[ TT ] You are known for being the best , never losing a game and never losing a bet . Problem is , you 're in a situation where you WANT to lose , and you 're still winning .

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 Faith watched as Flint finished speaking with a leper covered in crusted rags and open sores, patting the filthy creature on the shoulder and dropping a small silver coin in the beggar's cup. Her stomach felt queasy at sight; after the Fae destroyed most of Man's nations, diseases and illnesses once nearly eradicated came back to haunt the Post-Arrival world like some grim specter of the past. She fought the urge to sidle away from Flint as he neared her, the invisible aura of disease tainting his body if not his soul. Silently she made a prayer to the goddess of health and banished the thought of a ghastly death from her mind. 
 
 `` What did it have to say?'' 
 
 Flint frowned and flicked her on the ear as they started down the street, the gesture hard enough to sting. 
 
 
 `` *Ow, * what was that for?'' 
 
 Flint rolled his eyes and hitched the bundle slung of his shoulder further up. `` For being a prat. He's still a person, no matter what you think.'' 
 
 She let the matter lie; it was n't any use getting into another argument of class and status. 
 
 `` Then what did he tell you?'' she asked. 
 
 `` The location of somebody: an old friend.'' 
 
 Faith cast him a sideways look. `` Just exactly *how* old?'' 
 
 `` Oh way back... I save his life during Mad Jack Davy's failed expedition to New Orleans and he repaid the favor by blowing the brains out of a Spriggan about to run me through with a lance.'' 
 
 ``... You fought with a man called Mad Jack, and still you followed him?'' 
 
 `` He was n't called Mad Jack until after the expedition, but that's beside the point. The point is that my friend is here in town, and at a placed called the Crooked Scale,'' Flint said. 
 
 `` Crooked Scale... a charming story behind the name I'm sure.'' 
 
 `` Nah, the place's a dump. Piss beer, dubious food, fixed dice and women who'll make your piss feel like white hot fire. It's shit.'' 
 
 `` Then why is your friend there?'' 
 
 Flint shrugged, as if the answer obvious. `` It's the only establishment that has n't banned him for life.'' 
 
 -- - 
 
 The shouting voices and breaking glass could be heard even a half-block away, the puddles of piss and oily water sitting in the road seeming to shake from the noise. Grunts of pain and scatological curses rained down on their ears as they neared, the cry of'knife!' cutting through the air like a... well... knife. As they almost reached the door the sound of thundering boots rang out over the bar's wooden floor, their steps seeming to reverberate the whole building as they grew louder and louder... 
 
 With a cry a man flew through the doors and onto the street, landing on a pile of horseshit with a muffled thump. A ugly sort of man with shaved head and steely eyes spat at the groaning figure. 
 
 `` And stay out!'' he muttered before slamming the door behind with a thud that again shook the building's frame. Flint smiled and moved towards the prone figure, thumbs hooked on his sword belt and boots idly dragging through the dirt. 
 
 `` Hiya, Gibbons. Got kicked out I see.'' 
 
 The man, somewhere in his late thirties with a reedy air about him turned and squinted at the armed figure standing over him, his eyes blinking until he recognized the wolfish man. 
 
 `` Hill, you worthless son of a bitch. Coming to recruit me on another suicide quest? No, no. I can see that determined look in your eye. You would n't bother with the likes of me if you did n't think of a creative way to try and kill me. What is it this time, kidnapping? Assassination? Cow tipping?'' 
 
 Faith eyed the stranger with suspicion; he smelled of cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey and looked like he had never heard of the word soap. Flint laughed and shook his head. 
 
 `` Nah, bandit hunting.'' 
 
 The stranger looked as if he approved, wiping the worst of the horseshit off his shirt but only managing to smear it further across his chest. 
 
 `` Alright, I'm in, no need to trick me like last time. I'll do it.'' 
 
 `` Just who in the Hells is he?'' Faith demanded. Flint smiled and pointed at the shit-smeared man. 
 
 `` Faith, this is Darren Gibbons, the best sniper this side of the Mississippi. He is also the luckiest man alive. I've seen him survive things that would have killed any other person. Books passage on a river boat, oversleeps and is n't aboard when it sinks with all crew and passengers. Falls out a six story window, lands in a pile of manure sitting below with just a broken ankle. Put dice in his hands and they'll always come up winning. It's a real tragedy.'' 
 
 Faith looked perplexed. `` And that is a bad thing, why?'' 
 
 `` Because I have a compulsion to gamble, deary, and people and businesses do n't much care for a man who never loses.'' The man named Darren Gibbons said. `` It's a sickness it is, a tragedy like Hill says. And now I am officially banned from every single gambling hall in town, so there's that...''
