"The game? Straight poker. Not five card draw like we've been playing all night. We place bets and raise until either one of us chooses not. It's far more challenging than Texas Hold'em, Draw, or Stud to me. There are no cards to see, which means there is nothing to base your assumptions on other than the tells of other player."

Jirou placed his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of his face. "It also means that like life, we must play the hand we are dealt." he sat back in his seat, motioning to the cards with his hand. "The first bet is to you, I believe."

She liked this kid, she decided. He had balls. Her face impassive, she tossed three hundred at the center of the table. Pocket change. Whether or not it was true for her at the moment, she refused to act otherwise. If a woman seemed to need nothing, people didn't suspect her of robbing them. Even here in this filthy hole in the city, her fingers were adorned with rings, long gold chains hanging from her ears. The collar of her jacket was fur.

"You seem very sure with yourself," Leyla mused. "In Turkey, we have a saying. 'Hamama giren terler.' One who go in the Turk bath sweats."

It was amusing, trying to fish a reaction from the boy. Rarely did she have the opportunity to meet with someone she couldn't tear down blindfolded and lame. It made her want to keep him around, a puzzle to dissect and toy with.

Jirou raised the bet, sliding six hundred in cash to the center of the table. While he was still intent on letting her set the tone, he wasn't about to let it start off this slow. Never reel the fish in too soon, otherwise you will lose both the bait and the fish. Better to let the fish swallow the hook.

"My parent's also had a saying, 'Koketsu ni irazunba koji wo ezu.' Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He'd played against women before, but they had simply arrived at the tables as arm candy for the men with deep pockets. This Leyla on the other hand was a different animal. Her jewelry and clothing screamed upper class, but there was something about the way she carried herself that didn't quite fit the picture.He caught his attention shifting from the game to the strange interaction between Leyla and the man who had discretely handed her the note. He was curious what that had all been about.

If that was the way he wanted to play it...she dropped eight hundred into the center, eyes never leaving him. The game had become secondary, a means to discerning his own game. He spoke of his parents without malice, and yet here he was in the pits instead of studying medicine or watever these uzkoglazii do. An orphan? Maybe. Maybe they were mafia.

"Though, I do not think this was their meaning, yes?" she pressed, gesturing quite generally at the game, fishing for some indication.

Jirou's brow furrowed in confusing. He wasn't sure if Leyla understood the proverb, or if she was trying to goad him into saying something that would reveal more than he intended. Either option was possible, though for the game's sake, he opted to ere on the side of caution.

He eyed the eight hundred dollars which she so casually dropped to the table. She wasn't afraid to throw her weight around the table, especially when it was one on one.

"My parents were always very old fashioned. Always had a proverb for everything life threw at you." he adjusted his fedora once again, before stacking an even thousand on top of his previous bet, raising the bet to one thousand six hundred dollars to match.

He picked up his cards once again and studied them. Again, still not a bad hand. "How about yours?"

Leyla had barely glanced at her cards and found no reason to lookk again. The fact that he was eyeing his could go either way. He could be coveting or weighing risks. She searched for any sort of give but he was a closed book so far.

She carefully considered her words, not wanting to give anything away. "Mine? Not so old fashioned. I find wisdom for myself."

All she needed was a scrap of skin and she could peel the scabs open. "But yours...immigrants, yes? Strict, put pressure. I think they do not approve this life."

Jirou could see Leyla was digging to expose some sort of weakness in his defenses, and if this were some sort of interrogation where he was getting the life beat out of him he would probably break down into a crumpled mess. The thought of losing his parents was a truly horrific ordeal for him, and he had no doubt it would be something he would have to carry with him for the rest of his life, but it had nothing to do with this.

Jirou cracked his neck and set his cards face down again. He'd humor her. "Yes, my parent's were immigrants and no, I'm sure they would not approve of my lifestyle, but then again I wasn't left with many options." He nodded to the money on the table. It was her turn to call or raise.

If they kept raising at this rate, the game would be over too quickly. Leyla had just over twenty five thousand in front of her, and she still had some fishing to do.

Scanning him for some sign of give at the mention of his parents, she was disappointed to see him still composed. An orphan, then, but the wound wasn't quite fresh enough. A part of her was pleased, though. It meant this game wouldn't be quite so easy.

She raised one hundred, almost an afterthought. "We do what we must, yes?It is land for opportunity, they say, but do not say what opportunities." Unconsciously, she slid one finger along the flat plane that was once her left pinkie.

Jirou decided to finally call. There was no sense in blowing all of his cash in one round of betting and leaving her with total control of the table. Seventeen hundred was a fairly good place to rest. He eyed the pile of cash he had in his corner. Twenty two grand, give or take a couple hundred, and minus what he had already bet on the table. It was a nice haul for the night so far, and the twenty five grand in his opponents corner would certainly be a nice bonus.

"Survival of the fittest, they sometimes say." he drummed his fingers along the edge of the table and smirked. Something on the other side of the door drew his attention though. He could hear heavy footsteps walking towards the door, two people at most, and they were in somewhat of a hurry.

He looked to the door and grasped the cards of his hand, his brow furrowed as the steps drew closer. There was a loud crash as a size 16 foot kicked the door open. Two rather large men stood in the door way.

"You know, it's not good manners to go kicking down doors without knocking." He slowly rose to his feet, still clutching the five cards in his hand.

The first one through the doorway, his face obscured by a rather large bushy and black beard with his head completely bald and smooth like it had just been Bic'd, sneered as he barked out at Jirou. "You two tried to cheat our boss out of his money. We have come by to take it back from you." His voice held a sort of eastern European accent, not to dissimilar to Leyla's, though this one was probably more on the Russian side. His partner stood by quietly with his arms crossed. Unlike the first he was clean shaven, though his hair was kept in a crew-cut fashion.

"Now, if you please. Hand over the money, before we have to make things more physical." the burly bearded thug cracked his knuckles menacingly. Jirou looked over at Leyla, and then down at the cash. He hated getting into fights when he didn't have to, but he especially didn't want to see all that hard earned money walk right out that door. Tonight it probably couldn't be helped.

"I'm curious..." he held the cards behind his back and tipped the brim of his fedora downwards. The cards in his hand began to emit a soft green glow around their edges. Behind his back, the two thugs in the doorway would not be able to see it, but Leyla certainly would. He hoped she wasn't squeamish about mutants, otherwise he'd have a whole other problem to deal with later. "Which boss would that be? The fat stupid slob or the bald headed crybaby? You look related to both so I just gotta know."

The man in the door way growl and spat at the floor, but before he could charge and tackle Jirou, five fully charged cards were already sailing through the air with pin point accuracy and devastating intent. All five of the cards impacted the thug's body; One to the stomach, two to the chest, with the other two striking the first thug's jaw and neck. There was a series of loud bangs, like that of the a flashbang grenade and five neon green flashes. Each impact hit with the force of a strong armed hay-maker, which sent the bearded thug to the floor in a crumpled mess.

Jirou hated having to use his ability indoors and in such close proximity. His ears rung, and though he was lucky to not have looked directly into the blast he was still a bit disoriented. At least one of the brutes was down and out for the count. The other guy, much to Jirou's misfortune, had avoided much of the blast. He immediately burst through the door tackling Jirou to the ground. Jirou instinctively wrapped his legs around the brute's thick waist and braced for the flurry of punches that he was certain would follow.

"A little help here!"

Oh, to hell with this. Leyla scowled in frustration at the men as they came in. This was the last thing she wanted to worry about, some idiot's goons coming to take what she had rightfully stolen. Russians. She hated Russians. She rose from her chair without hurry when her eyes were drawn to the glow behind Jirou's back.

Interesting.

She watched silently, letting Jirou make the first move so he could take the first punches. She had to admit, the trick with the cards was impressive, if hard on the ears and eyes. Her eyes still had a bit of glow left in them, though she had looked away almost immediately.

Rubbing at her eyes for a moment, she looked up and saw the other moron tackle the boy.

<<"A little help here!">>

Leyla rolled her eyes and slid up behind the goon, one hand latching into the man's hair and the other yanking a knife from the inside edge of her boot. She wasn't strong enough to hold his head still for long, but a touch of her power sedated him just long enough so that she could get her knife against his throat.

Leaning down almost seductively, her mouth against his ear, she murmured, "Ya tebya grokhnu, lokh."

The man's expression darkened in disoriented fury, though he didn't move with the knife so close against him. "Shlyukha vokzalnaya," he spat.

Leyla clicked her tongue. "Rude! Ya pyeryeryezhu gorlo. Jirou, close your eyes." The thug reared back frantically, trying to throw her off despite the knife, but she opened his throat with a single swipe.

As the brute flailed and swung at Jirou, who was at the moment pinned beneath him and doing his best to block the wild frantic hey-makers from a human gorilla , began to feel a sudden calming sensation gradually flowing through him, as if he had just sat down into a nice warm and relaxing bath. It was strange. A moment ago he was fighting for his life, but now he didn't have a care in the world. What on Earth was happening to him? Then almost as suddenly as it had arrived, the feeling was gone, and in its place returned the surge of adrenaline as he realized what was still happening and where he was.

The moment the brute's hands released him, he pivoted on his hips and attempted to push himself out of the way before Leyla severed the man's carotid arteries. Luckily he avoided getting any gory spatter on his face or his jacket. His left pants leg on the other hand was not so lucky. With a furious kick from his right leg, he pushed the now deceased Russian creep over onto his back in a sickeningly crumpled and gory mess.

Jirou climbed to his feet and glared in disgust at the blood stains up and down his leg, not giving the dead man a second thought. "Well isn't that just great..." he sighed and shook his head, before looking up at Leyla. "Thank you... for saving my neck there. I know a lot of people that would have just grabbed the cash and ran." He was being quite honest. He'd faced situations like this before and had watched as everybody else scurried and ran for the hills. Granted there were times he himself had ducked out to avoid a confrontation, but it was never in a state of panic or pure desperation. Typically his convenient departures were all planned out before hand.

He bent over and grabbed a plain black canvas backpack from beside the chair he had been sitting in and swept his winnings into it. He also grabbed the money he had wagered from the center of the table, but instead of dropping it into his backpack he stared at it in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to take it for some reason. He tossed it back onto the table, zipped up his backpack, and turned to face Leyla.

"Unfortunately, it looks like our game is going to have to wait for another night." He looked over at the other thug that was still alive on the floor. He was unconscious, and his face looked like it had been hit with a frying pan, but he was still breathing.

"We have two options right now." He looked back to Leyla. "We can either part ways, here and now, take our winnings and call it a day, or we can try and find the guy that was stupid enough to try and have us killed over a simple game of poker. Either way, we can't stay long since my little card trick has a nasty habit of drawing people of the long armed persuasion."

Leyla stepped back immediately to check the state of her own clothing. The sleeve of her jacket was soaked and her skirt had a few drops on it, too. She huffed indignantly. "I like this jacket," she pouted.

>> "Thank you... for saving my neck there. I know a lot of people that would have just grabbed the cash and ran."

She didn't want to give him the wrong idea here, like she had cared to save his life. "Russians," she explained. "I hate Russians."

>>"We can either part ways, here and now, take our winnings and call it a day, or we can try and find the guy that was stupid enough to try and have us killed over a simple game of poker. Either way, we can't stay long since my little card trick has a nasty habit of drawing people of the long armed persuasion."

Leyla certainly didn't want to stay for long if that was the case, especially with fresh blood on her hands. She gathered her winnings into a bag, hesitating to see if he would take his money from the center of the table, and when he didn't, shoveling that into her bag as well. If he didn't want it, she would happily take it off his hands. "I have no plan tonight," she told him briskly. "I think kill more Russians make me in better mood. Also, I do not like this to bother for me in future. You see these men before?"

All the pieces to the puzzle that was Leyla suddenly fell squarely into place in front of Jirou. This woman was just a vicious card player, she was just plain vicious. He wondered what would have happened had those two thugs been of some other nationality. Would she have stepped in to help him then? He didn't want to think about it.

"Well, it looks like we'll be keeping each other company for a little while longer it seems." He looked at the two goons. "No, I don't recognize either of them, and I didn't recognize either of those other two losers that left earlier. It could have been either one of them."

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and checked the dead Russian's pockets. He found a wallet with some cash and some credit cards which he immediately pocketed, but that was it. He turned his attention to the other Russian he had knocked out cold. He looked through his pockets as well, finding the same thing more or less, except this time he caught a lucky break. From inside the Russian's jacket pocket he found a small black pager.

"Are you freaking kidding me?!" He held it up for Leyla to see. Who the hell used pagers anymore? He shook his head and pocketed the pager, along with the man's cash and credit cards. He kicked the man in the ribs to see if he if it would wake him. A deep grown escaped the man's lips. Jirou sighed and turned to Leyla and shook his head before winding back and punting the man directly between the legs with his foot.

The large Russian immediately awoke and double over in pain, whimpering and crying as he tried in vain to alleviate the pain. Jirou grabbed him by his beard and forced him to look at him.

"Are we awake?"

The Russian stared back at Jirou, tears of pain and fright rolled from his eyes, though one of them was completely swelled shut and charred from the impact of the explosion, the other was open although the whites of his eyes were now bright red from ruptured blood vessels.

"Who sent you?" Jirou asked.

The Russian stuttered and stammered, completely incapable of forming a complete sentence, much less one in English. Everything he spoke was in Russian, which Jirou didn't understand. He released the man's beard and turned to Leyla.

"You deal with him, I can't understand a word he's saying." he stepped over towards the table, grabbed the now incomplete deck and began to charge a single card. He knelt down beside the Russian, flashing the glowing green card in front of his eyes.

"You'd better start talking, I don't care if it's in Russian or English, but you'd better make it quick and be polite, otherwise you're going to get to experience another one of these." He held the card menacingly close to the Russian's face. Being a mutant had it's advantages.

She let the boy do the dirty work, rubbing idly at her bloodied jacket before simply discarding it onto the poker table. It was ruined. When he produced the pager, she looked up and smirked at his surprise. Such a first-world child.

>>"You deal with him, I can't understand a word he's saying."

Leyla knelt beside him, a move that she somehow made graceful despite her tight skirt. She placed a hand on his head, tipping it back. He choked out a few broken pleas and she jammed her thumb against the burn on his jaw. "Obsuzhdeniye," she ordered impatiently. The man cried out in pain, but seemed to relax a bit, knowing he could be understood. Or perhaps it was just the trickles of euphoria she was slipping into him to keep him sedated.

The man started to talk, groggy and only half-coherent. He spoke a northern dialect, so she struggled to put together his words for a moment. Something to the effect of, 'Please, no, he'll kill me."

Euphoria grinned at him. In a soft, calm voice, she told him that if he did not talk, she certainly wouldn't kill him. Not at first. Her tone seemed at odds with the terror on his face. She held up her left hand, the one with the missing finger, told him she'd picked up a little trick since coming to New York, and how much did he want his fingers? She moved her knife down to his hand and pressed just enough to break the skin.

His entire body shaking, the Russian started making mostly nonsensical pleas and prayers, cries of "Mat!" making her laugh delightedly.

"He want his mother," she told Jirou.

Jirou rose to his feet, the charge slowly dissipating from the card in his hand. Leyla now had the man's attention, though it seemed she was only playing with him rather than attempting to actually divulge any worth wile information. The Russian continued to blubber, cry, and beg for his mother, according to Leyla. Jirou fished the pager back out of his jacket pocket and pressed the PREV button to reveal the last number that had dialed it. He checked his watch and compared it to the time of the last call before pocketing it once again.

"Unless you're going to actually get something useful out of him, quit playing around. We have his pager, we can start from there if we have to." He readjusted his fedora and stepped behind Leyla, waiting on the other side of the doorway. Jirou had no qualms about taking somebody out of the game permanently. If it was between himself and somebody else he would bet on himself without hesitation, but he never understood the fascination some people had with torturing their enemies. The fact that you were the one still alive was all the satisfaction he needed.

He looked back at the poor sap in Leyla's clutches. He actually felt sorry for the poor bastard, honestly he did. The man was only doing what he had been ordered to do. How was he supposed to know he would be dealing with a mutant and a sociopath? If he;d had his .45 on him Jirou would have put the man out of his misery then and there, but sadly the Russian's life wasn't in his hands at the moment. It was stuck in that black widow's web.

The Russian must have seen something in Jirou's eyes because the moment he made eye contact he began to sob and plead even louder. Jirou turned his back on the two. Whether or not the Russian would actually start talking made little difference. In the end it be the same result. He didn't have to see what was coming next.