Memento Mori

1.4 - POKER NIGHT

THERE'S ONLY ONE PLACE my gunslinging sensei would skip the last train of the night to visit. Wedged between two darkened holoexperience arcades and crushed beneath a second-story martial arts dojo in the heart of the Vector Seven streets, the 1313 is an all-wood tavern in a world of rebar and concrete. Its décor was ripped from a fantasy novel's pirate ship, the kind of boat that could sail the seas of some faraway Section. Its oldTech lamps still burn gas instead of electricity. And the neon sign by the stained-glass windows out front would suggest that we're about to be shot for entering after hours. I can't exactly remember the last time a sign ever stopped me from doing something.

Audio from an overcity pro-league fight stream hits our ears as Sarah shoulders open the door. Further in, a large projector screen continues the fight on the back wall of the cramped main floor. Empty booths and tables stand between us and the action. Wooden stools rest upside down on tables above a freshly mopped floor. Homely lantern light draws us in from the dark street. Fake firewood crackles deeper in the building, eating away at the chill brought on by being closer to the Abyss beneath the Vents.

Two heavyset men watch the stream from a booth near the bar. Eyes fixed on the screen, one man scratching at his beard as they watch the fight draw towards its climax. Fists clenched. There's money on the line. Cards are strewn across the table in front of them. Physical credit chits assembled in small stacks beneath a tiny lamp. Half-eaten bowls of takeout from a hole-in-the-wall two blocks away cover the rest of the table between mugs of beer. The larger man, smooth faced, boisterous, distracted voice, calls out over his shoulder.

"Oi. Can't you read? We're closed tonight."

"Good business strategy, closing before midnight," Sarah drawls. "It's a wonder this shitbucket stays open."

The second man, grizzled, weathered skin, grey-shot beard trimmed to ruler-straight lines, doesn't glance away for a moment. Though he does smile. "Poker night, love. Every Wednesday."

"I thought that was bowling night?"

"You would! You've missed the last two months. It's poker now." The louder one laughs, shifting his gut behind the booth to look at Sarah. His skin is dotted by moles and stretched by fat, teeth awry like an old fence, but his eyes shine with welcoming humor. "What was I sayin' about being closed? Pour yourself a drink and get over here. Actually, Krey," he snaps his fingers at a dark-skinned boy leaning over the bar from the inside, "get the missus a lemon vodka. Double, on ice."

And with that, nearly half of the undercity's scattered, unofficial leadership is gathered under one roof. The mood couldn't be more casual. You'd never guess the greying men and woman in front of me lead three of the Vents' eight most powerful gangs; Dynasty excluded. Though Sarah's more of a solo operator these days, only acting as a figurehead who keeps tabs on local neighborhood watches. Her reputation, like the others', keeps her streets running smoothly.

The teenager behind the bar, eighteen like me, flips his palms to the roof. "You think I'm some sorta barkeep now, old man? She got hands."

Sarah taps two fingers against the counter as she swaggers past. "Be a dear, kid."

Krey covers his sudden flush with teenage bravado, acting as aloof as possible as he fixes the drink in record time. "'Course, Miss Morninghawk."

Still holding the bottle, he splashes two more shot glasses, ignoring the drops that miss and soak into the stained wood. I take the second and bump fists with him before downing it in one go. He's already got a flash of something cinnamon-flavored out for a second round. Takes the little ceramic cup and fills it without looking, an interested look for me on his face. "Cheers, right? Looks like your job went well."