“Hey, this is bullshit! What the hell are you going to do to me?” The soft-eyed man adjacent to me jumped out of his chair after losing his final chips. The reaction startled me. I didn’t expect such violence out of the demure figure.

“Go on along, just like everyone before you. Stop wasting our time.” The House waved his hand.

“No, I won’t just go along! What the hell happens down there?” The tawny gambler shook his fist. Spittle flung from his lips as he rebutted House. His eyes darted around the room as if surrounded by spectral hunters. “I’ve heard the stories, the freaky things you do to your contestants. I know people. They won’t le-”

A purple bolt of electricity cracked across the room and struck him in the chest. His once lively form crumpled to the velvet below with a dull thud.

Nobody said a word as Old Jack trudged over to retrieve his body. The Retan hoisted him up with one arm and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of wheat. When the elevator doors opened, the bouncer tossed him in and sent him hurtling down the ominous shaft.

“Any comments from the peanut gallery?”

I didn’t look, but I could feel his glare piercing my forehead. Ever since my outburst, House seemed out to get me. I suddenly found myself losing hand after hand. 2s and 3s, 6s or 7s; random cards that never fit with the flow of the River. Despite my original intent to play bold, my strategy shifted to one of perpetual retreat. If I couldn’t win, I wouldn’t play. All I had to do was wait for the third elimination, and it finally came.

“Excellent. 4 hours and 32 minutes of riveting card-play later, we have finished Game 1. You will have a 30-minute break while the audience goes to bleach their eyes after watching this shitshow of a match. Congratulations.” House tipped his hat and walked to the elevator. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” And with that, he vanished into the dark.

Everyone, except the Dralid and a short woman with raven hair wrapped in a lead-colored duffel coat that swallowed her chin, made for the bar immediately.

It was funny how you could glean something about a personality by the drink they chose, or the volume in the case of my gentle rival.

The senile codger grabbed an amber glass of whiskey to wash down his dusty throat. Nobody wanted to catch his attention, giving him a wide berth at the countertop. That didn’t deter him. He hunted down a poor fellow donning a black mask streaked with a red “plus” mark trying to enjoy a draft of lager in peace. I couldn’t observe his expression, of course, but the sag in his shoulders and the bitter way he sipped at his beer through a thin mouth slit said it all.

Vushk was double-fisting something that looked like chunky tar in coconut bowls. As he gobbled down the first refreshment, black sludge slopped over his jaws and torso. He grunted and greedily began devouring the other bowl.

Two men engaged in keen conversation on the far side of the room, away from the circus of the other contestants. One sipped at a tall glass of wine and nodded amicably at his newfound companion. His bald head shone under the light of the crystal chandelier, glowing in that dark corner of the room. A single optical lens extended from a hunk of metal grafted into the skin of his temple, covering a snowy eye with its interface. His acquaintance, a blond-haired fellow with a metal hand that grasped the lip of his hickory leather jacket, nodded with a grin on his face. The other hand, one made of flesh, clasped the glassy curves of a green tropical drink.

Well, I didn’t want to be rude and butt in on their cordial conversation. That would make me a couple more enemies that I didn’t want to deal with. Instead, I made my way over, Scotch in hand, to the navy pantsuit who was working on an entire bottle of black wine.

“You’ve got quite a taste for this stuff, huh?” I read the side of the bottle. “Mockburne Reserve?”

“You’ve got quite a taste for shovin’ your nose in stuff, huh?” She retorted. She slurred her words as she spoke, but it was decipherable. What wasn’t as clear was her tone. I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or genuinely annoyed with me. I decided to push. She was a rival already anyway.

“Just about anywhere.” I winked, plopping down on the stool next to her.

“Yeah, I ain’t drunk enough for that. Yet.” She sighed and faced the screen above the bar. On the silvery interface, I watched a line of marksmen competing in what appeared to be a range on the snowy side of a mountain. As the camera panned, I noticed that they were not shooting at targets on the other side. Prone silhouettes dotted the bleak landscape, scopes gleaming in the sunlight. They were engaged in a long-range duel with opponents matched up in numbered lanes on the frost. What prevented someone from shooting a contestant in a different lane? I don’t think LimeLight cared, come to think of it.

“Pop! Goes the weasel. Hahahaaa, he should’ve been quicker. That’s another score for ‘The Kalian’, Sharpshooter of the Day!” Dolos' voice sang over the bar’s speakers. What a creepy guy.

“You one of those Drunken Fist types, you get better the higher your BAC?” I chuckled back, pushing the macabre scene from my mind. It was just daily LimeLight business, nothing to work myself up about.

“Oh, something like that. But I wouldn’t want to tell you all my secrets, now would I? We’re competitors, me and you.”

“Would you tell me your name? I’m tired of mentally referring to you as the tight ass in the pantsuit.”

I expected a slap, but she turned to me with a grin. “Amy. Yours?”

“Puck.” I extended a hand. She laughed instead.

“What is that, like, the ball you play that ice sport with?”

“Varleis?”

Amy slapped the countertop. “Yeah, that’s the one!”

“I’ve never played, actually,” I admitted.

“You don’t seem the sporty type.” She placed the lip of the bottle to her own and took a deep swig. She brought it down with a shudder.

“Well, I would never picture you in a contest like this, Amy.” I sipped at the Scotch in my hand. “How’d you end up here?”

“I’m a professional gambler - cards, dice, wheels, slots, you name it.”

“This competition has far more than cards at stake.” I chortled.

She shot me a glare. “I’m aware of that. I didn’t make it this far by accident. In a former life, I was a hitman. Woman. Whatever.”

It was hard to imagine the matronly woman in a combat suit, doming marked targets from the windows of a skyscraper. Or maybe she was the up close and personal type, wrapping wire around the neck of her writhing targets. Nope. Couldn’t see it.

“But what about you, ‘chicken bone,’ how’d a mouse like you squeak his way in here?”

“This mouse got caught in the wrong trap, I’m afraid.” I spread my hands. The gemstones on my knuckles glittered under the neon light of the bar. “But I’d say I’ve adjusted well.”

She grunted. “We’ll see about that.”

At that moment, House burst through the elevator doors, hands on either side of his maroon waistcoat. “Look alive, people. The cameras are rolling in 30. Plant. Ass. In Seat.” He whistled and made a circular motion with the tip of his finger.

We obliged, some more nimble in their gait than others. I plopped myself into a seat roughly in the position of my original, but I noticed that the number of chairs at the table was reduced to 10 - 9 contestants and the House. The table itself shrank to accommodate the fewer occupants, now only a few feet spread in radius.

“We have entered Round 2 of the Casino Showdown - a Blitz round.” House beamed. He tugged the hat from his head, freeing a flowing mane of wheat. From his coat, he produced a black lacquered box with a silver clasp.

Whatever pleased him would certainly be bad for the rest of us.

“Each contestant will undergo three trials spanning the fundamentals every good gambler ought to know. Rather than facing off against one another, betting for profit, you will face me.” House scanned the table with a cocky smirk. “And I assure you I am most versed in these trivial contests.”

“The first phase is a simple game of Chalices.” The box popped open with a click, revealing three cups interwoven with thick strands of silver and platinum. A red ball sat beside them, glittering under the light of the chandelier. “One at a time, you will have a go at guessing which cup the ball contains after I have shuffled them around. You will lay 50,000 credits on the table as your wager. Should you win you keep your money and move on to the next phase - safe. Should you lose, you will be knocked into the loser’s bracket and your 50,000 will furnish the pot for the next contestant.”

House carefully placed the three chalices lip-down on the wooden table before sliding the ball beneath the center container. “I will pick the first contender at my leisure, but after that, you’re free to challenge me for the pot as you wish. As the pot grows my skills will too, so don’t let yourself believe your greatest odds are attacking a fat stack of credits. And each of you must go.” He added gravely.

“Now then. Who will try their wit against my hand first?”

House appraised the room with predatory eyes. Seeing how he’d fixated on me in the later rounds of the Mardok game I was half-expecting his gaze to rest on me. I wouldn’t lie, I started to break out in a cold sweat. He had full control of this table and the odds of a seemingly straightforward game. I didn’t doubt he’d do his best to throw me under the bus when my turn inevitably arrived; I’d have to hedge the odds with my newfound abilities.

“Cue-ball.” The bald man with an eye-scanner scooted back in his chair and looked at the House questioningly.

“Yes, you.” He snapped his fingers. “Over here, sit across from me. Everyone else move aside.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. For this bout, at least, I was safe.

The crowd of contestants gathered around the first challenger. His pale eye darted from cup to cup. Despite the stakes of the situation, I had to give him props, he appeared calm and composed. His only tell showed in the casual way he tucked, and re-tucked, his button-up shirt into the waist of his slacks.

“Right then. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” The gambler replied, chucking in a red chip - 50,000 credits.

House replied with a grin, placing a thick hand on the center cup. He started slowly, weaving them in and out in a serpentine motion. The bald man’s eyes followed in tandem. His stark eye danced about its leathery socket, not letting the prize chalice out of his sight.

And then it went mad. The House moved his wrists at a speed impossible for a normal human to produce. The cups reduced to a gray blur, whisking about the glossy surface of the table like flittering phantoms in the night. The poor man’s pallor sunk to match the barren hue of his eye, but he did his best to keep up.

When House stopped, I saw tendrils of light smoke emanating from the table's surface. He didn’t so much as heave a hard breath after the superhuman feat. His glare rested evenly on the astounded contender.

“So then, what’s your pick?”

“Oh, where to start.” He clasped his hands together and chuckled despite his predicament. “I think I ought to just close my eyes for this one, useless as they are.”

At least he had a sense of humor.

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t keep sight of a little red ball.” House teased.

“My eyes aren’t what they used to be if you couldn’t tell.” Baldie stroked the end of his lightly bearded chin with a thoughtful expression. “Huh. Well either way I’ve got a third’s chance. Better than any hand of cards or die. I suppose I should be hopeful.”

“We here at LimeLight strive to stamp every last bit of that out of our contestants. Seems to be more of a hindrance in our sport, anyway.” The House replied ominously.

“Then I’ll choose with abandon.” The contestant pointed a finger at the far right cup. “Right chalice, let’s see it.”

“I’m afraid you’ve abandoned your chances,” House said without lifting the lid. I marveled at how he could keep track of which one contained the ball. Or maybe he had full control over the ball’s position and decided to ice this guy of his own accord. That’s one sure way to kill hope.

As expected, the chalice held nothing within its lid and the man forfeited his wager, and his fate, to the House.

“Don’t fret yet!” He exclaimed as the bald fellow rose from the table. “All this means is you go into the loser’s bracket. Should anyone lose one of the three phases they will join you. It might even be a full house, so don’t go anywhere! We ain’t done with you yet.”

A grim consolation.

“Now then, who will come to bat to claim this generous donation?” House glanced over at Vushk. The loud-mouthed Undu was the obvious suspect to issue a bold, premature challenge. Or maybe the drunk Amy with increasingly fewer inhibitions would plop herself down and take on the wager.

But I didn’t give either of them the chance. I had already figured out the House’s little game, and I wanted to cut the smile straight from his face. I wouldn’t need to even watch his cups, I’d figured out exactly how to pick the right one after just one observation.

“I’ll be taking that.” I pushed my way to the seat across from the gruff gamester. He shot daggers at me with his gaze. “Apologies to the rest of you. I promise to make it good sport.”