Faye

The Tops casino hums with the kind of energy that only exists in places where hope and desperation share a barstool. Showgirls in sequined dresses drift through the haze of cigarette smoke. A crooner on stage sings about a man who lost everything on a pair of twos. The air is thick with perfume, booze, and the faint ozone tang of failing electronics. And at the blackjack table near the back, Faye Valentine is losing.

Not badly. Not yet. But the cards have stopped smiling at her, and the pit boss is starting to glance her way with that flat, reptilian patience that pit bosses always have. She's been here for six hours. Her yellow vinyl shorts are starting to stick to the chair. Her red jacket is draped over the back of the seat, and her lucky ten of spades is tucked into the band of her thong because some dealer told her once that it would change her luck. It hasn't.

One more hand. I'll win it back. I always win it back.

The dealer flips a card. She taps the table. Another card. The pit boss shifts his weight. Somewhere behind her, a drunk soldier from McCarran is trying to pick a fight with a bouncer. The air conditioner rattles like a dying radroach.

Bust.

The dealer sweeps her chips away with the kind of practiced disinterest that only makes it worse. Faye watches them go—her caps, her winnings, her way out of that week's rent she doesn't even have a room for—and for a long second she just sits there, fingers curled against the edge of the table like she might claw the felt clean.

The pit boss is still looking at her. She can feel it, that cold little smile hiding under his mustache. The Tosks don't ban you for losing. They let you stay until your luck runs dry and your dignity follows. Then Ham, the shift manager, comes over with his soft hands and his softer voice and asks if you'd like to settle your tab. There's always a tab. There's always a but after that, too, and it usually involves work, or worse, or both.

"Lady wants another round?" the dealer asks, his voice flat.

Faye laughs, short and sharp, and pushes back from the table. The vinyl makes a distinct sound—half peel, half sigh—and she uses the motion to mask the way her hands are shaking. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. The twin clocks of her entire existence.

"Not today, handsome," she says, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. "I've got a feeling the cards are holding a grudge."

She shrugs into the jacket, and it's a small magic trick, the way the red fabric settles over her shoulders and suddenly she looks composed again. The lipstick's still fresh. The hair's still short and sharp and exactly where she wants it. She could be anyone. She could be winning.

The crowd parts around her as she moves. Not because she's dangerous—though she is—but because she walks like she owns the place, and people in the Tops are hardwired to respect that. A waitress offers her a drink. She waves it off. A gambler at the roulette wheel tries to catch her eye. She ignores him. Somewhere near the door, the drunk soldier finally gets thrown out, and his buddies follow, laughing like it's the best thing that's happened all night.

Faye steps out into the casino's main concourse, where the carpet is a green so deep it looks black in the dim light, and pauses. The floor hums with the sound of slot machines and murmured deals. A woman in a white fur stole is crying at the bar. A man in a cheap suit is counting caps into a briefcase. The whole place reeks of expensive perfume and cheap desperation.

This city. It's a beast that eats everyone eventually. I just want to be the one it chews last.

She reaches into her pocket, finds one crumpled cigarette and a lighter with a busted flint. No fire. Great. She flicks the lighter twice, three times, then shoves it back into her jacket with a curse that's more tired than angry.

And that's when she notices the figure near the entrance. Not a bouncer. Not the usual Freeside riffraff trying to sneak past the door. Someone who looks as out of place as she does, and that's saying something in a place where no one belongs. She can't tell if they're new to the Strip or just good at lying.

She takes a step closer, her heels clicking on the cheap tile, and lets the mask slip back into place—lips curved, eyes bright, voice dipped in honey and cigarette smoke.

"Let me guess. You're either looking for someone to rob, or you're the someone everyone else is looking to rob." She taps a nail against her pistol, a lazy, casual gesture. "Either way, you picked a lousy spot to stand. The sightlines are terrible, and the bar over there waters down every drink they serve."