God Hates A Gambler 4 (Patreon)

"...hey b-boss."

His tongue fought him, a stutter forcing its way into his jaw as fear made his heart jump. Man up, bro. People respect strength. Sure, people did, but Chance didn’t really think the odds were good that someone who had already slapped him around was gonna have all that much respect anytime soon.

Case in point, Sportsmaster just chuckled, the sound low and amused.

"Relax, kid. I'm not here to break your legs." 

“...u-uh, thank you?” He hated how small his voice sounded. “Appreciate it.”

"Keep the sass and I might change my mind."

Oh, that's real fuckin' comforting. Chance nodded at the big man’s words, as slow and carefully as he could. His back to the fridge, orange soda still dripping down the white door, he made sure not to make any fast movements and tried very hard not to do something like trigger his Explosion.

Not because he didn't want to.

More, because he knew exactly how that would end.

His fingers still burned hot, sparks dancing across his knuckles as he tried to tamp down his nerves before he could use another Explosion charge. Calm… 

Sportsmaster just stood there in the dark, arms crossed, hockey mask tilted slightly like he was waiting for Chance to make up his mind about whether dying tonight was really the move.

With another long breath, he let the sparks die, hands dropping to his sides, breathing slowing  down even as his heart kept trying to jackhammer its way out of his chest.

The teenager swallowed hard, still tasting copper from where he'd bit his tongue when he spun around. “How’d you… how’d you find me?”

The assassin straightened his head, expression serious for all of a second. “Don’t tell me I hit you too hard last night, cause that’s a stupid question if I ever heard one.”

…true. Chance nodded again, swallowing a mouthful of nothing as he prepared to ask something else. "Wh... what are you doing here… boss?"

"We didn’t get to finish our little talk last night." Sportsmaster's arms uncrossed, one hand rubbing his chin beneath the mask. "Figured we should talk details. Let’s take a seat and do that."

Chance glanced around, eye twitching at the sight of the bag of snacks he'd dropped on the floor, barbecue chips spilling out onto the cracked tile.

The kitchen was barely a kitchen. Big enough for the rowhouse, sure, but with peeling linoleum and a fridge stained with more than just orange spray, it didn’t exactly impress anyone. 

Yeah. This is it.

"Uh. Living room's got a couch."

Sportsmaster made a sound; something halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "Lead the way, kid."

Weird as it was guiding someone through a house they had already snuck into — and probably fully mapped out — Chance still moved carefully enough to keep the big man firmly in his field of vision as he backed out of the kitchen. Soon enough, he ended up in what was probably a living room someone was proud of once upon a time. The couch was still shitty, springs still poking through, but at least it wasn't actively sticky.

Sportsmaster stayed looming in the doorway, not moving to the couch even as Chance dropped his butt on a spring. What happened to, ‘Lets take a seat’.

"So." The big man clapped his hands together, the sound echoing a bit too loud. "You still interested in that job?"

"I…” Chance blinked, dry mouth already moving. “I mean, you didn't really give me a choice last time."

"Choices are illusions, kid. You live the life you get or you fight your way to what you actually want." The big man shrugged, both of them well aware Chance wasn’t gonna fight. "But I'm a nice guy, so I'm asking again. You want in, or you want me to break your legs to keep you humble, and move on to the next kid with weird powers?"

Jesus Christ.

 "What... “ A dry mouth went even dryer. “What kind of job we talking about? Like, stealing something? Delivering a package? I c-"

Sportsmaster’s laugh cut him off, Chance blinking at the man. Nothing about it sounded mean, exactly; more adult-laughing-at-a-kid funny, which its own kind of mean.

"Kid, any job I'd send you on right now would be a death sentence." The asssasin leaned against the doorframe again, arms back over his chest "At my level? Any operation I run solo? Your next of kin would be lucky to fit you in a jar of preserves."

Chance's stomach dropped straight through the shitty couch and into the basement. "...o-oh."

"Yeah. Oh." He couldn’t tell behind the mask, but the teenager was pretty sure the villain just rolled his eyes. "No, kid, I was thinking more long-term. You've been playing with powers for like what, two months? Three?"

"About three," Chance’s answer was honest in the way only ego could make you, defending himself even as his fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie. "Since my birthday."

"March third, right?"

How the — Twitching fingers froze around his hoodie — fuck does he know that?

"So, three months.” Sportsmaster just nodded while the only other person in the room tried to ignore the spring digging into the base of his spine. “You're sloppy as hell, your power’s literally a crapshoot, and you don't know the first thing about real work."

Those eyes narrowed behind his mask, landing firmly on Chance again. "Very least, you got potential. And you're desperate, which makes you useful."

Gee, thanks.

"So here's the deal." Sportsmaster pushed off the doorframe, one stride into the living room covering enough distance to make the teenager flinch. "I’mma do what I do, you follow along and try not to get shot up while I teach you the ropes. You run errands for me, pick up an easy job from a fixer here and there, understand?” 

“Good.” The villain tilted his head as Chance nodded back. “And, I’ve always been a nice guy, see. So, In return, I do what a good boss does. Keep your fridge stocked, keep you from getting in more trouble than you can afford, and you get to stand by me and let some cred rub off on you. Simple, see? You do good work, you get more benefits. You fuck up, we have a conversation."

Conversation. Right. Sure. Because guys built like unpaid hospital bills really loved using their words. "You... you want me to be your sidekick?"

"Sidekick?” The muffled snort from under that mask was loud enough to echo. “Kid, no. I’m not the fuckin’ Batman here. You'd be more of a..." He paused, clicking his tongue.. "Lackey. Yeah. Lackey fits."

Hazel eyes blinked back as he shifted his spot on the couch. "Lackey."

"I was gonna say minion, but lackey suits your face better."

…I dunno if that’s an insult or… A second later, a sigh left the teenager. The fuck am I kidding?

"...sure.”

"Good kid." Sportsmaster reached into his pocket — Chance tensed, fingers sparking again as nerves immediately sent him running to his one remaining combat draw — and pulled out a thick envelope.

The bundle of manila landed on the couch right next to Chance. "That's for you."

Fingers reached out slowly and carefully, twitching the second he touched paper — Not like it’s a bomb, man up! 

With a wince, Chance opened the flap and his mouth fell open with it.

Cash.

H-h-holy…

A lot of cash.

Holy shit. Stacks of hundreds, crisper than he’d ever seen money look, were all rubber-banded together in neat bundles that smelled like human hands had never touched them. How… how much?

"Twenty grand," Sportsmaster answered the unasked question, a chuckle slipping out with the words.  "That's for the food I was talking about. Can't have my lackey stuffing his face with bodega bullshit. Looks bad on me if you’re gassing out mid-job."

Twenty… The envelope almost slipped out of his grip, shaking fingers gripping as tight as they could on more money than he’d ever seen in his life. Thousand.

Never even thought about having this much money, not all at once, not in cash he could actually hold and count and—and— "I... I..." His throat closed up, words sticking somewhere between his brain and his mouth. "I..."

His voice was too small, too cracked, Chance blinking up at the big man standing in his squat as the teenager tried to figure out what was in his eye all of a sudden. "Wh-what do you need me to do? Like a hit? K-kill a guy?" The fucked up part was, Chance honestly wasn’t sure whether he’d say no.

"Look at you, ready to jump in with both feet." Sportsmaster laughed again as he shook his head. "No, kid. We'll work up to that."

Work up to that.

Chance swallowed hard, tasting bile, but his eyes dropped back to the money in his hands.

This was some big money; real food money. Enough to get his own real place, furniture for that place, and a TV too. He could even replace the phone someone stole off him when he was sleeping at the diner.

Hell, he could breathe for the first time since January. “You bet, boss,”

"Good kid.” Sportsmaster nodded back at him. “Now, if we're gonna do this — and we are gonna do this — I’mma need to see you work first."

“I’m… uhh…” His stomach twisted, all the bruises he’d let drift to the back of his mind suddenly reminding Chance that they were still around. "I'm not really at my best right now, boss." If the busted lip and bruised jaw weren’t showing it, he wasn’t sure what would. "Not sure I can do all that much."

"Not talking about now, kid." Sportsmaster waved a gloved hand in his face. “I'll give you a couple days first. Get some food in you, sleep, let those ribs heal up. Then we'll see what you got."

Chance looked up from the money, a frown on his face. "Couple days for wh—"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"—AT THE FUCK!?"

Plaster dust exploded over his goggles, a split second before the noise drowned out his own scream. Everything else went muffled in the cramped apartment, Ante still screaming as the heavy bullet punched a plaster-splitting hole through cheap drywall.

Exactly where his skull had been half a second ago.

Ante hit the floor hard, ears ringing loud enough to hurt, scrambling on his hands and knees behind a sagging couch done in ugly floral-print. It smelled like weed and something worse, but Ante couldn’t even pay attention to that as his heart slammed a panicked rhythm as it fought for space in his chest with his frantic lungs. 

Worst idea. Bullets ripped through the couch above his head, one by one, as he held a hand over his mouth. Worst fucking play, man.

Three days.

A whole seventy-two hours since Sportsmaster had shown up in the dark of his squat and slapped him with twenty fat stacks of cash before giving him a job.

"Stash apartment in the Bowery. Five guys, maybe six. All nothing idiots. Might got a single gun between all of them.” Sportmsaster had scoffed. “Sneak in, beat the brakes of whoever’s breathing, grab the package, and get out before the sirens close in. Easy.”

Easy.

Right. So easy, boss.

Another shot cracked, wood splintering as a heavy chunk of the couch blew into sawdust inches from his nose. His sweaty face powdered with splinters and foam, Ante ducked even lower until his cheek was flat to shag carpeting.

Five guys. The old man said five guys.

Definitely five guys here, yeah. They were just five guys ready and waiting for a fight.

One held a gun and was currently using it the best he could.

The other four were set to go with whatever they had, and then went from a baseball bat to a kitchen knife to what looked like a fuckin' crowbar.

And Ante? His cards were a new draw, which was... okay. Decent. 

Not his highest-value hand, but he'd hustled with worse.

Strong Legs occupied the first slot, that one giving him a little extra speed and a lot of extra kick power with a baseline boost to his lower body. Rough Knuckle sat in the second and that came with an aura around his fists that let him punch outside his weight class as long as he kept it fed with energy.

That one was a quick battery burner, he could already tell.

And the third was Blood Pack—

And that one… yeah.

Blood Pack just meant he had five times the normal amount of blood swimming around in his body, which was helpful? Maybe? It didn’t do a goddamn thing except made his skin feel kinda tight like he just did a full-body workout, though.

So, yeah, a great pull. Super useful, universe. Thanks.

No Wall-Crawler body and reflexes to flip off the ceiling and jump past bullets. No big-body super-strength to just toss some dealers through the walls. No fire hands to blast his way through. All he had was some tough thighs, glow-in-the-dark knuckles, and a loooot of extra blood.

I am soooo fucked.

"Come out, you little shit!" One of the guys — the one with the bat — shouted loud, voice cracking high on the last word.

Ante's brain went into overdrive.

Okay. Okay. Gun guy's by the door. Bat guy's close. Knife guy and crowbar guy are probably flanking. Fifth guy's... somewhere. Gotta move. Can't stay here.

Ante pushed off scratchy carpet — Strong Legs, don't fail me now — and launched himself up and over the sagging back of the couch. Extra juice in his calves sent him higher than he expected, Ante clearing the couch easy as his boots hit the ground on the other side.

Bat guy's eyes went wide.

Ante didn't wait for the swing as he fed energy into his right fist. Rough Knuckle, c'mon! He felt the click as he swung out, a faint red glow wrapping tight around his knuckles as the charge built up.

The impact was loud.

A wet crunch of collapsing cartilage sounded off, Ante’s stomach flipping, as bat guy took a hit to the face that sent blood spraying high from a ruined nose. He dropped straight down, hitting the floor like someone cut his strings.

Holy shit.

“Cody!”

Knife guy was already on him, closing the gap as the blade flashed under the shitty apartment lighting.

Ante twisted, dragging himself out of the way as he barely dodged the first wild slash. He swung out with one arm, a sloppy left hook that whiffed the guy and knuckled the wall instead. Fuck, I'm bad at this.

Knife guy recovered his balance fast, way faster than Ante expected, and whipped his knife out with a backhand slash.

Pain exploded, white-hot and sharp, tearing through the side of the thrift-store vest and the skin underneath. Ante stumbled back, almost tripping over his boots as a gasp ripped from his throat.

And then blood sprayed.

Like… sprayed.

A gout of red burst free from the shallow slice like an old samurai movie, high-pressure blood hitting knife-guy full in the face. In a second, it already drenched his shirt, coating the floor, way way too much blood for a shallow cut—

Oh. Pain forgotten, Ante’s eyes went wide. Oh shit. Blood Pack.

Knife guy screamed, stumbling backward. Both hands flew up to wipe his face and eyes  like Ante had just hosed him down with a firehose.

The rest of the room froze, gun guy’s mouth hanging open at the blood painting the walls as he let the barrel fall. Crowbar guy took a slow step backward.

And Ante — bleeding like a stuck pig and cut burning like absolute hell — saw his opening.

He lunged right through the slippery mess, right fist glowing dull red as he drove an uppercut straight into Knife-guy's exposed gut. The guy folded around the glowing knuckles, wheezing all the air out of his lungs, as he hit the floor in a heap right next to Bat guy.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, the banger with the crowbar rushed him from the side.

Ante spun on his heel. Fu- Too slow and the heavy iron bar caught him clean across the shoulder. Hard enough to rattle his teeth and make his whole arm go numb, all the way from collarbone to fingertips.

The teenager staggered as he lashed back out with a kick — Strong Legs, please — and caught crowbar guy straight on the side of the knee.

Something crunched.

Crowbar guy let out a shriek as he dropped to the ground, leg giving out. Ante followed the momentum, swinging out with a glowing right hook that sent teeth flying far across the living room.

Three down.

Gun guy and the fifth one — a skinny dude with a chain — stood near the front door. They both looked at each other, then back at a panting Ante, then down at the blood-soaked carpet.

"Fuck this!" The guy with the chain bolted, swinging the door open. In a second, he was already gone; footsteps fading down the hall.

Gun guy hesitated, hands shaking as he raised the pistol.

Ante kicked out, tip of his foot making contact with a plastic folding chair. The chair tumbled through the air, catching the shooter square in the chest. The banger tumbled backward, the gun going off and the bullet shattering through glass as it went out the balcony.

Ante closed the distance in a couple strides, fist glowing that angry red. He swung out hard again with a scream.

Gun guy dropped like wet cement. 

Silence rushed back into the room as Ante stood dead center in the cramped apartment, lungs heaving as he pulled in air that tasted like blood. The same blood still pouring out of the slice in his side, soaking his pants and dripping onto the carpet.

Four bodies laid out. 

Groaning, twitching or completely KO’d.

Red. Just… red everywhere. The stuff coated the walls, the cheap furniture, and everything else. His blood, like ninety-nine percent of it, but still.

Did I just...?

The front door opened.

Ante spun around on reflex, boots squelching on blood-wetted carpet. Both fists raised, the red glow flickering on his hands—

Sportsmaster stepped inside.

"Jesus, kid." He tilted the hockey mask. "I said you didn't have to worry about killin' yet."

Ante's hands dropped, shaking. "Th-they're not dead."

Sportsmaster looked around at the blood-splattered walls, the unconscious bodies, the literal puddle spreading into the linoleum of the kitchen.

"...you sure about that?"