it was a terrible one. He and this grizzled cardshark had been playing five card draw for the better part of a night, and for the life of him Richard Henry could not get Lady Luck on his side. First his roll of C-Bills got swept up by his partner, then his jewellery. His final recourse was to bet his good luck charm and final article of any value, the cut tourmaline class ring his mother bought him upon graduation from the Filtvelt Academy. Beautifully cut stone the rich purple of of a violet field, real silver; Richard was certain the weight of this offering would be enough to tip the scales of Fate in his favor.

He laid the hand down, a straight, and smiled. Not a bad hand, and this stranger's luck had to have run its course by now surely? His dancing partner regarded him silently for a moment, appraising the young man with a stolid steely-blue eye, before slowly flatting his own cards on the table. Four threes and an eight, Richard's heart fell through his chest and hit the table with a thud he could almost hear as the crippled cyclops reached across the table with his three-fingered hand and scraped the priceless ring across it's rough-hewn surface.