Poker+Night

Poker Night

The criminal underground is a strange thing. A pretty improbable thing when you think about it. I mean, what kind of society could form from mad scientists, dark sorcerers, rogue A.I.'s, and shadowy criminal masterminds? The fact that such a thing exists, and even thrives, is something that mystifies the forces of justice to this very day. I think that's part of why I so enjoy spending time with my fellow villains. Every time I go to lunch with some mad demigod or astral parasite, I'm not just having a good time, I'm also costing some mystery man or super spy a night's sleep trying to figure out what we were doing. The problem the "good guys" have is that they forget that even though we're trying to conquer or destroy the world, we're still human. Or at least human shaped. Most of the time. Regardless, we need social interaction, and the only people we can really sympathize with are other megalomaniacs. They think we're just plotting the downfall of civilization together, when we're actually just enjoying each others company. Like any subculture, the criminal underground has urban legends, stories costumed street thugs tell each other in bars and bank vaults to pass the time. One of the most prevalent stories is that once every couple of years, the worlds most notorious and mysterious bad guys get together in one place. And play cards. The story changes every time its told, one iteration says the so called Barons play black jack, others say they play in the Devil's personal casino. In fact, we play Texas Hold Em in a secure location in a non-extradition country, which changes every time we get together. This year it was Patterson's turn to arrange the game. He set up an abandoned warehouse in capital city of the nation of Eritrea. I doubt it cost him anything to arrange; being the world's most powerful sorcerer means never having to pay. The usual luxuries had been organized, of course. The inside of the warehouse had been turned into the equal of Buckingham Palace, to whose opulence I can personally attest. We had the best food and drink imaginable, all served by what Patterson claimed to be succubi. I'm not sure whether he was telling the truth, the old cowboy does love a good lie, but the waitresses would have definitely looked natural with horns and seducing the virtuous. The one thing we all had in common aside from a thirst for power and a practically superhuman aversion to boredom was paranoia, so we all collaborated on the security. There was enough technology and magic in that warehouse to guarantee that if anyone within 50 miles even thought about messing with us, we'd know it. And then a couple dozen evil spirits, hired killers, and weaponized nano swarms would proceed to turn them into a greasy spot on the ground. Back in the 90s, an Interpol agent had actually found out where the game was being held, and had tried to do some snooping. Mr. Reynard was running things that year, so the guy just disappeared, as was the Fox Eyed Man's style. Ever since then, we've all added our own little something to the security systems just in case. As always, the game was Texas hold 'em. There were six of us at the table this year. The first dealer was always the host, which meant Patterson. Going clockwise from him, we had Professor Hakim Almasi, Mr. Reynard, Xander Holt, me, Longwei Mock, and Lady Madeline Silva. These men and woman were the most feared individuals on the planet, and in certain cases, such as mine, a couple planets. To the "heroes" and to the rank and file exotic criminals out there we were known as the Barons. Gilbert Patterson was the oldest person at the table, at160 years old. He grew up in California back when it was the frontier, and grew into a genuine Western Outlaw. No one knows for sure when he made the switch from train robberies to black magic, but it was evidently a good move. For being the oldest human being alive, he looked merely like a weathered, but still very spry 60. He still dressed the cowboy, with the duster coat and the wide brimmed hat smashed down over long, wispy white hair. Overall, Patterson looked the least dangerous of all of us. Of course, in reality he was the only person at this table none of us would go up against willingly. Patterson had a long, ugly history, and had killed more people himself than any of the rest of us had simply ordered killed. Not just that, but he was like a cat in that he didn't do it slow. The old cowboy had a mean temper and had a fondness for curses, his favorite trick being to take some modern insults and making them come true. Think about some of the things people say to each other when they're angry or drunk, and then make that come true like something out of the worst Greek tragedies. Then you'll understand why we were all, quietly, terrified of the old man. In contrast to Patterson, Professor Almasi was the youngest guy at the table, as well as a man of science rather than magic. Almasi was the latest star to come out of the mad scientist set, a brilliant young punk whose hobby was designing WMD's over breakfast. He was 21 years old, though this was backed up by a level of world weariness characteristic of the average seasoned war veteran. He was a child of Iraq, and had grown up in the middle of a war zone. He was a handsome kid, who despite being one of the world's most wanted exotic arms dealers, still looked for all the world like a college student. That is except for the robotic right hand, which he did to himself. The Professor's specialty was weapons manufacturing. He had degrees in pretty much any science or math you could name and put them all to use making people die messily. Most of his money come from selling lasers to Banana Republics or anyone else who could pay, with the exception of Al Qaeda and similar organizations. In fact it was common knowledge that you could get a nice discount on the best weaponry the Professor had if you were intending to use it against Islamic extremist factions. One thing that wasn't common knowledge was that Haqim wasn't in complete control of his own genius. He suffered from some unknown disorder which sent him into a fugue state for hours on end. When he woke up, he'd discover that he'd built some terrifying weapon, something so advanced that not even he could replicate it. The Professor hadn't worried too much about it until recently, when he'd replaced his own hand with machinery during one his blackouts. Since then he'd started taking anti-psychotics and seeking professional help. No one knew Mr. Reynard's real name, except for maybe Patterson but if he did he wasn't talking. This made Reynard probably the least liked person at the table. Part of what made us all feel secure enough to get together like this was that we knew each others secrets. Every time someone new came to the table, everyone put their individual resources into finding out everything about them. The fact that despite spending fortunes and countless operatives investigating, we didn't know a thing about Reynard that wasn't anything more than rumor. Hell, we were the only people we could find who'd even seen his face. Mr. Reynard was a criminal mastermind, a Kaiser Soze or Professor Moriarty made real. Supposedly, he indirectly owned or controlled most of the world's organized crime, and according to some stories, most of the world's law enforcement too. The legends gave him a hundred different histories. One tale said he was a French national who'd gotten rich working with the Nazi's during World War II, first by facilitating the Vichy regime, and later by extorting gold from war criminals in exchange for passage to South America. Another one said that he was actually a high ranking member of Interpol, who used his connections to run the ultimate protection racket, one directed against his fellow criminals. Appearance wise, Reynard was a bald, brown eyed, Caucasian in a nice suit whose voice occasionally suggested a French accent. His looks were as nebulous as everything else about him. Next in the lineup was Xander Holt, CEO of Holt Pharmaceuticals. Aside from the corporation he had founded and turned into an industry juggernaut, he also dabbled in other businesses ranging from soft drinks to heroin manufacturing. A sizable portion of the world's heroin was created in his labs, along with a number of club drugs and narcotics. Holt was an 80's man, a produce of the age of Gorden Gecko and the power tie. For him being a bad guy was about profit and excitement, nothing more. Among the criminal fraternity who knew about him, Holt had a reputation for always staying one step ahead. The DEA would set up a raid on one of his drug labs, only to find it long abandoned and wiped clean when they got there. He also had a nose for the Next Big Thing in designer drugs, always the first to cash when something hit, and the first to cash out when things went belly up. Most thought it was either good research or fantastic instincts, when in fact, it was drugs. Back when Holt was just starting up, one of his research teams stumbled onto a holy grail, a chemical compound which could induce prophetic visions when injected. Always one to see an opportunity when it plopped down in his lap, Holt took the team's research for himself. Once he had learned how to synthesize the compound, he had the discoverers all killed quietly and started counting zeros. Ever since then, he's been untouchable as both a drug lord and a legitimate businessman. Too bad he is unaware of the long term side effects of the drug, which aren't pretty. The Professor managed to get a hold of a sample somehow and ran some tests. I later bought the information off of him, as did probably the rest of the table. Its kind of our own private joke at the obnoxious yuppie's expense. The Lady Silva was one of the few women Barons. She was a beautiful creature, with long black hair, vibrant blue eyes, and a face that could give Helen of Troy pause. The rest of her body was just as magnificent, though from what I heard it was somewhat difficult to tell from all of the scars. The Lady was one of the world's best soldier for hire, the Queen of Mercenaries. From her estate in Italy, she controlled an army of mercs, who fought and died at her command. Like Holt, she was a businesswoman, and did whatever she could to ensure she had plenty of business. The Lady was a warmonger par excellence, her manipulations having sparked off more than a few genocides and civil wars in recent years. Also of note, she was the fourth most dangerous person at the table. This probably doesn't seem that amazing until you understand that the people in front of her were either bestowed with immense magical power or outfitted with a small arsenal of tiny killer machines. Patterson, Almasi, and I got our power through either luck or raw talent, where as the Lady got hers from endless preparation and execution of her craft. Then there was Longwei Mock, known to the law enforcement community as the Dragon of London. The Dragon, as he prefers to be called, is an odd mixture of Triad boss and meta-human supremacist. His organization, the Ao Ji Group, is one of the smallest, but most powerful triad's on the planet, as well as the only criminal enterprise on the planet where the number of super-humans outnumber the normal ones. According to Interpol's latest intelligence, seven out of every ten Ao Ji members has some sort of paranormal ability. This is because of the Dragon's preferential and...insistent recruitment of meta-humans. Longwei Mock was a tall, aristocratic, middle aged Asian man in a charcoal gray suit. He would seem almost normal if it wasn't for the scary intensity of his eyes, the way his gaze seemed to say "I can kill you by thinking hard." Which he could do. Like all meta-humans, the Dragon had been born with a superpower, in his case the ability to cause fires and explosions with his mind. Mock had started off as a hit-man and arson specialist before rising to his current position. He had a reputation for setting people who annoyed him, especially normal humans, on fire. Finally, there was me. My name is Benjamin Dax, better known as Lord Morbus. I'm of the Sauron school of villainy, meaning that I'm a Dark Lord. I've got all of the trappings, such as the black, spiky, sentient armor that consumes light and can detect whatever's in shadows. I've also got a spear made from the souls of my fallen enemies. I've even got a magic ring which whispers temptations and dark secrets into the minds of my enemies. The usual gear. I also have an army of soldiers willing to die at my command, and an empire that provides me with every resource I need. Though the empire itself is located in another dimension. The Dark Lord thing runs in my family. Somewhere in our history, we acquired an artifact which allowed us to move back and forth between this world and another one, one which most D&D players would find quite comfortable. Ever since then we've been the greatest villains of that world, until my great grandfather successfully conquered that entire world in 1947. Since then we've kind of coasted on that success; I'm the first member of the family in decades to really do anything with our power. Namely, use it to try and take over this world as well. So far I've had decent success. A couple years ago, I managed to take over a small Eastern European nation and set up one of my generals to run it in my stead. I've got a foothold here, from which I can expand given time. I'm pretty confident that I can have this entire planet subjugated by the time any children I have are grown and I pass on my title to them. So like I said earlier, Patterson dealt first. He shuffled the deck with the smooth skill of the professional gambler, one of his previous careers, and gave each of us two cards. Then with the same measured hand, he tossed three cards into the center of the table. The king of clubs, the 6 of hearts, and the seven of clubs lay before us. The Professor made the small blind, while Reynard had the big one. It was Holt's turn. My armor whispered his cards in my ear, giving the sensation of oily fingers stroking my brain. The Wall Street wannabe had pair of 6's, a poor hand. Yes, I cheated. So does everyone else at the table. Patterson was wearing a couple dozen good luck charms, Almasi's contact lens allowed him to see everyone's cards, and everyone else had their own little tricks. We're villains, give us some credit. "So Morbus, I'm surprised to find you here tonight." Haqim asked, his English perfect. The kid was fluent in a couple hundred dialects, English just being his favorite. "Weren't you up before the International Criminal Court a month ago?" "Yes. A plan of mine failed and I wasn't able to retreat in time. But my status as the sovereign of an outer dimensional nation makes it impossible for them to touch me. It was merely a ploy, to make it seem as if the law actually had some authority. Nothing more." Another benefit of my armor is that it changes my voice, making it deeper, more impressive. Without it, my voice is unfortunately rather nasal. "Ah, okay. Well, glad things worked out." Haqim said, as Holt finally gave in to the inevitable and folded. The Lady Silva, who was somehow able to obscure her cards from my armor's sight, called. My turn, and I had a two pairs, king's and 6's. Not a bad hand, so I called as well. "How did your plan fail, Dark Lord?" That was Holt, breaking one of the unspoken rules of the poker table. Namely, don't discuss each others failures. None of us liked having to explain how some idiot hero got the better of us, so we preferred that questions like that not be asked. Holt, being the petulant man-child that he was, didn't think the rule applied to him, since he never got caught. Oh well, two could play at that game. "My strategy was to use a ritual to open portals between my empire and the capitals of several countries that border my colony. The plan was that my armies would then march in and seize control, significantly expanding my territory on this plane. Somehow, a group of altruistic magi were made aware of my plan, and disrupted the ritual." While I told the story, I commanded my armor to emit a low whining sound, background noise. No one at the table would notice except for Holt. The precognitive drug he used caused hypersensitivity to certain sounds as a side effect. Just to annoy him. "After that, I was put in front of the Court as I said earlier. A couple of men in suits proselytized at me for several hours, made a spectacle of themselves, as if they were anything more than worms who used big words and fine clothing to disguise their own impotence. Don't you think, Mr. Holt?" Patterson was the only one at the table who actually laughed, though his laugh was more like a desert wind than good humor. But I could tell that the rest of the table had understood the insult, confirming my assumption that all of them had also acquired the Professor's research. One of the long term side effects of Holt's wonder drug was that certain parts of his anatomy didn't function as they should. Holt's face turned an amusing shade of red, and for a second I though he might actually do something stupid. Instead he merely sat back in his chair and pretended he hadn't heard anything, showing him to be more intelligent than I previously believed. Xander Holt was a rank amateur, a sad creature who got lucky and stumbled into power. The rest of us had at least worked for it some way, even I had to prove myself to my father to earn my throne. The game went on. Lady Silva won the first hand, as well as the second. Mr. Reynard won the third with a brilliant bluff. Patterson didn't really try and win at all, he just drank whiskey and kept his cards close to his chest. Conversation went around the table, small talk about this scheme or that. Silva talked about this bush war in Africa she had set off. Patterson regaled us all of the story of his latest nemesis, a young sorcerer who's parents Patterson had murdered. Patterson did this every couple of decades, picking some poor mystical prodigy and ruining his life. He'd then spend a couple years toying with them, until he grew bored. From the way Patterson talked up this latest plaything, the lad had proven entertaining, even managing to kill off one of the old cowboy's apprentices. It was the Professor who decided to spice things up. It was my turn to deal, which meant Almasi had first bet. The kid had taken a beating the previous couple of hands, and didn't have much money left. Usually when that happens, the player simply backs out gracefully. But for whatever reason, the mad scientist didn't want to go down without setting off some fireworks. So when it came time for him to make his bet, instead of tossing some chips out, he raised. Smiling that mischievous grin of his, he reached into his pocket with his metal hand and pulled out a tiny object, which he then slid onto the pot. It was a metal disc, about the size of a DVD and about as thick as a quarter. The thing had no distinctive features, just smooth, polished metal. Everyone suddenly got deadly serious. This was a piece of genuine Almasi fugue tech. "What does it do?" Mr. Reynard asked. The mastermind's face was as calm as ever, but there was a certain rigidity of posture, and the way his accent suddenly creeped in, that spoke volumes as to how tense he was. "From what I can tell, this thing releases entropy. Any kind of ordered system falls apart after prolonged contact with this thing, whether it be mechanical, mathematical, or even social. Put simply, this thing is the Apple of Discord." This got everyone's attention, for two reasons. The first was simply the sheer potential of such a device. If Almasi was telling the truth, this thing could be used to disrupt and eventually cause the collapse of any organization. Everyone at that table could think of some uses for such power. The other reason we were all a bit tense was that now we would have to either fold or bet something of similar value. So, whoever won this next hand would probably end up being the most dangerous single person on the planet. Mr. Reynard was up next. Silently and with a serenity that suggested he had somehow anticipated this turn of events, he removed a flash drive from his pocket and placed it in the pot. "On that drive is a file containing information on most of the world's heroes. Real identities, friends and family, financial history, everything. Was saving it for a rainy day." At this point, half of the table were practically salivating. The faces of various government agents, masked vigilantes, and white wizards flashed through my mind in a descending order of murderous wrath. To everyone's surprise, Holt actually folded, earning the entire table's silent disgust. This much power for the taking and he backed down. It was unthinkable. "I will wager the services of the Ghost Man." The Ghost Man was Longwei's personal bodyguard and top assassin. No one knew exactly what his powers were, but they rendered him completely undetectable by anyone but his master. He was also able to cause some kind of short circuit in the brain, cooking it in its own juices. While not the most valuable of the prizes being offered, a fanatically loyal, mutant assassin was nothing to sneeze at. The Lady Silva bet her belt. "I found it during a job in Greece. It's the Girdle of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. It protects its wearer from any malicious magic or psychic attack, and it also makes you a lot harder to kill." She didn't say anymore though we got the implications. The Lady was risking the thing that protected her from the things that no amount of training could help against. If she lost, she'd be a lot more vulnerable. I was up next. I'd thought over what I would, judging what was too valuable to lose and what could be lost with minimal discomfort. I decided to bet my colony, my only holdings on this planet. I figured that I could acquire more territory later on, where as any of my relics of power were irreplaceable. Finally, there was Patterson. He reached into his mouth, and pulled out a poker chip. He tossed it onto the pot and smiled evilly at us. "I'm betting my magic." He said, laughing that wheezy laugh. No one moved. No one said a word. Patterson's bet had blown everyone else's right out of the water. Whoever won this hand, would become the most powerful magic user in the known universe, as well as a couple others not as well known ones. We weren't just gambling for simple power anymore. The stakes had jumped up to demigod-hood. The warehouse was quiet. No one was really sure where to go from there. The fact was that this hand was a major event. All kinds of unpleasant things could happen as a result. It wouldn't be that surprising if we came to blows over everything. All the rules had essentially gone out the window, never to be seen again. Patterson looked around the table, giving everyone a good look at his silver blue eyes and snake smile. He had a good hand and wanted everyone to know it. Unfortunately, before everyone could show their cards, and we could see who exactly become a living deity, we were interrupted. Now to this day, I'm not exactly sure how the hero, Patterson's latest nemesis, managed to sneak in. Just as the old man was about to show us his cards, a lanky, twenty something kid strode out of the shadows and faced us. We were all engrossed in the game, so at first we didn't notice him. The kid had to announce himself before we even registered his presence. "No one move! I've got a couple dozen death curses primed and ready, and if any of you so much as twitch, everyone dies. Understand?" The entire table, with the exception of Patterson, turned to stare at the kid. We understood all right. The hero was apparently planing on nobly sacrificing himself so as to kill the world's greatest evil doers all in one go. Ambitious, but not exactly creative. We'd all seen this routine before, and knew ways around it. As it turned out though, we didn't need to do anything. "Leave, child. Leave now while you still can." Patterson still had his back to hero, but he had a talent for making himself heard. "No! Not before killing you! Did you honestly think you could get away with what you did? That I wouldn't do anything to track you down and bring you to justice? The justice my parent's deserve?" The kid was screaming at Patterson, barely maintaining his composure. I couldn't decide which was more upsetting for him, the things the old cowboy had done to him, or the fact that Patterson didn't seem to take him seriously. "Your parents, oh you stupid child. Let me tell you something about your folks. To you, they're your motivation, the thing that gives your worthless shell of a life meaning. For me, they were a Monday, and not even a particularly interesting one." Patterson said all of this with the same casual tone of voice people use when discussing the weather or local news. "Now you've been fun, and I don't like breaking my toys while they've still got some years left, but there's something here I want. So if you don't leave now, I'll make you leave, and I won't be nice about it." The kid lost it. He made an ugly, animal sound, and began chanting. I, by dint of my armor's mystical senses, felt the arsenal of nasty spells the kid had brought begin charging. The kid was channeling immense amounts of magic, more than I'd ever seen done by one person. The old cowboy made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, his back still turned. Suddenly, all the energy the kid had been summoning up just went away. The curses unraveled, leaving the kid just standing there, amid the sad ruins of his vengeance. He glared at Patterson's back with a hatred I've only seen once or twice in my life. His face was as white as a sheet, and his fists were clenched so hard that began bleeding. No one spoke for what seemed like a long while. "Go to hell." The kid hissed, every syllable thick with boundless, all consuming hate. Patterson finally turned and looked at the kid. He wasn't smiling anymore. He met the kids gaze head on, not blinking, just taking it all in. "You first." The old cowboy said. As so the kid did. I'm not going to go in depth and describe exactly how he was dragged into the Pit. All I'll say was that what we saw of it was dark and cold, and terrified us all. I actually felt sorry for the kid, though not too much given that in all likelihood I'd be joining him someday. With the kid gone, the game resumed. The little showdown between Patterson and the boy wonder had been entertaining but didn't distract anyone from what really mattered. Infinite, cosmic power only one hand of cards away. We were villains after all, and the pursuit of power was always top priority, no matter what we sins we had to commit or what parts of our souls we had to sell. Almasi decided not to push things farther than they'd already gone. Still smiling like a kid enjoying the world's best practical joke, he showed us his cards. A pair of 5s and Aces, a crap hand given the community cards. With a contented sigh, the mad scientist leaned back in his chair and watched. Reynard was next. His face still infuriatingly unreadable, he splayed his cards out on the table. He'd been even worse off than the Professor, only having a measly pair of Aces. Which meant that he had wagered the flash drive knowing that he'd lose it. As always, the criminal mastermind had a reason for everything he did. The Dragon didn't do half bad himself. His hand was alright, competitive but not awe inspiring. He shrugged as he laid the cards down, resigning himself to the loss of his favorite killer. The Lady Silva had a good hand, better than what I had. Three pairs, Aces, Jacks and 10s. All I had was two pair, Aces and Queens. She put the cards down on the table with a contented grin. She knew she was a contender for the pot. Unfortunately for the Lady, Patterson's hand proved to be just as deadly as he had made it out to be. He won the hand smoothly with four of a kind, Aces. None of us were particularly pleased, but had to admit that it had been probably the most exciting game in years. Besides none of were really interested in trying to take anything from Patterson. Not after what he'd done to the hero. As it turned out though, none of that was necessary. "All I wanted was the disc. The rest of this junk doesn't interest me any, so you can have it back. I've got what I wanted." Patterson said, snapping up the Professor's disc and sliding it into his coat pocket. Everyone followed suit, snapping up their belongings. With that, the night was over. One by one, we all cashed in our chips and made our way out of the warehouse. Patterson left as soon as the last hand was over, not even bothering with any of the money he had on the table. It was as if he'd come to the game simply so that he could acquire Almasi's entropy device. After that game Patterson dropped off of the map for a while. He eventually made a come back, killing the many pretenders to the throne who'd moved in in his absence. The entropy device he'd wanted so badly was never heard from again. Holt left after Patterson, with his tail in between his legs. He'd been found wanting, and would not be receiving an invitation to the next game. As it happened though, he was killed by a rogue DEA agent about a month after the game. Apparently, he'd started trying to run his business without the drug, in response to what it was doing to him. Good riddance to a poor excuse for a villain. The Lady Silva left in the company of Professor Almasi, who seemed quite pleased with himself for some reason. That is aside from the fact that he was going home with the world's deadliest, and most beautiful, mercenary. I heard a year later that they'd become partners as well as lovers, combining Almasi's arms dealing with Silva's mercenary armies. The relationship was surprisingly stable, and had supposedly helped the Professor gain some control over his blackouts, though not before he replaced his heart with a gadget that drew in power from alternate realities. In the end it was just Reynard, the Dragon, and myself. For whatever reason, none of us had felt liking leaving the table yet, maybe just feeling particularly sociable. The Dragon was just relaxing, lounging in a chair with a glass of wine clutched in one hand. I liked Longwei, as did most of his other peers. For a immolation happy Oriental crime lord and genetic radical he was surprisingly charismatic. "That was quite possibly the most fun I've ever had at one of these...events. An exciting game, good food, we even got a show. Not very often does one get a chance to see the Old Cowboy flex his muscles. Usually all you see is Patterson glare at someone and then they're gone. Today he quite literally damned someone. Didn't even know you could do that? Lord Morbus, you've got more connections to the occult end of things. Have you ever seen anything like that?" The Dragon was also known to be rather talkative when caught in the right mood. "No, that was the first time. Nor was it Patterson "flexing his muscles" as you put it. I've seen him exert himself, really show what he's capable of." The Dragon's eyebrows rose in curiosity. He sat up somewhat in his chair and set his drink down. He was giving me his full attention. Reynard also seemed to have perked up. Ever since the game had ended he'd been lying on one the couches, his eyes shut and lips pursed. When I mentioned having seen Patterson really throw down, he opened his eyes and turned his head towards me. "Go on." The Fox Eyed Man said. Behind my Helm of Sorrows, I smiled. There was something in me that always loved telling stories. In my civilian identity I was a moderately successful fantasy writer, a career choice that appealed mainly for the irony. Most of my books were really just retellings of important events in my world's history, the only real fiction being that in my books the heroes won in the end. "It was four years ago. Patterson contacted me asking for assistance on a personal project of his. He wanted to borrow an artifact that was in my possession at the time and use it for what he called his Ascension. He was planning on using the artifact, the Veil of Liars, in a ritual which would allow him to essentially con the universe into making him a god. That's been the Old Cowboy's goal for over a century now. He was only forty five when he seized the title of Archmagus for himself, proving his dominion over all earthly magicians by right of combat. He killed ten rival sorcerers in the process, all of whom were centuries older than him." "Anyone I might have heard of?" The Dragon was evidently enjoying the story. Of the Baron's Patterson was among the most mysterious, second only to Mr. Reynard in his secrecy. And unlike Reynard, very few people were willing to look too deeply into his past for fear of what he'd do to them if annoyed. Everyone knew the basics of his story, or at least enough to know that he could and would do utterly monstrous things to someone. "Are you familiar with Arthurian legend?" The Dragon's eyes went a bit wide. Evidently he was familiar with King Arthur. Or rather with Merlin. Mr. Reynard didn't act surprised; he just smirked. As always I wondered how much the man really knew. "Of course, I cannot be sure that the man Patterson killed was the original Merlin. Many sorcerers have claimed that name for themselves, some more deserving of it that others. Whoever Patterson killed was old and powerful, if not the true Merlin at the very least his equal. Anyway, back to my original point. Patterson proved himself the most dangerous spell-caster in this dimension before he was fifty. And while he's been able to hold his title ever since then, he's always looked to the next level of power. Godhood." "But he's never been able to achieve godhood." That was Reynard, now sitting on the couch, his full attention focused on the conversation. "Exactly. Every attempt to seize the godhead for himself has failed. Including the occasion I was telling you about. As I said, the Old Man was planning to use one of my artifacts to make another bid for apotheosis. He asked for the relic, and I gave it to him on the condition that I be present for the ritual. I was hoping to gain information as a result of the situation. Information about Patterson and about an Ascension. While I'm not currently aiming to become a god, I have to admit that it is a better retirement than what we saw today." Longwei and I both shuddered thinking about that cold blackness. We both knew the implications of what we'd seen that night. Reynard on the other hand, didn't seem bothered in the slightest. He was actually smiling at us, a self satisfied smirk at our expense. "Go on." Reynard said. I gritted my teeth, and thanked the Dark Powers that my helmet prevented the Fox Eyed Man from seeing me blush with embarrassment. I hated being upstaged, especially by someone I considered an equal. "Well, as could be expected, once the ritual was underway, things went awry. A group of heroes, young upstart magicians with trench coats and stubble, arrived and disrupted Patterson's Ascension. The ritual tied up much of Patterson's power, so while he was able to kill the white magicians, he wasn't able to do so before they managed to set fire to the Veil. The destruction of the artifact ruined Patterson's Ascension, while also drawing enough attention that various cosmic forces moved to nullify the loophole he was looking to exploit. The failure of his plan didn't sit well with him. That was the only time I've ever seen Patterson really angry." "What happened?" "You've seen what happens when a painting gets wet? The colors run together and the shapes begin to distort? That's what Patterson did. He caused space and time to collapse in upon itself and brought the idiot heroes back from the dead so that they could experience it. They didn't react well. I was protected from the actual sensation, but I saw things that I would rather not have." The Dragon's eyes got especially wide and he whistled in appreciation. "See, too me that sounds like godhood. If he can make reality fall apart just by getting angry how is that so different?" This was a common question, and a common misunderstanding made by those who weren't part of the occult underground. I was going to explain the difference between mere infinite cosmic power and godly power when to my surprise, Reynard did it for me. "Godhood isn't really about power. It's about perspective and scope. Patterson is capable of doing whatever he wants to do, make any kind of change to reality he wants, but he can only do so in a localized way. He can't rewrite the laws of physics in Egypt when he's in Moscow. By becoming a god, he could exert his influence over the entire universe. But even that pales before the change in perspective. Patterson's powers are unable to move past the limitations of his own mind. He can break down reality, but he can't control how it breaks. He's forced to work within the limits of human concepts such as time, luck, and entropy. If he becomes a god, Patterson would transcend such limitations." This was the most Mr. Reynard had ever said at once. Usually, he preferred to keep his own council, stay silent and let others talk. Expounding on a subject like this was uncharacteristic of the Fox Eyed Man. "Though power isn't really what drives Patterson towards divinity. It's boredom. He's beaten everyone on this level of the great game, and he wants to move to the next level. For all his power, the Old Cowboy is consumed by a very pedestrian fear. He's terrified of growing complacent. He'll focus completely on anything that might give him his chance to test himself against the lord of creation. He'll pause in his obsession only when something threatens his interests enough to force him into action." That's when it hit me. All of the things that had been bugging me about that night suddenly made sense. Patterson's complete nonchalance in regards to the game, until Almasi bet that entropy device. How that hero was able to sneak in past Patterson's defenses. It all made sense. I looked to Mr. Reynard for confirmation and he answered me with a smile that didn't reach up to his eyes. "I was wondering when it would finally come to you. I've been waiting all night for you to put the pieces together." He gave glanced at the Dragon as he spoke. Longwei nodded, stood up and left the warehouse with a word. Reynard's smirk widened. "He's a criminal. I'm a criminal mastermind. In fact, I'm //the// criminal mastermind. I've found it useful to have one of my lieutenants appear at these games. Just so that I have some support in case anything interesting occurs. In this case though, I had a specific purpose in mind for my Dragon." "Almasi's device? The one Patterson wanted." "Precisely. The key to Patterson's latest attempt to become a god. I managed to get some information about the device from Professor Almasi prior to tonight's game. He actually made two such devices, but accidentally destroyed one. As it turned out, his entropy devices are very sensitive to intense heat. Of course, after he lost the first one, the Professor managed to provide the surviving device with some shielding." "But outward shielding would not protect it from the Dragon's powers. So the hero was just a distraction?" I found myself with a new sense of respect for Reynard. The man was a schemer beyond anything I had ever heard of. Even more than I had already known. "Yes. Just something to keep everyone's attention off of the device. While Patterson was banishing the boy to Hell, my Dragon was using his powers to start a very tiny fire in the entropy device. A fire just the right size to cause a malfunction when the device is being taxed. So when Patterson tries to use the device to loosen up the laws of magic just enough so that he can slip into an empty seat among the gods, it'll fail. Catastrophically." "Will that kill him?" Reynard smiled again at that, as if he though the idea was funny. "Kill him? No, I don't believe so. Patterson is too much like a force of nature to be killed easily. Besides, I don't want him dead. Even if I could kill him, it would just cause every sorcerer out there to start killing each other." "Then why are you sabotaging his ascension?" "For all that I'm supposed to be this great villain, I'm a supporter of the status quo. I like things to be stable and orderly, allowing my organization to function without any problems. Patterson, when he's looking at a real challenge, has a talent for throwing the status quo into uproar. I was around when he seized his title, and up until he'd killed everyone who was a threat to him, it was complete chaos. I was forced to amputate all of my occult interests just to insulate myself from the mayhem. If he ever ascends, it'll be the same insanity, except on a cosmic scale. So I've made a habit of keeping abreast of his various plans and schemes, and making sure they come to nothing." "Hmm. Why are you telling me all of this? It goes against everything I've ever seen or heard of you to just explain your entire plan to me. It's the kind of thing I'd expect from a lesser villain. So you must have a reason." Reynard stood up, and smoothed his hair back. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by his usual expression of neutrality. "I am a remarkably good judge of character. I can tell a lot about someone just by listening and watching them. I also have access to resources that allow me to know things that by rights I shouldn't. Unfortunately, you're armor protects you. Your helm hides your face and distorts your voice, and that bulky armor, not to mention the aura that surrounds it, prevents me from reading your body language. I've been observing you all night, and all I could get was that you're were suspicious, that tonight's events didn't seem right to you." The Foxed Eyed Man voice was completely emotionless, just like his face. But while I couldn't be sure, I had a feeling that what he was describing, his inability to learn anything about me, was more than a little frustrating. "You, Lord Morbus, are the only person at this table who I cannot touch, who exists completely outside of my influence. You're an extra-dimensional conqueror, with an entire world under your thumb. Even if I could gain access to your kingdom, your power would be so thoroughly entrenched as to be untouchable. Of course, the same thing faces you in regards to me. You can't harm my organization, because it is so thoroughly entrenched in this world. Even if you ever manage to take over this world, you still wouldn't be able to root out my influence, at least not without crippling yourself in the process. In short, you and I are equals. I'm not fond of having equals, but there is very little I can do about it." "So that's why you're telling your entire scheme to me?" "Yes. I knew you'd figure everything out eventually, so I made sure that it was on my terms." "You do realize that it would be in my interest to tell Patterson all of this. For all your talk of being untouchable, you forget what Patterson's capable of. If I warned him of everything you're planning, nothing on this earth would prevent him from butchering you. I would gain the gratitude of the most powerful sorcerer in this dimension, as much as that's worth. And I would also be rid of an equal as you put it. So I must assume that you've got something to offer me in exchange for my silence." Reynard stopped pacing and turned to face me. Without the slightest hint of reaction to my words, he pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It was the flash drive he'd bet earlier. "Here is what I have in mind. You keep your silence in regards to tonight's events. You don't tell Patterson a thing, nor do you try and use this information to extort from me. In exchange you gain the gratitude of the world's greatest criminal mastermind, and leverage against every hero who's ever crossed you." "What do you mean by gratitude?" "I mean an alliance of sorts. I don't trust you, and you don't trust me, so such a partnership would be very...casual. I have information and resources that would be of aid to you, and you have things I could make use of. We both make a profit, we both have out respective agendas furthered somewhat." I stood up and regarded the thing on the table. Reynard's deal was very tempting. His assistance would be invaluable, and as for the flash drive... Of course, I couldn't trust him. Hell, that flash drive probably had some kind of virus in it, something he could use against me or to gain information about me. Or he might have an enchantment on it for the same purpose. Really, the flash drive would almost definitely have both. Of course, I could accept the deal, take the flash drive, and then go to Patterson anyway. No. Reynard was smart, he would have some kind of fail safe in case I turned Judas on him. Turning on him would probably end up screwing me in the long run. There was also no guarantee that the information he was offering was legitimate. It might be part of some plot of his. Though I had a feeling it wasn't. Would I risk becoming just another pawn in Reynard's games? Risk ending up just another puppet dancing to the Foxed Eyed Man's tune? Was power and the chance of revenge really worth risking everything I'd built by getting into bed with this guy? I thought about the International Criminal Court, about the heroes who'd beaten me, and stood me up in chains before bureaucrats. I thought about every idiot in spandex, or poorly shaved anti-hero in a coat who'd ever made me look the fool. And then I imagined myself sitting on top of a mountain of bones, the bones of those same heroes, along with those of their friends, their families, even their pets. After that, everything was easy. Really, there wasn't really a decision to be made. "Deal."