The door opens into a fairly swanky hotel room, somewhere on the Las Vegas strip. It looks like a suite, with a den area and several bathrooms, as well as a door that may lead to a kitchenette
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"I am certainly well aware," Puck replies, solemn.
He withdraws a half-dozen mints from one pocket, all of them a surprisingly grayish shade for breath-enhancing candies, and holds them out for Havelock to take.
"All here and accounted for," he adds, giving him a meaningful glance.
He does, however, encroach on Havelock's personal space a little bit, and murmurs out of the side of his mouth, "Should it count as the right sort of distraction if I were to throw myself on you with little regard for public standards of decency and decorum?"
River is, in fact, winning enough that there are a number of members of casino security paying very close attention to her, not to mention the dealer's professional deadpan turning into rather more of a gimlet eye. But there's no actual rule against keeping track of cards in your head -- and there's definitely no rule about being both psychic and mildly precognitive, nor any way to enforce it if there were.
Which means that, although they're watching increasingly closely and with growing annoyance, there's nothing anyone can actually do about it yet.
(If this were Faro, perhaps this would be another story. But this story is simple - River is beating Doc at cards.)
If they were both winning, then people might think they were cheating.
Then again, people already think they're cheating. So, instead of focusing on the cards, Doc finds himself a drink from one of the ample chested cocktail waitresses nearby and offers commentary on his friend's playing style.
The guy next to him isn't so amused, when Doc beams and congratulates River on winning yet another hand.
"Must be some of the best luck you ever saw, ain't it? Why, she's kickin' all our asses."
The casino security members currently keeping an eye on River are starting to upgrade to 'beadily eyeing,' and looking as if they're strongly considering hinting to her that maybe she ought to quit while she's ahead. Like, now. For example.
Before any of them quite get to the point of saying so aloud, River casts a bright grin at the (sour) dealer, and shoves her cards back. "Xièxie," she announces, and scoops her chips into her purse.
It... takes a few minutes to finish that process.
Then she's up and drifting across the room, her gaze flickering again (and still) from everything to nothing. It's up to Doc to follow, or not, as he likes; River tends to forget about chaperones.
There's still chaos to cause! Also, there are chaos-causing compatriots who need their own chaperoning, in River's opinion.
It's around this point in time that Havelock and Puck are briefly separated by the crowd. Coyote immediately cruises up and tries to lead Havelock off by putting her arm into his.
"Pardon me, my dear. Would you mind speaking to me for a moment? Right this way-"
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Nevertheless, he appears to have recovered himself somewhat. (The alcohol probably helps.)
"Where you lead, sir," he manages, "I shall most certainly follow."
A pause.
"... Peevishly, of course. Broken machines. Most uncouth. Do speak to someone."
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Some are less busy than others, and it is in one of these that he pauses, ostensibly to watch some of the dancers.
"By the way," he says blandly. "Do you have any mints?"
...Look, it's not his fault he feels uncomfortable without weaponry.
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Sometimes mortals get it right.
"--Ah," he says. "Oh. Yes. I've six ... if you find your breath in need of much freshening."
His smile is innocent and unaffected.
Code is fun!
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The pheasant has no agenda.
"I find lack of oral hygiene quite distressing, as you know."
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He withdraws a half-dozen mints from one pocket, all of them a surprisingly grayish shade for breath-enhancing candies, and holds them out for Havelock to take.
"All here and accounted for," he adds, giving him a meaningful glance.
"For later, perhaps."
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Havelock takes the sweets with a slight smile, and pockets them very carefully, apart from one, which vanishes... up his sleeve, possibly?
(Of course he's wearing a wrist holster.)
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He does, however, encroach on Havelock's personal space a little bit, and murmurs out of the side of his mouth, "Should it count as the right sort of distraction if I were to throw myself on you with little regard for public standards of decency and decorum?"
He looks very hopeful.
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The previously affronted woman sniffs to herself, and heads off hastily, presumably to the bar and someone to complain at.
"Alas, I fear we would be ejected from the premises before time," he replies, then pauses eloquently.
"Though for when we do need to leave, I can think of few better camouflages."
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But he takes comfort in the fact that, after all ... he's hardly saying no.
With a faint smile that one would have to know Puck quite well to characterize as 'wicked,' he sighs, "Later, then."
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River is winning.
River is winning a lot.
River is, in fact, winning enough that there are a number of members of casino security paying very close attention to her, not to mention the dealer's professional deadpan turning into rather more of a gimlet eye. But there's no actual rule against keeping track of cards in your head -- and there's definitely no rule about being both psychic and mildly precognitive, nor any way to enforce it if there were.
Which means that, although they're watching increasingly closely and with growing annoyance, there's nothing anyone can actually do about it yet.
Reply
(If this were Faro, perhaps this would be another story. But this story is simple - River is beating Doc at cards.)
If they were both winning, then people might think they were cheating.
Then again, people already think they're cheating. So, instead of focusing on the cards, Doc finds himself a drink from one of the ample chested cocktail waitresses nearby and offers commentary on his friend's playing style.
The guy next to him isn't so amused, when Doc beams and congratulates River on winning yet another hand.
"Must be some of the best luck you ever saw, ain't it? Why, she's kickin' all our asses."
Reply
Before any of them quite get to the point of saying so aloud, River casts a bright grin at the (sour) dealer, and shoves her cards back. "Xièxie," she announces, and scoops her chips into her purse.
It... takes a few minutes to finish that process.
Then she's up and drifting across the room, her gaze flickering again (and still) from everything to nothing. It's up to Doc to follow, or not, as he likes; River tends to forget about chaperones.
There's still chaos to cause! Also, there are chaos-causing compatriots who need their own chaperoning, in River's opinion.
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This is Las Vegas, and he's not about to leave a woman unattended.
"So how'd y'learn t'count like that," he mutters, once he moves up alongside her. "Cause I gotta say, that was mighty impressive."
(And you can bet that security is watching their every move, wondering just where they're headed to next.)
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(In spite of the eyes. She knows, they're there, they're listening -- but in this moment --)
"It's numbers," she tells him, as if this explains everything.
"The algorithms are a line."
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"Pardon me, my dear. Would you mind speaking to me for a moment? Right this way-"
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