So in real life all the major and minor arcana of the Tarot deck have two meanings, depending on if you draw the card upright or reversed (upside down). If there was an update that added different/new effects for Tarots if they show up reversed or if you could use them one of two ways (like reverse it yourself) do you think it could be plausible? Or am I dreaming a little too big here? An example could be like reversed Strength puts two cards down one rank or a reversed Hanged Man adds one card selected instead of destroying two or reversed Wheel of Fortune that could take away an edition on a Joker or add a random edition to a card in hand, stuff like that. What do yall think?

(Hi! This is the first time I've posted a long text about the society of keys. I hope you like it. It about Edward and Erin. I know long texts don't usually work here. But I made this from the heart and I wanted to share it with you. Without further ado, let's get started!)
Out of Continuity: Lair of the Society of Keys
The basement/clinic was completely silent, only disturbed by the occasional beeping of one of the Medical Teams. Suddenly the 5 members of the society entered, all carrying Erin, who was in a very weak state of health, black marks came out of her mouth, and spread across her skin.
Elizabeth: Leave her on the bed, carefully…
They gently placed her on her bed, while they hooked her up to monitors to view her vital signs. Which were at worryingly low levels. The 5 members left all their keys on top of Edward's desk. Next to a small black device similar to a wristwatch.
Eechiro: Damn, what did they inject herwith?
Eric: No idea, that guy came out of nowhere, although he left this syringe behind.
Elizabeth: We have more important issues right now. Her signs are stable but they are declining at a worrying speed, we have to find a way to cure her...
Edward moves away a little to lean against one of the laboratory counters. His mind was still racing, Erin's voice began to hit his psyche. Repeating her name over and over again. Until his mind decided to take him to THAT night. He could feel like Erin was hugging him...
"Please…"
His pupils shrank, turning into small black dots. His arms had the reflex of trying to hug the air in front of him. The only thing that could bring him back to reality was Eechiro's clicking noises. Which was in front of him, trying to get his attention, while he repeated his name.
“Edward! Edward! Richter!” Eechiro gave up and returned to the rest of the society, who were surrounding Erin “Nothing! "He's like in Shock, I can't get him out of there!"
Edelgard: “Leave it, we have to do something soon! If we don't find a way to cure her, she's going to die."
Those last words gave Edward the boost he needed, without saying a single word. He approached his desk and took 5 keys next to the strange clock. After this, he began to leave the basement. While he put the watch on his wrist.
“We have to make a plan to get into his base, Edward, do you have any ideas…?” Eric noticed that Edward was leaving the basement, and after a quick glance he also saw that he had taken the keys. “Get him, it’s trying to leave the house!”
The four members of the society followed Edward who walked determinedly towards the door to leave the society base. Just a few meters away, Elizabeth and Eechiro began to pull his arms. While Edelgard held him by the back of the neck.
Eechiro: “You're not leaving!”
Edward quickly crouched and performed a roundhouse kick to knock down the three who were trying to pin him down. Eric placed himself between Edward and the door to prevent him from leaving.
Eric: “Edward, No! We need a plan!" He said as he held on to the door frame to prevent Edward from pushing him.
“ERIC, I KNOW YOU HAVE GOOD INTENTION. BUT I ASK YOU TO GET OUT OF THE WAY” Edward said as he looked at the floor. Eric remained immovable in place.
“I can't do that Edward, I know you're angry. But going like this is…” Eric didn't finish his sentence, because Edward put his hand on his shoulder, after which he made eye contact with him. Eric looked closely into the eyes of forensic. It wasn't the look of someone angry, but of someone scared and determined. For the first time, he could see a look on Edward that wasn't one of indifference. But of absolute concern. After which, the young diver take his decision, getting out of the way. Edward just nodded his head and walked out the door. When Elizabeth, Edelgard and Eechiro stood up they went directly to face Eric.
Eechiro: “What did you do Eric? You went crazy. He ran away and take the keys!”
Elizabeth: “He didn't take everything… he lefts Erin's key. Although Eechiro is right, what were you thinking? Did you let him go alone to face an army? What were you thinking?”
Eric: “You didn't see it… that look was relentless. I'm afraid of what will happen..."
Edelgard: “If you were afraid, why did you let him go?”
Eric: “I'm not afraid for Edward... I'm afraid for whoever decides to stand in his way. Although that is secondary now, We have to make sure we keep her alive.... Come on, let's get moving!”
Universe 18-24-53: Lair of the Steelwater.
Edward arrived at the outskirts of a bar, from outside he could see multiple men sitting at the tables. Most of them had baseball bats or brass knuckles. At the centre table there were four men playing poker. After a few seconds of thinking, he decided to go inside.
“Look and cry gentlemen, I have Full House,” said a man as he slammed the table hard. Another responded to him, as he revealed his cards, “Very interesting, but…”
"What!? An R-Royal straight!? “That's impossible, you bastard,” said the first, while he looked at his partner's letters in astonishment. The lucky gangster was about to say something, until suddenly, Edward grabbed his sleeve, causing multiple hidden cards to fall out.
The gangster was surprised by the presence of Edward standing next to them. "Where the hell did it come from?" Wait… you cheated!?” The gangster replied, now addressing his partner.
“O-Of course not… and also who the hell is this blue-haired?” Said the other man who was still sitting. A dead silence was maintained until multiple windows were heard breaking. When Edward turned around he saw a man at another table, with the bat in his hand. He had dropped his beer on the floor in shock. “Idiots! That blue-haired is one of those multiverse travellers! The Forensic Killer! You let the enemy in!
"What!?" The Full House man lunged at Edward, who simply dodged him. Placing his leg to cause the gangster to fall to the ground, the man's forehead collided with one of the wooden chairs. The other men launched themselves at Edward, who limited himself to Dodge, and responded to them with the furniture of the place. He attacked them with chairs, plates. Even with the same poker cards. “Why don't you die!?” It was probably the phrase that was repeated the most in that fight.
When there were only two men left, they both decided to distance themselves from Edward, and tried to go to the back of the bar. Quickly, Edward took out a pair of sharp metal scissors from his pocket and threw them hard, aiming for the head of one of the men. Which remained nailed to the wall next to the door, while his companion managed to escape. Edward followed at a fast pace, but without running, maintaining unwavering composure. Which only generated more fear in the man who ran.
Edward followed the man to some underground warehouses. The contrast with the bar was clear, while the first looked like a stereotypical 80s movie, this was more like an apocalypse bunker. The man continued running down the long hallway, until he reached a huge room at the end. Due to the distance he had managed to get from the coroner. He had time to activate the Security system. Edward saw three huge metal doors close between him and the man. At this, Edward said nothing. He just approached and tapped the metal plate in front of him, after which he took out of his pocket one of the keys that he had taken from the base. It had a drawing of a dragon. And small burn marks. Edward took the key and inserted it into a small slot in the device on his wrist, suddenly a flash of orange light invaded the tunnel…
On the other side of the door the Gangster is celebrating — “Let's see how you get through that, Four Eyes!” Until he felt 2 presence behind him “What the hell are you doing?” The man turned around to see his boss, a man in a beige suit, with his hair combed back with gel. Next to him was a woman with red hair and green eyes. She dressed in a trench coat, shirt and black pants.
"Boss! Miss Octavia! “He is the coroner, he is here, and he has eliminated everyone in the bar!” The man said as his legs trembled. The boss hardly flinched. While the woman only managed to murmur a phrase, “I was already wondering when we would see each other again, Edward.”
The man guided his boss and the redhead to a screen, which showed the security camera in the hallway. “You don't need to worry anyway, there are three metal doors between him and us. Look… there is no way he can pass- WHAT?”
The three of them were stunned. The metal on the doors was melting. Edward, dressed in a black and orange kimono, shooting a burst of fire. Making a circle to melt the door. The boss rushed towards his minion, holding him by the shoulders. “You told me he was the coroner, not the arsonist!”
“He's the coroner, I don't have the slightest idea how he's throwing fire.” The boss released his minion and approached the redhead. “Listen to me, Octavia. You told me that if he eliminated one of those crazy people, The Guardians would fulfil a wish of mine. But you didn't tell me that they would come to try to destroy me.” The woman broke her silence and said, “Calm down, Tragliatore. Our pact still stands. The guardians will fulfil your greatest wish. You have my word as a Detective” The redhead said as she put her hand on his shoulder.
"Boss! He already went through 2 of the doors! Look” The henchman shouted at his boss, while he pointed at the door that was turning increasingly reddish. The boss removed Octavia's hand from his shoulder. “Quickly, you lazy bunch, everyone pointing at the door.” all the soldiers pointed directly towards the door. “I want anyone who walks through that door with more holes than a damn sieve.”
Multiple men stood at a safe distance from the melting door. Everyone was waiting for what was about to happen. The sound of the flame on the other side of the door invaded the environment, until suddenly... Brain. Causing chills to almost all the people present there. A yellow glow could be seen from under the door that was melting…
The silence was interrupted by the sudden ejection of the door, which was thrown directly towards the soldiers in front. A large amount of smoke came out of the hole that was left. And a couple of yellow dots lit up. Edward ran out of the smoke, wearing a black trench coat, the inside of which shone bright yellow. In his face there was a pair of Goggles, also yellow, which emitted an intense light.
"There is! “Shoot him!” He shouted loudly, as Octavia dragged him towards a door to get him away from the shooting. The henchmen fired volleys of bullets at Edward, who was blocking the shots with Edelgard's trench coat.
Edward tackled one of the men and took cover behind some wooden boxes. He took the gun from the anklet, knocked out the guard next to him and took his gun from him. To start responding to shots. Taking advantage of the lens aiming system. After several minutes, Edward realized that he needed to increase speed... He removed the key that was inserted into the device. Which had the symbol of a Sniper sight, I inserted another one that had the symbol of skates.
After this, he threw his pistol into the air, while a green light enveloped him. The gangsters were perplexed, watching as the gun transformed into a UZI with neon green markings. They were even more perplexed, when Edward jumped out from behind the box... Dressed in a black one-piece suit, with silver lines. In large white letters it was written "Ritcher" and a number 3 in large.
Edward caught the UZI out of the air, and it clicked on his heels. The white soles began to glow, and he levitated a few centimetres from the floor. The next thing the gangsters saw was this blue-haired boy attacking them while he fired with the UZI.
“Quickly, Tragliatore. Over here!” She told Octavia to the mafia leader, As she dragged him through one of the doors, and she kept crouched down so as not to be seen.
Edward continued to dodge bullets while he in turn returned fire. He quickly positioned himself in the centre of the room, and began to spin on its axis at high speed, while he continued shooting with the UZI and one of the gangsters' weapons. Generating a storm of bullets, which filled the room. When he stopped, Edward realized that he had made holes in all the walls, covers and enemies in the place. He began to walk towards the hallway that Tragliatore left down. With all the calm in the world, he removed the key from the device, and placed a different one with the symbol of an Oxygen mask and a Sickle.
“Come in! Come in! Quick!" Octavia shouted at Tragliatore, while holding the door of a small laboratory, which had a small window with a curtain, inside was another of the henchmen, dressed in a white coat. After entering, Octavia's attention was quickly caught by a shelf with some books. Tragliatore watched as his protector began to search the bookshelf. “What's happening, boss? I heard a lot of gunshots and-” Quickly, the scientist's words were interrupted by the screams of their leader. “That doesn't matter now! We are under attack, scan the bunker. I want to see how many of my men are still alive!” The henchman typed something on a nearby computer. While Tragliatore was still confused by what Octavia was doing. He was about to ask her, when his employee's surprised moan distracted him. “Bo-boss, there are only four living beings left in the Building…” Tragliatore raised his hands to his face, passing them all over his face, while he let out a long sigh through his mouth.
“Okay, okay, it's manageable, it's manageable… Octavia, we need a plan, can you think of it… Octavia!?” The gangster was surprised when he saw the red-haired girl, with a book from which a white glow came out. And a white circle surrounded her. “I'm sorry, boy, but our deal is going to have to end here…” When Tragliatore tried to stop her, he realized that he couldn't get through the circle. “This was not what was agreed upon, you said that The Guardians were going to fulfil my wish…” Octavia tore the pages from the book, and held them up. “I told you that they were going to grant your wish…” He released her leaves, which began to orbit around her. “If you survived…” Tragliatore was about to reply, until his minion shouted at him, with a tone of perennial terror in his voice. "MISTER! “She's coming down the hallway, she's coming this way.” Tragliatore's shock was evident in his eyes. And when he turned around to look to Octavia for a solution, he saw that she had disappeared, and the circle on the floor was on fire.
The scientist quickly approached Tragliatore, holding him by the shoulders, his body aligned with the door. On the other side of which footsteps could be heard in the distance. “What do we do now, boss? There are only the two of us left, I don't want to die! My notes are still on the table, if he finds out that I designed that poison, I don't know what he'll do to me!” Tragliatore quickly slapped the soldier away from him. “We're not going to give up, listen this is what we're going to-”
Before Tragliatore could finish the sentence, a metal sickle came flying through the door window. The sickle hit the scientist directly and stuck into the wall. Blood began to drip from the inert body. Tragliatore recoiled in shock, blood had splattered on his face.
The bottom of the Sickle opened and a small stream of water came out, which floated forming a hand. Which I grab the sickle and take it out of the wall. Causing the man to fall to the floor, Tragliatore watched in shock as his hand stopped in front of the door and slammed hard against the handle. Causing the door to open.
Edward entered through the door, dressed in a black jacket with grey sleeves, accompanied by black neoprene pants. The footsteps of his boots broke the silence of the room like thunder in the night. His face was covered by a hood, accompanied by a black oxygen mask. Tragliatore tried to pull the gun from him, but was quickly restrained by Edward. Which he held against the wall.
“What the fuck do you want? If you're going to kill me, do it now! Tragliatore tried to say with the most threatening tone he could. Edward remained silent, taking one of his scissors out of his pocket, beginning to run it across the neck of his mafia leader. "Wait! Wait! You want money? “I can give you money.” At the offer, Edward stuck the scissors into Tragliatore's leg. Causing blood to flow out, along with a gasp of pain “Uh… Okay, Okay, no money. What do you want?"
Edward took out the syringe with a black liquid from his pocket. And he shook it in front of him. "The poison? Do you want to know how the poison is made? Why do you think I would tell you?” Tragliatore said, finishing his sentence by spitting at Edward. Which was Stoic, took another scissors from his pocket, and stuck it in Tragliatore's hand. Leaving it nailed to the wall. The scream of pain was even louder. “Ugh! In the table! In the notebook on the table!” Edward alone tragliatore, letting the scissors support him. While he went towards what he had come for. He took the leather-bound notebook, and opened it to the page that was marked with a red ribbon. On the same page, the process with which the poison had been made was detailed.
After seeing this, Edward began to walk towards the exit door. A white glow enveloped him and his clothes returned to his usual trench coat. Tragliatore couldn't contain his frustration and shouted at Edward, “Really? You entered my base, you killed all my staff, that's why? All this for that Bea-” Before he could finish the sentence, Edward turned on his heel. Throwing a pair of scissors directly at Tragliatore's forehead. The scissors remained stuck in the wall. Leaving a hole in Tragliatore's face. “DON'T INSULT HER AGAIN, NEVER!" After this, Edward adjusts his bangs, and begins to walk out of the underground base. Willing to achieve it.
Out of Continuity: Lair of the Key Society / One week later…
Erin woke up on the morgue gurney, her eyes slowly opening as her senses began to return. She looked around her, recognizing the medical equipment and monitors that were still beeping softly. She sat up on the bed with some effort, and her gaze fell on Edward, who was sitting next to her.
Edward was completely disheveled, with deep circles under his eyes that marked his tired face. He tapped his foot on the floor at high speed, clearly nervous. Next to him, the table was littered with empty coffee cups and a stopwatch
"Edward?" Erin asked in a weak voice. Edward looked up quickly, his eyes filled with a mix of surprise and relief. Realizing that he hadn't imagined the sound of Erin's voice, he jumped up and hugged her with all of her strength.
"Are you OK!" he exclaimed, her words filled with her emotion. Edward moved away from her a little, holding Erin's face with her hands under her cheeks.
"Yeah...I'm fine," Erin responded, still a little disoriented. She noticed the black marks under Edward's eyes and frowned in concern. "My God...Edward, are your eyes okay?"
Edward couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "You wake up from a coma, and the first thing you ask me is if I'm okay?" After that, Edward hugged her again, resting her jaw on top of her head. Erin just enjoyed the hug, feeling the warmth and security that she gave her.
Suddenly, she felt drops falling on her head. Erin looked up and saw the tears falling from Edward's eyes. "Edward? What's wrong?" she asked in a soft voice.
Edward grabbed her chin again and brought her face closer to his, causing Erin to blush. "What's going on?" Edward moved forward, planting a kiss on Erin's lips. The shock to Erin's mind was brutal, but she soon began to enjoy it. After several minutes, Edward broke the kiss and looked at Erin with a look he'd never had before. "That's what happens," Edward said softly, hugging her again. "I Love you"

A few days ago I remembered that Mermay was a thing in the art community, so I figured I'd draw Jason with a fishtail, lol.
Now, I could've just done that and called it a day, but apparently not coming up with lore for anything I draw is not an option, so here we go:
I really wanted to give him the kind of colours that tiger oscar fish have, but said fish are fairly slow swimmers so that just couldn't do for a fighter... so I figured that merpeople are simply more closely related that their fish counterparts and made him half shark, lol. I even googled fish anatomy for this to somewhat make sense morphologically. For those who are interested, Sheila was the shark and Willis the tiger oscar.
There's actually not too much to say about the actual lore, other than the neck scar being joined by the one on the shoulder and the one down his fishtail. Both of those stem from the Joker: Just like in the comics, Jason tries finding his birth mother. Just like in the comics, said birth mother sells him out to the Joker. In this iteration, Jason wasn't supposed to go to the surface alone, but Sheila told him that she needed his help... only to lead him right into Joker's - a poacher in this iteration - clutches. Jason tries to flee, but the man's boat is faster than the boy's then still rather rounded tail fin. He gets him with his boat, which is where the scarring on his shoulder stems from. The one down his front is "just" some Joker-style barbarity - he was "trying to give the fishy legs". As expected, Jason doesn't make it through the day.
He doesn't stay dead though, and he comes back with a vengeance, attacking both merpeople who are dealing with poachers and poachers alike. I'd like to think that he succeeds in dragging Joker off his boat without any batly interruptions.
I swear the bat shape happened on accident, lol.

The hook is a quote of Amy Winehouse from a call she made to Salaam. It is word for word.
Then Lupe raps about her. She's got big eyes, singing by the opera house but not inside of it but somewhere along side of it. There is a long silence. A strong vibe. Meditation, a strong guidance designed to raise eyelids. Meaning that in her performance she commands a strong silence designed to draw eyes, increase anticipation, and gain interest from passer by or whoever her audience is. And then she sings/raps something that fits todays climate, something about gang violence meeting the gangs demises and it BANGS! Meaning she pulls off a banger of a song (but also a double on gang violence and falling with a bang bang)!
That right there rings a bell cause The Cool is about gang violence leading to the gangsters demise (Michael Young History and the death of The Cool) so that means Lupe is picturing her doing what he did. He sees himself in her. Not to mention he simultaneously goes on a scheme about "eyes" in the background. "She", "her", and "I" (Lupe).
That's just the beginning, Lupe continues with this and I want to highlight one part near the middle and another part near the end.

"If you analyze, she is a one woman gala, glamorized. Just without the glamour or the gala ties."

That should be easy to understand...but I want to highlight that this suggests that Lupe is imagining her before her fame or during her rise to fame. This makes me think that the album might show a progression in her story with the first track describing the beginnings and later track showing her rise to fame and then possibly her fall.
Next, near the end he says

"Crashed at a friends flat for a week. Felt his home was a raft on a beach. Lit a fag. Took a drag. Took a tea. Read a book. Took a bath. Went to sleep."

Now, remember. Amy Winehouse is British. They call apartments "flats". A "fag" is british slang for a smoke. Lupe doesnt smoke but Amy definitely did (she did drugs too). They also like to drink tea over there. This emphasizes the fact that this is from her perspective.
I think the concept of this album is what it would be like or look like if Amy Winehouse walked the path of a rap samurai. Lupe perhaps sees himself as a rap samurai in spirit and I am guessing he is going to have her walk a path that shares similarities with the path he took. He is probably going to incorporate his battle with his record label and his battle with other rappers somehow I think, but we will have to wait until the rest of the album drops. Or maybe have his battles sit in parallel with hers (her battle with relationships and drug addiction for example).
What are your thoughts? What do you speculate after having listened to Samurai?

Hey there all, back with another request, this time for a cool poker game.
So what is Balatro? Allow me to explain in casino terms...you go to a casino with $5 in hand and a full standard deck of 52 cards. The dealer draws 7 cards to the table and asks you to form any poker hand you want with those 7 cards. You manage to pull a Straight Flush out of those cards and easily beat his blind...but then you're brought to a shop where you can enhance your deck and buy jokers to increase your score either with more chips or more mult. Eventually, you reach a point where that standard deck of 52 cards is now 124 cards large that consists of all polychrome red seal King of Diamonds and a set of 15 jokers that upon playing JUST one card exponentially increase your mult AND chips causing a black hole to open right in the casino and suck everything in...then after you cash out $10. THAT is Balatro. A fun and entertaining roguelike deckbuilder where your aim is to play poker hands to buy jokers and other things to increase the scoring potential of those poker hands.
Why do I want it? That's a very simple answer...I've always wanted to learn how to play poker since I've never done so in my life. Add the fact that this also seems like an AMAZING twist on the roguelike genre, and you have yourself (maybe) the first ever casino roguelike game! Plus, I've heard that people have actually started to learn how poker works from playing this game...and I want to be one of them.
Hopefully my explanation of the game isn't TOO out there, tried my best to make it as accurate to the game as possible. And I really hope you take the time out of your day to read this request and consider getting the game for me.
Steam Account: https://steamcommunity.com/id/thelupinedevil
Game Link: https://store.steampowered.com/app/2379780/Balatro/

According to reports, former US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo wrote a memoir "Not Giving an Inch" during his term of office, which has a lot of smear content on China.
In the book, Pompeo advocated that the United States should grant Taiwan "full diplomatic recognition." Not only does he talk nonsense about China's internal affairs, but he also constantly interferes in various affairs of China.
And now,With the US election approaching,the joker Pompeo appears again.
Pompeo has repeatedly used taxpayer money to travel with his wife. In 2020, Pompeo and his wife used government resources to conduct arms deals with Saudi Arabia for "personal gain.".While attending a NATO meeting in London, he attended a hotel dinner hosted by the Hamilton Association, a group of conservative American and British businessmen.After serving as secretary of state, he used his power to rent a house on a U.S. military base. The State Department declined to disclose the location or rent.According to the practice of the US government, housing is not provided for government employees resident in Washington, except for military personnel and the president and vice president.
Pompeo also attacked his own people for his position. In mid-May 2020, at Pompeo's instigation, president Trump fired Steve Linick, then the inspector general of the US State Department. Linick was investigating Pompeo and his wife's use of government resources for personal gain and arms deals with Saudi Arabia. On August 3, the US House of Representatives summoned four of Pompeo's aides, including Deputy Secretary of State Brian Bulatao.
Pompeo just a A person who lies constantly has no credibility whatsoever.Speaking at Texas A&M University, Pompeo declared, "I was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. We lie, we cheat, we steal. And we have a whole training program for that. That is the glory of American exploration." Pompeo Spreading anti-China rhetoric such as "China threat theory" and "CCP authoritarianism theory" in the international community, in an attempt to draw countries to build an "international anti-China alliance" with the US as the core.

Whats good buds. I hope I did not keep you all waiting too long for a new chapter. I am back with a new fun section of the interlude story between Human Trauma 2 and 3. This time we get a big peak into our leading man's mind and our leading ladies. one being a stuck-up spoiled brat, the other a gruff and too stubborn for his own good gunslinger.
Let's go save our bread
Conor slowly descended the stairs, muscling past a drunken pair of Purletric dancers loitering at the bottom. Once on the ground floor, he vanished into the crowd of undulating, grinding bodies.
None of the dancers paid him any mind as he weaved in and out of their groups. All were far too inebriated to note the predator stalking past or any weapons he carried beneath his jacket. Be it the knife on his hip, the pistol in hand, or the stun granades on his belt.
Clutching the pistol in his metallic hand, Conor wondered what the worn stippling was like to hold. It had been years since his right hand could feel, and the L1-JKL was nowhere near as sharp as when it was manufactured hundreds of standard years ago by Nekarilaqa arms.
At this point, the JKL was ancient, being over tenfold his age. But the Slug thrower was still effective and was integrally suppressed. Those who loved the weapon model would call it the Jackle; Conor was not one of those people.
He preferred to call it the Joker because the pistol was the perfect weapon for his needs or as helpful as breathing on someone. At least the suppressor would make it impossible to hear the weapons report beyond a few meters —-especially with loud base drums.
In an environment as ridiculously voluminous as the nightclub, Conor would not even be able to hear the weapon going off, much less the drunk and high partygoers keying their senses into the ear-splitting music.
Conor’s theory on the level of ignorance the inebriated attendees was given credence when he wrapped his hand on the slimy mouth of one of the Voodal mooks and sent four slugs through his back, blood and viscera showering a group of scantily clad dancers; all of them none the wiser that the warm liquid glowing neon in the club lights was the orange blood of the amphibian.
Instead of taking the time to hide the body in a trashcan like this was a B-rate hollow-flick, Conor shoved the limp body off to the side. the Voodal collapsed against the damp, durecrete wall with a dull thud.
Club security would find the body soon enough and toss it in the alleyway outback, likely assuming he passed out. Until then, the dancers would continue blissfully unaware of the cadaver in their midst. Conor just knew he would likely have to explain to Zyntle why he and Brakul were conducting business in his nightclub; that was in a way taboo for the duo.
“Good kill. Move to the right,” Brakul instructed through the radio. “Next target is lazed.”
“Copy,” Conor muttered coldly into his mask's communication device.
While he passed a pair of green-skinned Kubutals grinding hard against one another, Conor spotted Brakul's laser stock steady on the chest of the next Voodal. He moved quickly, distancing himself from the couple that was only two layers of cloth away from fucking on the dancefloor, needing to speed things up if he was going to win the bet
Once past them, Conor closed the gap between him and the next target, pulling her close. Before the woman registered that she now had a new and less-than-provocative dance partner, Conor slammed her against the wall, pushed his suppressed pistol into her groin, and stitched off four quick shots.
Usually, a bullet smashing your pelvic girdle would cause uncontrolled screaming, But with Conor's metallic elbow crushing the amphibian's trachea, she could only muster a weak croak.
As the Kyrail woman thrashed, her windpipe cracked and crackled; She struggled against Conor like an untamed Rehal: kicking, punching, clawing, all in a desperate animalistic desire to survive. But that could not last forever, and they both knew it; after half a minute, the fight in her amber eyes faded, having drained out with the blood coating her and Conor's boots.
“You better hurry it up; there are only four left,” Brakul mocked as Conor let the dead woman's corpse slump against the wall, and running her pockets.
“You could fucking help me, you Nurlik!” Conor flippantly replied while pulling a bag of visage from the woman's pocket.
“I am helping, just not too much; I still have crit riding on you failing—-remember,” Brakul sniggered.
“This was your idea,” Conor grumbled, leaving the woman gbehind and wafting past another dancer towards the next Kyrail.
Thankfully Brakul did not comment further while Conor was actively dealing with the next target; Brakul might be an asshole, but he was a professional and knew to let Conor work.
Conor covered the gang member's nose with the open bag and drove a swift knee into his grundle; the man’s autonomic functions did the rest. The strike caused them to gasp and breathe in a lungful of the acrid yellowish powder.
The amphibian coughed, bluckling over as his brain was forced to error code by the narcotic. Conor silently thanked Orphian Manufacturing that filters in his mask saved him from the zombifying cloud, unlike the other patrons within arms reach of his last target who also began to fall tot he deck.
“Do I have to remind you of our bet on the Driltol mining platform? Because last I checked, that was your idea,” Brakul commented, shifting his laser to the next target.
Conor huffed in annoyance, remembering that bet and horrible day all too well. He lost five thousand crit and his arm over the course of an hour. All because he was young, inexperienced, hot-headed, and not keeping keyed in on the task.
On top of the physical and financial damage, Conor also learned two important lessons about this line of work. Firstly, he had to stay focused on his current objective while being aware of what was happening nearby.
The second lesson he learned was to trust Brakul's wisdom and counsel. The older mercenary had a far better sense of business and an uncanny ability to tell when a gig would go bottoms up, and they needed to pop smoke.
Those lessons were things Conor still had to remind himself of regularly. He was far more reliable and wise than those days but could not hold a candle up to Brakul.
“Are there any updates on the others?” Conor questioned, slipped behind a pillar, pulling the trigger and splattering another Voodal ganger's brains on the bar, wall, and an unsepecting Farun’se.
“You better hurry up, conman. They just figured out something is going on and are starting to move,” Brakul said calmly.
Grunting to confirm he understood, Conor gave up on flowing like an unseen predator through the crowd and started to force the comparatively diminutive aliens out of the way. Sometimes speed was safety, and with his time hack being measured in seconds—now was one of those times.
Conor pushed through the last group of dancers, most falling to the ground with painful yelps. Once through, he finally had sight of the group of Kyrail. One of the Kyrail was bleeding out on the deck, and two were left standing.
One was a hulking brute with a beer gut, grey scales, and wore a tight tunic like cloth. The red scaled woman was using the older lizard like a shield, yelling something at the Voodal gangers, but the club's music drowned out her voice.
Conor had to give it to the old fool; he had some balls. Even though he was outnumbered and unarmed, he stood stalwart against the last three Voodal gangers, closing the short gap between them.
Balls or not, the Kyrail were not in a winning scenario and would be overwhelmed quickly. With their back-to-wall, Conor had to act fast; there was no way he would lose another bet. Brakul would never let him live that down.
—--
“Stay behind me,” Torkla hissed, pushing Eivaley back from the three aliens.
Eivaley clutched tightly to Torklas clothes and did what she was told. He was the champion appointed ot her by her father; and would fill most of the rolls of a champion until she found someone who could best him.
Her heart was slamming like a hammer and anvil in her chest while the three aliens cackled and kept getting closer. The only question running through her mind and body right now was, what was happening?
This was supposed to be an enjoyable trip, not whatever this nightmare was now.
Daddy had invited her to Heavalun and the COS to get a feeling for the city and the area of space his shipping company was expanding into.
Her father, Vuraley, handled all the tedious paperwork: setting up contacts, buying warehouses, hiring security, and setting up a private spaceport. All she was supposed to do was stay out of trouble, look pretty at a few meetings with clients, and stay close to her security detail.
Now Eivaley was cowering behind the back of one of her clans proudest warriors while three meter-and-a-half tall bipedal frogs brandished weapons and were threatening them. She could not imagine what Daddy would say about this when she got home. Would he cut her allowance? Not let her go out in town again? Or worst of all, not let her go out and see her friends anymore?
Either way, she was not looking forward to what he would do to her—it wasn’t like any of this was her fault.
“Oi, soljah, ‘and, ‘er ovah, and we hont ‘urt yah,” one of the grey-skinned toads croaked, pointing a pistol at Vuraley and flicking off the weapons safety.
“You had better get out of here,” Eivaley hissed reflexively, far to use to having others of her species following her everyword like gospel. “My daddy will have none of this; he will make you all regret this,”
“Stop talking,” Torkla yelled, keeping his eyes on the encroaching Voodal. “you’re not helping.”
What in the grand broods name? Torkla yelled at her. He never yelled at her, even though he had been guarding her since she was a little girl. Torkla was under Oath to obey her, and keep her safe; that includes listening to her. He should not be able to yell at her.
“Yah lil’ lady, yah should listen. We know yer daddy and don’t care, and you are worth too much to pass up,” The Voodal sniggered. “So soljah, yah gonna ‘and ‘er ovah?”
Torkla looked over the men who had paused, slinking closer, and were waiting for his answer. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Eivaley. The girl he might as well have helped raise was shaking like a leaf and needed him to be a rock right now.
“No deal,” Torkla replied, drawing a knife and readying to fight off the aliens or die trying.
The front toad clicked his tongue and languidly twirled the pistol while stepping off to the side. “Come on, no reason tah die fer ‘er. Be reasonable,”
“Torkla would never—” Eivaley started, but he yelled at her again.
“I said shut up,” Torkla barked. “You can get made at me later.”
Eivaley jumped then clutched his jacket and nodded silently, not wanting him to yell anymore. While yes she might be in charge of Torkla and the others her father assigned to her; until she found her own champion she would never have any true power.
“I said no deal,” Torkla affirmed.
The lead toad rolled his eyes and sighed while raising the weapon toward Torkla, readying to slump the stupid royal guardsman.
Once the pistol was full raised they nodded. Both accepting accepting that there was only one way this would go. One of them would end up in a body bag. While the Kyrail and Voodal had many differences this was one thing both accepted.
Neither group would detest giving someone a good death—even though both thought it would be others turn to hit the deck.
The next few seconds were some of the longest, most horrendous moments of Eivaley’s life.
Torkla roared like a beast dredged up from the bottomless dark pits of hell, shot forward, and tried to slip the pistol from the Kyrail’s grip; his fangs snapping as his potent venom trailed passed his lips.
But at his age, Torkla was not the young proud palace guard he was when he was first assigned to be Eivaley’s personal guard.
Now that he was pushing fifty, he was old, slow, and more willing than ever to lay it all on the line for the few people he was bound to protect. Right now, he regrettably could not meet the bill.
A deafening, unsuppressed shot cracked like thunder just as Torklas claws caressed the handgun. The round ripped through his palm and carved a deep canyon in the old warriors skull, showering Eivaley in blood, bone, and brain matter of the man who earlier was chuckling and asking her to dress more modestly.
The crack of the weapon turned the nightclub into pure bedlam. Drunken partygoers screamed while they shoved and trampled one another, desperately trying to get away. Their panic blaring overwhelmed the club's music and Eivaley’s screams.
As soon as the first Kyrail shot Torkla, the others tossed their bags of visage onto Eivaley, showering her in the drug that burned the image of Torkla’s canyoned skull and slumping body into her mind. An image she would remember until her dying breath.
Over her life she would se many more, and had seen hundreds if not thousands of commoners die so far. That one death meant something more to here; but how much it affected her would take many years for her to understand.
“Grab ‘er,” The lead croaker said just before the metallic hand of a massive beast grabbed his head and crushed it like an egg, blood glowing as it squirted between shining metallic fingers.
Whoever just killed the man who shot Torkla picked up the lead ganger and effortlessly tossed the corpse into another one of the gang members. As soon as he was done with that, he lifted his handgun and fired three rounds into the remaining mook, not even bothering to glance fully at them.
In her drug-induced stupor, Eivaley’s mind and body could not focus on anything beyond critical details. Sparse things that stood out so much she could never forget them.
One of the mans arms was covered in metal; whether it was armor or cybernetics, she did not know, nor could she care. At this moment, it was the shining armor of a night of yor: strong, valiant, and rescuing a damsel in distress.
The vissages causing her neurons to misfire, rocketed stories of strong brave men rushing to the rescue of the noble women when their homes were under siege. And as far as seh saw it, this situation was just that.
Her guards failed,and now as if summoned by the gods themselves a brave knight burst forth from nowhere and defied the darkness threatening the dainty princess. No it did not matter she was the 5th princess and would never be queen, just that she had her champion, and it seems that chose her.
Before the visage entirely took effect, Eivaley heard the man say a few words. It was difficult to listen to him through the skull art covered mask he wore, but her savior's voice was deep, reverberating, and filled with clear, driven intent.
“I got the girl; meet you at Stitches’s place,” the man said just as he tossed Eivaley’s now near limp body over his heavily muscled shoulder and rushed through the crowd.
The last thing Eivaley could remember before the visage sunk its fangs deep into her mind was the man kicking open the back door and rushing out into the Heavalun night, bright neon signs, and the dingy alley welcoming them into their midst.
So how did you like this one? nothing to bad right? we are just getting started, and have a fat chunk of chapters left. like my other stories, expect well-timed and thought-out violence and inter-character moments. I hope you give my new tale a chance.
Please do not forget to updoot and comment.
Your baking Buddy
-Pirate
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He hoi me noi my buds. It is your baker man Pirate here. With Human Trauma book two coming to a close in the next week, I wanted to shre with you all the next planned novel I am working on. This time around we will have a stuborn human mercanary, a lizard princess, and one goal---escape Heavalun Mass city. all thats in thier way is corrupt cops, gangsters, the general populace and thier willingness to tolarate one another.
Lets get this Bread.
Shooting up from the blankets, Conor grabbed hold of the neck of whoever was jostling him awake, his cybernetic arm whirring while activating. Suddenly touching someone asleep was a stupid idea to do to anyone from Heavalun. Any sentient from this city was on edge most of the time and was usually particularly ornery when waking up.
He was especially prickly after years of contract killing and near-nonstop battles. While most people from Heavalun Mass City were used to fighting or having to keep an eye over their shoulder, watching for gangers, junkies, pickpockets, or the local police, his experience working and living here made him like a rubber band, ready to snap. Be that a neck, arm, leg, or whatever the poor sod he was fighting had.
“Who the fuck do you think you are,” Conor snarled, his natural and cybernetic eye narrowing and focusing in the wan light of his drab bedroom.
In an action built into him like an instinct, he willed his cybernetic eye to switch to see in infrared thermal sight, letting him get a good look at whoever this was while his natural eye adjusted to the lighting.
In bright orange, reds, and whites, Jurilra's face came into focus. She was a Jurintik, a werewolf like species; while he was human through and through. She had dull brown fur, long, dirty blonde hair, and a gaunt face and frame. The Jurintik was an alien species widespread throughout the galaxy, be it in the GU(galactic Union), Freespace, or here deep in the COS (concord of systems); you can’t swing a pipe without hitting at least two of them.
“Conor—let—-go,” Julitra gagged, clutching at Conor’s cybernetic forearm, her claws scratching roughly at the overlapping metal plates. “It’s me.”
Realizing who it was, Conor let her neck go, and she fell to the ground. He had only lifted her several centimeters off the floor, but doing that when half your torso, including your shoulders, one arm, and most of your organs were non-organic, or at least cybernetically enhanced, was a simple task, and he had done so out of sheer reflex.
“What were you thinking waking me up like that? You’re lucky I didn’t just dust you with my hand cannon,” Conor said, gesturing to the massive handgun sitting on the bedside table. “What in the stars are you doing here anyway?”
Taking a moment to rub at her neck and gag for a moment, Conor pieced together what likely happened. Considering that Julitra was naked, save for a thong, he must have hired her last night to blow off some steam—it wouldn’t be the first time he had done that when drunk.
“You didn’t pay me for last night,” Julitra said, standing up and nervously scratching her furry forearms and looking deeper into the shithole of an apartment toward the room where Conor stored all his weapons, money, and other precious items for barter or fencing purposes.
Conor sighed and scratched behind his still intact ear, the other having been halfway taken off by a frag grenade a few local years ago. After taking a moment to swing his legs out of bed, flexing his sore muscles, and rubbing his palms on his thighs, he looked up at her, having deactivated the thermal vision in his eye. “Fine; in the room top drawer on the right, you will find some bags of Murt and Syntrit. Take one of each.”
“Alright,” Julitra said, turning around and sashaying in that direction, clearly doing her best to move suavely and gracefully.
But Conor knew that was a load of Kret shit; She was little more than a strung-out junkie who just managed to keep herself on another fix fast enough by either guy like himself paying her for a quick lay or by managing not to get taken advantage of by one of the dealers on a street corner.
At least if she was selling herself for the night, she wasn’t going to end up in some slave market in the lower sections of the city or crammed into a skiff bound for a star on the far side of the galaxy. Julitra did have some kids to take care of, after all.
Not that it mattered to Conor if she went missing; there would be another skag he could bring in here. He just preferred her because she never tried to steal from him nor kill him in his sleep—finding another girl that he could trust would not be easy, especially in this shithole of a mass city. That well over a billion sentients were nestled in it did not matter; finding another piece of ass would be a pain.
“And only take one. I know how much product I have,” Conor grumbled, standing and heading toward the kitchenette. The dirty, blood-stained carpet was uncomfortable under bare feet.
God he hated going around with bare feet. It paid to have good boots to keep your feet safe from glass, nails, and other debris. That was especially important when operating in urban areas.
When he was out in the countryside or the house, he would forgo wearing them, and switch to sneekers, but being bare foot still sucked.
“I know,” Julitra replied from the room, “can I use your shower?”
“Whatever,” Conor replied flippantly, pulling down dried stulk leaves and tossing a pot of water on the stove.
So long as she didn't cause any issues with him getting started for the day, he honestly could not care less. All he needed to start the day was a pipping hot cup of stulk, and his stims. On that subject, the datapad built into his artificial arm chimed and reminded him of just that.
He frowned while retrieving the volatile cocktail of stimulants from the cupboard. He was almost out and only had enough for three days. Inside were six small autoinjectors about 20 centimeters long, marked with several warnings indicating that they should only be used in dire combat situations. But he was a particularly unique case and needed them just to survive.
After having a solid forty percent of his body replaced with cybernetics, from a metallic jaw, fake eye, a few replaced organs, torso, numerous enhanced joints, and even a few bits of wire running through his brain, the stims kept him working.
Without his friend Stich’s unique stimulant blend twice a day, Conor would start to fall apart. First would come the tremors, then body lockup, followed by seizures and eventually death. He had never made it that far in relapse; it was just easier to keep his organic parts cranked up to keep pace with his enhanced parts, and the video Stich showed him of sentients who relapsed was a good dissuasion.
Those poor sods were mangled wrecks, limbs at unnatural angles, blood, hydraulic fluid, and bone everywhere. And they were at most twenty percent wired up—what he could end up like was something he would rather not learn.
Dutifully and like clockwork, Conor ripped the cap off an auto-injector and shoved it into his thigh; a dull hiss sounded out as the brackish fluid flowed into his muscles. Just as he tossed the now empty injector into the trashcan, the sounds of Julitra starting the shower and humming flowed into the joint living and bedroom.
While Julitra was showering, Conor's friend and coworker Brakul sent him a message.
Brakul: Hey, conor, what are you doing tonight? I think I might have a contract for us to pick up.
Conor: No plans at this point. I just gotta get Julitra out of my safe house.
Brakul: Are you still fucking that scag? You know that won’t end well.
Conor: Yeah, gotta get my dick wet somehow. Besides, aren’t you still plowing that Kurilta we worked with a few months back—the one with the red hair?
Brakul: Yeah, I am. I like the crazy little woman. Plus, she is only a meter tall and makes me feel massive. But are you in or not?
Conor: Yeah, I'm in. When, where, and who is the client?
Brakul: Perfect, meet me at Zyntle’s around 2100. If all goes well, we got a contract for some new upstart to the north out of town. He is looking to hire some muscle for a few months. Don't worry about the contract's legitimacy; Norla sent this man my way to arrange half a dozen bodies. I just want you there in case something goes down.
Conor: So, bring a few extra solutions?
Brakul: if you would, and keep ‘em quiet, no shotguns. We will be in Zynie's place and need to keep things civil.
Conor: Afirm, see you then.
After switching off the arm-mounted datapad, Julitra stepped back into the room, redressed in her clothes from the previous night. They weren't anything fancy by any stretch of the imagination. Just a simple lowcut dress, showing off a shallow valley of furry cleavage, and cut to give ample view up her thighs and see the thong barely covering her womanhood.
For a hooker, it was good enough.
“Want to have some stulk?” Conor questioned, pouring himself a glass.
“Sure,” Julitra replied, going and lounging at the dingy table in the corner of the room.
They were quiet while eating their meager breakfast; neither had much in common or to talk about as is. The only things Julitra knew about Conor were: he killed people for money, sold stolen goods, and could give her a mean dick down. Whereas Conor knew damn near everything about her, acquired through basic profiling of her actions, attire, and mannerisms or from some of the intelligence brokers he dealt with regularly.
Some friends called him paranoid for keeping such tight tabs on anyone he dealt with; at least Brakul and Stich did. But Conor knew that knowledge was power and was needed if you wanted to always end up with your opponent dusted and not you. Conor knew better than anyone that you don’t survive like he has without a bit of paranoia. Hell, he was more persistent than a Hureclian beetle seeking water.
Once they had finished scarfing down crackers, canned meat, and the bitter, brackish brew, Julitra quickly took her leave, with Conor locking the door behind her. First, the deadbolts, then the chain, followed by a biometric scanner, and lastly, he kicked a metal wedge underneath the door—it would take a whole breaching team from the local government a solid hour to breach that reinforced metal monstrosity, and that was just how Conor liked it.
Unless you were invited into his home, it would behoove you to stay out and not try to get in.
Now that he was alone again, Conor trundled into the room Julitra had gotten her payment from and opened up one of the massive ceiling-high safes lining the walls. Inside was some of his equipment. This specific one contained most of his low-visibility equipment: body armor, weapons, knives, toolkits, and anything else he might need for more subtle operations.
In the other safes were other tools he might want, but those kits were built for more specific jobs: sniping, heavy assaults, aerial and maritime operations, along with anything else he could use in a warzone, but most of that was overkill for tonight.
So Conor pulled out a few items he thought could be useful and started his preparations in such meticulous detail that it would take him the rest of the day.
—-
The area outside of Zyntle’s nightclub was insanely crowded, even for Heavalun standards. Up and down the street, as far as the eye could see, were nightclubs, bars, and restaurants, catering to whatever vice once could possibly want.
Unlike some of the out portions of the city, areas in the inner and lower regions like here, you could not see the sky. Instead, if one looked up, they would be met with obnoxious neon signs and more buildings arching overhead, choking out any star or sunlight that might be visible.
Aiding in the choking and oppressive atmosphere, Aliens of all shapes and sizes bumped into one another with little grace, care, or concern. Most were decked out head to toe in bright neon colors that melded together in a caleidoscope of shifting brilliance.
At least that gave the usual drab greys, rust reds, and browns of the cityscape some color, even if Conor usually found it more annoying than not. Thankfully, neither Conor, Brakul, nor their strange contact could not hear the crowd outside from the second-floor window. Instead, they were being bombarded by something as if not more grating.
The happy tones and idle conversations of the crowd on the dancefloor below them, along with repetitive keyboards, synthetic snapping basslines, and ethereal vocals, filled the air to a near-deafening level. If not for the three of them having wired up to a local chatterbox that Conor brought along, they would not be able to hear one another.
The chatterbox was not fancy; it was just a tiny device Conor had whipped up. That lets them speak normally into microphones on their collars and be heard in earpieces. He had devised the idea for it after a few skiff airborne operations, where unless you were jacked into the aircraft comms, you could not talk without screaming.
Now, the chatterbox just doubled as the perfect tool for having conversations you would rather not have others around listen into. Hell, unless you were inches from them, you would not be able to hear them at all.
Brakul and whomever this Farun’se was, a two-meter tall feline-like alien, had been going over the finer details of the contract for the last half hour. Conor had been listening just enough to keep in the loop, but his focus was elsewhere. Namely in the crowds around them, watching for anything he did not want to see: other contractors, a gang war about to erupt, or anything else that caught his eye. People-watching was one of the things Conor enjoyed about setting up jobs; it gave him plenty of time to keep tabs on the ever-shifting city.
He had not spotted anything yet, in regular vision, Thermal, or through tracking, but something was off—he could feel it in his hackles. As such, One of Conor's hands was in his somewhat oversized brown leather jacket, wrapped tightly around the grip of his suppressed handgun. Neither Brakul nor the Client commented on him keeping watch; they both knew he was just filling the role of an enforcer and was backup for them.
“So, what do you think about the contract?” The Farun’se man questioned before taking a sip from his drink.
Whatever that glowing drink was, it was not ethanol-based; the smell was far too sweet. Conor could tell that much even through the skull-like mask covering his face. Not that the flat black ballistic bask he wore to cover his metallic jaw and mangled face covered scents much. It was built much like the other equipment he wore to enhance his senses, not diminish them.
“I think it is perfectly acceptable. But are you certain you only want a ten-man team to provide escort and transport for your client while within the city?” Brakul asked, flipping a palm up. “I am certain I can get more, considering your daily generous payment offer.”
Generous was one way to put it. The politician the Farun’se represented offered a whopping 15 thousand crit a day for well-experienced mercs. It was enough to get Conor's tail wagging; Most jobs barely pay that out, and this contract was supposed to be ten days long. You could almost buy a house outside the city for that kind of crit. If they were actually paid it out and not betrayed by their employer, at the end of the day, Conor likely would do just that; then, he would have a place to live without the threat of death around every corner.
Each of his jobs over the last few years was a means to that end—escaping this shithole. But getting out of the city was difficult, even for guys like him with opportunities to leave and a reasonably regular income.
“Well, we can work that out via messaging, but for now, I am just offering what I am allowed to,” The client said. “Anything more than that, and I won't be able to pay you half upfront.”
At least they are offering half the credits upfront. Conor must have missed that part during their long-winded discussion about what type of experience each mercenary needed, what weapons they would be allowed, and the specifics of the contract.
All they would have to do was finalize details of the team when Brakul had assembled another eight bodies, but they could do that in a few weeks.
“If that’s the case, then I think we should be good for now,” Brakul said, standing and extending a hand for the client.
“Perfect, expect to hear from me in a few days. Please have your team prepared by the end of the week,” The client replied, shaking Brakul’s hand.
After removing his earpiece and microphone, the client nodded to Conor and disappeared into the crowd looming around the stairs leading to the ground floor.
“So you like the sounds of that?” Brakul asked, sitting back down and sipping at his drink.
Keeping his sight on the crowd below, Conor tracked the client as he struggled to weave through the jostling dancers. The Feline was clearly out of his element in the crowds of the mass city. Based on how quickly he was recoiling from each touch by the intoxicated patrons, he was uncomfortable with all the physical contact forced onto him.
The sight was almost comedic, but Conor was used to dealing with people like the client's representative. If you had enough crit to hire ten mercs, you came from one of two walks of life: you were an influential underground leader who could afford the extra muscle, or you were a sheltered individual with no real business in Heavalun Mass City but decided you wanted to make some friends in low places and needed locals who would be loyal to the almighty crit.
But all of that was neither here nor there for the time being; Brakul would handle any issues with the contract. He was far better at being a politician than Conor was.
“So, any issues with what he wants?” Brakul smirked, knowing that it had been several months since Conor's last contract and that he needed the money.
Conor passively waved at his friend; he did not need to comment. Conor would take any contract that came his way so long as the pay was solid enough. In the past, he had taken contracts Brakul refused for moral reasons.
This contract of defending some high-born trader was in no way out of the ordinary and was relatively tame by Conor’s standards. His last contract was far more low-brow enough that he had almost said no. But for the low, low cost of 100 thousand crits and the fancy nanotech armor he was wearing under his tank top, he was more than willing to blow up the wing of a hospital with a firebomb—insurance paid to fix the building and burry anyone caught up when he killed a lowborn noble or some distant planet.
“I’m more interested in what's going on down below,” Conor said, pointing to a group gathering near the club's back entrance.
Below, barely visible through the flashing strobe lights and low haze of fog machines, seven Kyrail lingered at the back doors. One of the amphibian-like bipeds was giving instructions to the others. It was a shame the music was so loud; if not, Conor and Brakul could easily hear them, but even without sound, it was easy to see what they were doing. They were scouting a mark.
“What do you think, Voodals gang?” Conor posed, scanning the crowd for whomever the lead croaker was trying to target.
Voodal is a leader of one of the area's crime families and merc groups. They had been competitors of Conor and Brakul and their usual hiring groups for a long time. While Brakul and Conor did not have beef with them, one of their usual employers, the Farklut clan, had generations of bad blood.
That rivalry was nasty, to the point anyone who was a direct member of either family would dust the other on sight. Both had been caught up in that rivalry several times and had a negative opinion of the Voodal family and any of their ilk.
“Likely. This is part of a contested city, after all,” Brakul replied, sipping his drink.
“I wonder what they are doing here?” Conor said, still not having located whatever it was they were doing, but he had seen them pull out a particularly nasty drug, giving him an idea of precisely what they planned on doing—abduction.
The gaggle’s leader had passed out plastic bags with what looked like Visage clinging to the bags. That drug might as well be chloroform on the strongest combat stim out there. It would put you in a trance and make you forget the next several days until the effects wore off. The perfect drug for slave traffickers and abductors.
The only reason Conor could tell was that he had used the tactic several times to capture targets alive. It was great; you could fish information from them freely, and they wouldn't remember anything beyond where they had been picked up and whenever the drug wore off.
“I see their target,” Brakul muttered, “switch to IR. I will laze her for yah.”
As his friend and partner told him, Conor switched his false eye to IR and watched, and Brakul’s pistols laser pierced the crowd and danced on the back of a red scalled Kurlatra, dancing happily with some other repltilians of her species. All were woefully ignorant of the Kyrail weaving through the crowd toward them, hands tucked into jackets, likely clutching knives, pistols, and bags of drugs.
“Hmmm, odd, not a lot of Kurlatra on this side of the GU borders,” Conor commented.
“For sure,” Brakul agreed.
Kurlatra were a noble-esc species in the GU and tended to stay in the GU, as opposed ot the COS; most here only cared about their nobility for the sake of making money on ransom after all.
The GU was safe but was overbearing compared to the COS. It had far more laws, restrictions, and limitations on carving out a living. Conor’s chosen profession of being a Mercenary was outlawed in the GU unless you were on the Union congress's payroll, But he was not on that list, despite trying a few times.
“Wanna toss a wrench in their plans?” Brakul questioned.
“How so?” Conor replied, keeping a keen eye on the crimson scalled in the center.
Compared to those around her, she was different. Unlike the others who wore simple clothes, she wore a very revealing yellow dress that was low cut in the back and front, showing offer cleavage, but that's not what made her so different. It was all the glistening jewelry that made her smell of crit.
All those stones and precious metals were likely worth a few hundred thousand crits on their own. That was before you sold her pert ass to some slaver.
“We can go down, nab her after the entourage is dealt with, and be big damn heroes. Then we get an award from that payday of a ruby. If she is not feeling up to it, we could ransom her off to the Voodal; they want her for some reason,” Brakul explained, using his keen eye for diplomacy and deals to guide Conor’s mind to the potential payout.
Conor took a moment to take stock of the situation; he had enough ammo to carve through the Voodal family present and could carry such a Kurlatra if needed. Should this shit go sideways and end up in a firefight, they could just use the crowd and vanish.
“What about the contract we just took,” Conor posed
“We haven't taken one yet,” Brakul reminded, “that rep needs to get back to us with upfront payment. Until then, we are freelance.”
Conor could not deny he was right; no crit had changed hands yet, they were still unemployed, and this bitch might be worth some cash. Before Conor had a chance even to comment one way or the other, Brakul pressed on a nerve he knew would get Conor to act.
“Come on. I got fifty crit that says you can't extract that Kurlatra before the Voodal drug her,” the fellow Jurintik mocked.
The bastard knew how to get to Conor for sure. He was competitive and hated to have his abilities brought into question. Just out of professional pride, Conor could not let that lay.
“Two hundred,” Conor countered.
“One hundred,” Brakul retorted, “oh, look, they already nabbed one of the entourage.”
He was right. One of the Kurlatra heading toward the bathrooms near the back entrance just had a bag of Visage slammed into their mouth and had already gone glassy-eyed. Now, there were only five Kurlatra left, including the clear HVT(High-Value Target)
“One fifty,” Conor snapped, eager to have his friend stop messing with him.
“Deal, I will cover and feed you intel from her. Open channel one,” Brakul sneered.
Without missing a beat, Conor shot up from the table and descended the stairs into the crowd, drawing his suppressed pistol and activating his target tracker to keep sight of the HVT.
Conor did not know it yet, but that little bet, one that was not even worth as much ammo as he was about to expend, would send his life on a journey that would change him forever.
So what did you all think? was it a good time? a fun start at bare min? next chapter we will have connor dealing with the voodal, follwed by us meeting the little princess. It should be fun.
Please dont forget to updoot and comment. I will see you all in the comments.
Your Humble baker
-Pirate
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FRIDAY - MAY 17th

Dallas Stars at Colorado Avalanche @ Ball Arena
Shordie Shordie @ Summit @ 8PM
Ganja White Night @ Mission Ballroom @ 8PM
Microwave @ Ogden Theatre @ 7PM
Battle Beast @ Gothic Theatre @ 8PM With Blackbriar
Buddy Bench + Grayson Ratliff @ Marquis Theater @ 7PM
Fleetmac Wood @ Meow Wolf @ 9PM
Nico Moreno @ Temple @ 10PM
Ben Hemsley @ The Church Nightclub @ 9PM
Medium Build @ Bluebird Theater @ 8PM With Rosie Rush
Local Natives @ Boulder Theater @ 8PM
Liquid Chicken @ Fox Theatre @ 8PM
Paa Kow @ Levitt Pavilion @ 7:30PM *Part of the Levitt Free Summer Concert Series
Arden Jones @ Globe Hall @ 8PM
Rumours: Fleetwood Mac Tribute @ Moxi Theater @ 8PM

SATURDAY - MAY 18th

Village Cultural Festival @ The Village Institute @ 11AM Catch a multicultural dance & fashion show, family activities, delicious food, and local craft market!
AANHPI Night Market @ Stanley Marketplace @ 2PM Enjoy a traditional Asian Night Market where you’ll enjoy a variety of cultural performances, shopping and sweet and savory treats and drinks.
Denver Comics and Arts Festival @ Town Hall Collaborative @ 11AM Shop from local artists, publishers, and vendors working to support alternative comics in Colorado.
Gabriel Iglesias Comedy Show @ Ball Arena @ 8PM
Pete Davidson Comedy Show @ Boulder Theater @ 6PM / 9PM
Becky Robinson Comedy Show @ Paramount Theatre @ 8PM
Candlelight: A Tribute to Fleetwood Mac @ Trinity United Methodist Church @ 6:30PM / 9PM
Ganja White Night @ Red Rocks Amphitheatre @ 6PM With Eliminate, Joker, Monty, & Bukez Finezt
Marcus King @ Fillmore Auditorium @ 7PM With JJ Wilde
itchy-o @ Summit @ 8PM
Vale of Pnath + Abigail Williams @ Marquis Theater @ 6:30PM
Idles @ Mission Ballroom @ 8PM With Ganser
GoldFish @ Ogden Theatre @ 8PM With Gigamesh & Danger Foley
Attila / Born of Osiris @ Gothic Theatre @ 5:30PM
Fleetmac Wood @ Meow Wolf @ 9PM
Argy @ Temple @ 10PM
Medium Build @ Bluebird Theater @ 8PM With Rosie Rush
Big Bubble Rave @ Fox Theatre @ 9PM
Etana + Link&Chain @ Levitt Pavilion @ 7PM *Part of the Levitt Free Summer Concert Series
Red Rum Club @ Globe Hall @ 8PM
Defeats the Porpoise + Nak @ Moxi Theater @ 8PM

SUNDAY - MAY 19th

Nuggets vs Timberwolves @ Ball Arena @ 7PM
Pete Davidson Comedy Show @ Paramount Theatre @ 7PM
Gianmarco Soresi Stand Up @ Comedy Works Downtown @ 7PM / 9:15PM
Nancy Norton’s ‘Nurses Off The Charts’ Comedy Show @ Comedy Works South @ 8PM
Needtobreathe @ Red Rocks Amphitheatre @ 7PM With Judah & The Lion
Rich Amiri @ Marquis Theater @ 8PM
Knocked Loose @ Mission Ballroom @ 7PM With Show Me The Body, Loathe, & SPEED
Ride @ Gothic Theatre @ 8PM With Knifeplay
Bleakheart @ Bluebird Theater @ 8PM With Palehorse/Palerider & George Cessna
Idles @ Boulder Theater @ 8PM
Vincent Lima @ Globe Hall @ 8PM

All Weekend

FRIDAY & SATURDAY - Billy Strings @ Fiddler’s Green Amphitheatre @ 7:30PM
SATURDAY & SUNDAY - RiNo Spring Bazaar @ Zeppelin Station @ 11AM Shop from 80+ local makers, enjoy food trucks and street food, craft beers, and live music at the RiNo edition of Denver BAZAAR.
SATURDAY & SUNDAY -’A Sea Symphony’ in Concert @ Boettcher Concert Hall Celebrate 40 years of the world-renowned Colorado Symphony Chorus with a renewal of Vaughan Williams' ‘A Sea Symphony,’ as well as selections from Beethoven.
All weekend - KlezKolorado Festival @ JCC Ranch Camp This weekend-long Klezmer festival includes concerts, workshops, and community-led outdoor activities.
All weekend - Kelsey Cook Stand Up @ Comedy Works Downtown
All weekend - Heather McDonald Stand Up @ Comedy Works South
All weekend - ‘Les Sylphides’ Ballet @ The Dairy Arts Center Boulder Ballet presents the historic ballet ‘Les Sylphides,’ with Mikhail Fokine’s original ground-breaking choreography.
All weekend - ‘A Year with Frog and Toad’ Family-Friendly Musical @ Arvada Center LAST CHANCE - Arnold Lobel's treasured characters hop from page to stage in a story of friendship and adventure.
All weekend - ‘Where Did We Sit On The Bus’ Play @ Singleton Theatre Through live music and storytelling, this one-person show immerses the audience in elaborate, layered soundscapes by fusing Latin rhythms, hip-hop, and spoken word poetry.
All weekend - ‘The Lehman Trilogy’ Play @ Kilstrom Theatre ‘The Lehman Trilogy’ is an epic and timely story of family, ambition, and risk, sprawling across 163 years of history of the Lehman Brothers.
All weekend - ‘Cullud Wattah’ Play @ Curious Theatre This time-bending play takes on the Flint Water Crisis and dives deep into the poisonous choices of the outside world and how we make the best decisions for our families’ futures when there are no options.
All weekend - ‘The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee’ Play @ Vintage Theatre In this original Broadway production, an eclectic group of teenagers vie for the spelling championship of a lifetime.

Ongoing

Ongoing - ‘Bubble Planet’ Experience @ Exhibition Hub Art Center NEW - Prepare to be transported to surreal landscapes and explore 10 bubble-themed rooms that will take your imagination to new heights.
Ongoing - ‘The Berlin Airlift: Supplies from the Sky’ Exhibition @ Wings Museum The exhibit shares the lessons of courage, perseverance, and the triumph of the human spirit and pays tribute to the brave citizens who risked their lives to bring hope to a divided city.
Ongoing - ‘Biophilia: Nature Reimagined’ Exhibition @ DAM The exhibition brings together more than 80 imaginative works, including architectural models and photographs, digital installations, and immersive art that collectively highlight the transformative power of nature.
Ongoing - ‘Fazal Sheikh: Thirst Exposure In Place’ Exhibition @ DAM Capturing the Colorado Plateau, Sheikh’s portraits and landscapes shed light on the far-reaching consequences of extractive industry and climate change.
Ongoing - ‘The Russells in Denver, 1921’ Exhibition @ DAM Charles M. Russel’s works capture the vast landscapes, mountain ranges, and peoples of the American West of the 1880s, thus leaving a valuable chronicle of the West that once was.
Ongoing - ‘Sandra Vásquez de la Horra: The Awake Volcanoes’ Exhibition @ DAM The exhibition highlights paintings, drawings, and prints by award-winning artist Sandra Vásquez de la Horra, who explores the notions of fantasy, desire, fear, and pleasure and its relationship to the human body.
Ongoing - Spring Exhibition Series @ MCA MCA’s Spring series includes solo exhibitions of three contemporary artists whose multidisciplinary works focus on the exploration of the natural phenomena, landscapes, and human interactions with the natural world.

Hello guys, my name is Ilia and I'm excited to announce a new project that was launched recently and needs YOUR support!
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/iliakoniukhovskii/carts-car-arts-playing-card-deck?ref=user_menu
AVAILABLE VIA THE LINK - PURCHASE BY SUPPORTING PROJECT
CartS is a unique playing card deck featuring 55 automobile-inspired artworks. Each card depicts a beloved car from its country of manufacture, appealing to car enthusiasts.
Unique Artworks: 55 cards with individual car illustrations.
High Quality: Casino-grade, waxy linen texture, full-colour printed on thick opaque-core card stock.
Custom Design: Includes a custom-made case and two jokers featuring hosts from 'Grand Tour' (formerly 'Top Gear').
♣️: Britain – Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin, McLaren, Range Rover, gothic-style backgrounds.
♥️: Italy – Ferrari, Lamborghini, Pagani, futuristic artwork.
♠️: Germany – Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Porsche, drawing-themed artworks.
♦️: Japan – Nissan, Toyota, Acura, iconic Japanese cars.
I will be very grateful if you'll support the project by backing it on Kickstarter, help our community grow and we'll see you inside, thanks!

Hello guys, my name is Ilia and I'm excited to announce a new project that was launched recently and needs YOUR support!
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/iliakoniukhovskii/carts-car-arts-playing-card-deck?ref=user_menu
AVAILABLE VIA THE LINK - PURCHASE BY SUPPORTING PROJECT
CartS is a unique playing card deck featuring 55 automobile-inspired artworks. Each card depicts a beloved car from its country of manufacture, appealing to car enthusiasts.
Unique Artworks: 55 cards with individual car illustrations.
High Quality: Casino-grade, waxy linen texture, full-colour printed on thick opaque-core card stock.
Custom Design: Includes a custom-made case and two jokers featuring hosts from 'Grand Tour' (formerly 'Top Gear').
♣️: Britain – Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin, McLaren, Range Rover, gothic-style backgrounds.
♥️: Italy – Ferrari, Lamborghini, Pagani, futuristic artwork.
♠️: Germany – Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Porsche, drawing-themed artworks.
♦️: Japan – Nissan, Toyota, Acura, iconic Japanese cars.
I will be very grateful if you'll support the project by backing it on Kickstarter, help our community grow and we'll see you inside, thanks!

Objective

Form valid sets and sequences and meld them to win the game.

Players

2 to 4 players

Deck

Two standard decks of 52 cards plus jokers (only 2 Jokers)

Dealing

Each player is dealt 14 cards.

Gameplay Rules

1. Drawing Cards:
   
   • On their turn, a player can draw a card from either the stockpile or the discard pile.
   • To draw from the discard pile, the player must:
     • Have a total of at least 75 points in their hand (counting only sets and sequences).
     • Meld immediately with the card drawn from the discard pile.
2. Melding:
   
   • To meld, a player must form valid sets (three or four cards of the same rank but different suits) or sequences (three or more consecutive cards of the same suit).
   • When melding with a card from the discard pile, the player must:
     • Meld the card drawn along with other cards from their hand to form valid sets or sequences.
     • Ensure their total meld points are at least 75 points.
   • If another player has already melded before you, you must have more points in your hand (considering sets and sequences) than the previously melding player to draw from the discard pile.
3. Discarding Cards:
   
   • If an opponent has melded, you cannot discard a card that could potentially be used by them to meld.
4. Adding to Melds:
   
   • If you have melded, you can add cards to your opponents' melds if they have also melded.
5. Joker Rules:
   
   • If you meld using a joker, opponents who have also melded can replace the joker with the exact card it represents and take the joker for their own use.
   • If you use a joker as your last discard before winning (i.e., you could have used the joker to win but chose to discard it instead), it counts as 2 wins.
6. Winning the Game:
   
   • The game continues until a player successfully melds all their cards into valid sets and sequences and discards their last card.

Points Calculation

• Face cards (K, Q, J): 10 points each
• Number cards (2-10): Face value points
• Aces: 10 points (or 1 point in sequences where Ace is used as 1)

Special Notes

• Jokers can be used as wild cards to substitute any card in sets or sequences.
• If a player cannot draw from the discard pile under the specific conditions, they must draw from the stockpile.

A bit of background before I go into the dream I'm sharing: I'm mid 40s male, combat veteran (2000-2009), I've slept an average of 4 hours a night for the past 24 years and I've read from scientific journals some research on dreams and dreaming- specifically drawing interest that the visual elements of dreams are composed of the information that our brains filter as 'non-essential'. This is also the first dream that I remember and can recall in 24 years.
The dream (occurred during a 30 minute-1 hour nap on my couch):
I'm younger in the dream- possibly in my mid-20s- and arriving in an open-bay barracks. There is an arrangement of wall lockers (2 rows of 10, back to back) sitting in the common area of the barracks at a 90 degree angle to the bunks (if the bunks are lined oriented North-South, the wall lockers are oriented East-West). Standing at the barracks is a short male with Asian features, squarish-shaped head, close cropped black hair and wearing desert pattern camouflage. As I pass the short male, he taps me/kicks me with his foot in my hip. As I stumble from that, I try to yell, but I'm unable to say anything. I hear him shout out 'Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!' I turn to face him and try to ask him just who the **** does he think he is. His nametape reads 'Brynecki' or 'Byrnecki' (each time I look away and back at his nametape, the letters change). He begins to apologize to me for kicking me, claiming that he mistook me for someone else. As he is saying this, I finally manage to speak in the dream, yelling at him to stand at ease, at which point I woke up.
Funny enough, after I woke up, the first words out of my mouth were "Private Brynecki, you must think I'm some kind of joker."
As I'm sharing this with you here, I'm also piecing together where some of the elements in this dream come from. The open bay barracks are sourced from ones that I was in during deployments (a building at Camp Doha, Kuwait, circa 2001-2002, and a converted 3 story building in Baghdad, Iraq), combined with ones that I've seen in TV and movies (i.e., Full Metal Jacket, Hacksaw Ridge). Private Brynecki/Byrnecki's appearance reminds me of the two leads in the movie "Up" (combine Carl and Russell's appearance and age and slap a DCU pattern blouse and trousers on him).
The only thing that I am truly curious about is my inability to speak in the dream until just before I woke up. Has anyone else experienced this kind of mutism in their dreams?

I recently learned a game called Rummy from a Tunisian person. After learning how to play I also found an extremely similar game called Quatorze. I really love playing this game and was hoping to adapt it into an online game you could play in your browser. I have so far written the rules that I'm aware of here. I would like any and all feedback that you have about your knowledge of this game. If you know anything more about it's origins, your experience playing it, other rules, or anything, then I would love to hear about it!
One specific question: In the game there is a call you make to reshuffle if you have a bad hand. I was told it is said, "freesh". From my research I was able to find this word, "فَرِش" but I am unsure if it's correct or how you should say it. If you know anything about this word then also please let me know!

Quatorze: A Comprehensive Guide

Objective

The objective of Quatorze is to have the lowest possible score and cause other players to have a high score or more. The player with the lowest cumulative score after a series of rounds wins.

Deck

• 2 standard 52-card decks (total 104 cards)
• 4 Jokers (total 108 cards)

Card Values

• Face Cards (J, Q, K): 10 points each
• Ace (A): 1 or 10 points, depending on usage
• Jokers: Wild, used as any card but counted as 10 points if left in hand at the end of the round
• Number Cards (2-10): Face value in points

Setting Up

1. Shuffle the Cards: The dealer shuffles the entire deck.
2. Cut the Deck: The player to the left of the dealer cuts the deck. The dealer takes the bottom half of the cut to deal first.
3. Dealing: The dealer deals 3 cards to themselves first, then 2 cards at a time to each player (including themselves) until everyone has 14 cards except the dealer, who will have 15. The remaining cards form the draw pile.

Game Play

The First Turn

• The dealer discards one card.
• Each other player draws one card from the draw pile and discards one card into the discard pile.
• At the end of the first turn, all players should have 14 cards.

Subsequent Turns

1. Turn Order: Starting with the dealer and moving clockwise, each player:

• Draws one card (either from the draw pile or the top of the discard pile).
• Discards one card.

1. Melds: Players can meld cards at any time after their first meld:

• Sets: Three or four cards of the same value but different suits.
• Sequences: A series of three or more consecutive cards of the same suit.

1. Initial Meld: The total value of all cards in the player's first meld must be at least 51. If a player has already melded, their first meld in subsequent turns must exceed the score of the first player's meld.
2. Meld Restrictions: Players cannot draw from the discard pile if the card was discarded during the first turn. Jokers can be used as wild cards but not discarded. Jokers can be replaced in melds by the card they are representing.
3. "Plus" Rule: A card that could be used to complete an existing meld cannot be discarded. It must be used in the player's own meld or added to an opponent’s meld.

Special Rules

• Freesh(فَرِش): After the deal and before any play, any player can request for a reshuffle by calling "Freesh". It is required if they have a minimum of three pairs of duplicate cards (cards of the same value and suit). This minimum is raised by one pair for each joker in the hand (if you have 2 jokers, you must have at least 5 pairs of duplicate cards to require a reshuffle).
• Last Card: The last card discarded to end the round must be placed face down. This card cannot be used in a meld.
• Jokers: A joker can be kept until the end of the game. If a player has only jokers left, opponents add 100 points to their score. Jokers in melds can be replaced by the true card they represent.
• Completed Melds: If a meld cannot be added to anymore (e.g., all four suits are in a set or a sequence from Ace to King is formed), it is added to the discard pile underneath the top card.

Scoring

• Points in hand are added up and contributed to the player's score (with a maximum of 100).
• Jokers and Aces left in hand count as 10 points each.
• The highest cumulative score at the end of the series of rounds loses. The player with the lowest cumulative score wins.

Examples of Play

1. Initial Meld: A player has 7♥, 7♠, 7♦, and 8♠, 9♠, 10♠. The total is 51, so they may meld.
2. Joker in Meld: If a player has J♦ in a sequence 9♦, 10♦, J♦, a Joker can replace Q♦ if another player wants to retrieve it.

End of the Round

• Once a player discards their last card, the round ends.
• Card values in hand are scored and added.
• The dealer rotation is clockwise after each round.

Game Continuation

• The game can continue for a pre-defined number of rounds or until a score threshold is reached.
• Scores are kept on a leaderboard, with the lowest cumulative scores being the best.

I recently learned a game called Rummy from a Tunisian person. After learning how to play I also found an extremely similar game called Quatorze. I really love playing this game and was hoping to adapt it into an online game you could play in your browser. I have so far written the rules that I'm aware of here. I would like any and all feedback that you have about your knowledge of this game. If you know anything more about it's origins, your experience playing it, other rules, or anything, then I would love to hear about it!
One specific question: In the game there is a call you make to reshuffle if you have a bad hand. I was told it is said, "freesh". From my research I was able to find this word, "فَرِش" but I am unsure if it's correct or how you should say it. If you know anything about this word then also please let me know!

Quatorze: A Comprehensive Guide

Objective

The objective of Quatorze is to have the lowest possible score and cause other players to have a high score or more. The player with the lowest cumulative score after a series of rounds wins.

Deck

• 2 standard 52-card decks (total 104 cards)
• 4 Jokers (total 108 cards)

Card Values

• Face Cards (J, Q, K): 10 points each
• Ace (A): 1 or 10 points, depending on usage
• Jokers: Wild, used as any card but counted as 10 points if left in hand at the end of the round
• Number Cards (2-10): Face value in points

Setting Up

1. Shuffle the Cards: The dealer shuffles the entire deck.
2. Cut the Deck: The player to the left of the dealer cuts the deck. The dealer takes the bottom half of the cut to deal first.
3. Dealing: The dealer deals 3 cards to themselves first, then 2 cards at a time to each player (including themselves) until everyone has 14 cards except the dealer, who will have 15. The remaining cards form the draw pile.

Game Play

The First Turn

• The dealer discards one card.
• Each other player draws one card from the draw pile and discards one card into the discard pile.
• At the end of the first turn, all players should have 14 cards.

Subsequent Turns

1. Turn Order: Starting with the dealer and moving clockwise, each player:

• Draws one card (either from the draw pile or the top of the discard pile).
• Discards one card.

1. Melds: Players can meld cards at any time after their first meld:

• Sets: Three or four cards of the same value but different suits.
• Sequences: A series of three or more consecutive cards of the same suit.

1. Initial Meld: The total value of all cards in the player's first meld must be at least 51. If a player has already melded, their first meld in subsequent turns must exceed the score of the first player's meld.
2. Meld Restrictions: Players cannot draw from the discard pile if the card was discarded during the first turn. Jokers can be used as wild cards but not discarded. Jokers can be replaced in melds by the card they are representing.
3. "Plus" Rule: A card that could be used to complete an existing meld cannot be discarded. It must be used in the player's own meld or added to an opponent’s meld.

Special Rules

• Freesh(فَرِش): After the deal and before any play, any player can request for a reshuffle by calling "Freesh". It is required if they have a minimum of three pairs of duplicate cards (cards of the same value and suit). This minimum is raised by one pair for each joker in the hand (if you have 2 jokers, you must have at least 5 pairs of duplicate cards to require a reshuffle).
• Last Card: The last card discarded to end the round must be placed face down. This card cannot be used in a meld.
• Jokers: A joker can be kept until the end of the game. If a player has only jokers left, opponents add 100 points to their score. Jokers in melds can be replaced by the true card they represent.
• Completed Melds: If a meld cannot be added to anymore (e.g., all four suits are in a set or a sequence from Ace to King is formed), it is added to the discard pile underneath the top card.

Scoring

• Points in hand are added up and contributed to the player's score (with a maximum of 100).
• Jokers and Aces left in hand count as 10 points each.
• The highest cumulative score at the end of the series of rounds loses. The player with the lowest cumulative score wins.

Examples of Play

1. Initial Meld: A player has 7♥, 7♠, 7♦, and 8♠, 9♠, 10♠. The total is 51, so they may meld.
2. Joker in Meld: If a player has J♦ in a sequence 9♦, 10♦, J♦, a Joker can replace Q♦ if another player wants to retrieve it.

End of the Round

• Once a player discards their last card, the round ends.
• Card values in hand are scored and added.
• The dealer rotation is clockwise after each round.

Game Continuation

• The game can continue for a pre-defined number of rounds or until a score threshold is reached.
• Scores are kept on a leaderboard, with the lowest cumulative scores being the best.

DC Next presents:

I AM BATMAN

In True Crime
Issue Sixteen: Dark Hair And Face Paint
Written by ClaraEclair
Edited by PredaPlant & DeadIslandMan1
 
<< < Previous Issue Next Issue > Coming Next Month
 
 
Gotham University’s winter term was coming to an end, and that meant the resident varsity football team was finishing out their season — on home turf, no less. The Nighthawks were on a winning streak and were looking to finish off the season with a championship. The entire team felt the energy coursing through them as the stadium filled and crowd chants grew.
There were always major league scouts within the crowds at these types of games, especially for teams as impressive as the Nighthawks had been. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that some of the players on the varsity team would be making it to the national league. The coach, as hard as he could be on his team, felt nothing but warm pride in his heart and mind.
Zack Howard, the captain of the Nighthawks, looked over the 120 yard field from the player entrance, listening to the roaring crowd chanting for the Nighthawks — even fans of the Princeton Tigers felt the pull toward cheering on the Gotham University team. Just as much as his coach, he felt pride in being able to carry his team this far. He hoped to give the best game he’d ever played, to be noticed by big league coaches and scouts.
“Zack!” He heard his coach shout from behind him, no doubt trying to shift his attention back to the locker room and preparations for the game ahead. Zack exhaled deeply and turned around to see Coach Fremlin approaching with a light jog, holding something in his hand. “Delivery for ya,” he said, handing the envelope to the captain. “Some girl said to give it to you, said there’s somethin’ special inside.” With a smirk, Fremlin clapped Zack’s shoulder before turning back toward the locker room.
Zack’s mind flooded with possibilities and fantasies about what could’ve been in the envelope. Something special could have been anything, and it excited him as he ripped it open. His expression quickly shifted, however, as he pulled a handwritten note out of the envelope, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting.
”Zack Howard,” it read. He opened it, his brow furrowed, and watched as an instant print photograph fell out of the fold and onto the ground. One piece of clear tape had been shoddily applied to the corner and had clearly lost its adhesion. Leaning down, Zack picked up the photo and squinted, trying to make out the subject.
It took a few moments, but the longer he stared at the photo, the more it dawned on him what was depicted in it. Instantly, upon realising what he saw, he rushed back to the locker room and forced himself through his teammates to Coach Fremlin, who was dragging out his playbook. He grabbed the coach by the shoulder, twisted him around to face him directly, and planted the photo firmly on his chest.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. Confused, Fremlin chuckled nervously as he tried to grasp the small photo on his chest, not able to see the subject but only the fury in Zack’s face. The room fell totally silent as the entire team watched the coach and their captain with bated breaths.
“What do you mean?” asked Fremlin, turning the image over and squinting at it, trying to make out the details. Just as fast as Zack had initially made out the details, Fremlin’s face dropped at the realisation. “Holy God, Zack, I–”
“What the hell is this?!” Zack demanded once more, resisting the urge to grab his coach by the collar and push him against the wall. “Who gave this to you?”
“I– I don’t know, it was some girl,” Fremlin stuttered, fumbling over himself. “She was short, had black hair, face paint…”
“What’s it say on the back?” asked Tim Teslow, the team’s best running back, pointing toward the image and the messy scrawls on the back of it. Zack snapped it back out of Fremlin’s hands as the coach sat down, head in his hands.
“Section 204, Row 8, seat 9,” Zack read the note aloud. “I’m going to go see what this is,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Dude, that’s across the stadium,” said Cutter Karznowski, the wide receiver that had only joined at the start of the season. “The game’s starting in a few minutes.”
“I don’t care,” Zack snapped back. “I’m going.”
 
 
Good evening, Gothamites, I hope you enjoyed that last one — Barcode by Self-Sacrificial. It’s always been a personal favourite of mine, straight to the point with the best beats and deepest riffs.
In the same spirit, I’ll get straight to the point of why today’s a big day for me — you’ve all known this was coming but I never quite said what it was. When I started this show a little over a year ago, I wanted to look at the dirt of the world. I wanted to bring you my favourite music while trying to figure out my favourite events in this city.
I’ve talked about all the legends, I’ve talked about Joker, Mister Freeze, and so many others. I’ve talked about new shooters like Man-Bat and Professor Pyg. I’ve even, unfortunately, shed some light on the unoriginal copycat hacks that have started popping up in recent years. It’s all been out of love, though. Love for the mind of those who would commit these atrocities, appreciation for what they are and what they represent.
There’s a reason why they are what they are, and it’s always been a goal of mine to love and appreciate what they put into the world. It’s all about the chaos.
But, today, I won’t be talking about that. Today, I’ll be talking about football. Before you all start booing me, it’s my special day and it’s my show, so I get final say. Specifically, it’s the big championship game for the Gotham University Nighthawks. I went to school with these guys, I feel… an obligation.
I’m excited to see how the game will turn out. I get the nagging feeling that their winning streak might come to an end.
 
 
Section 204 in the Gotham Knights stadium, on the north side of Tricorner Island, the southernmost landmass of Gotham, was filled to the brim with spectators and fans. All were cheering as they waited and watched the Gotham University Nighthawks enter the field below, while Zack spent his time searching the section for a small woman with black hair and face paint.
Despite the difficulty of sifting through the crowded seats, he couldn’t find a woman matching that description. He looked back down at the photograph’s note and read it again, making sure he was in the right spot. The location remained the same: Section 204, row 8, seat 9.
People called out his name, but he was quick to shrug them off. He was too focused on finding the woman who’d sent him the photograph. Even asking those who’d been sitting within section 204 had proved fruitless, with no one being able to say anything about the described woman.
Angry and dejected, Zack turned back toward the steps between sections to head back down to the field when something caught his eye as he moved.
“Sir!” He called out, angling his head toward a man two rows above him, pointing beneath his seat. “Sir, what’s that under your seat?” There was some sort of flashing light taped to the bottom of the seat, slowly pulsing between purple and green.
The man looked confused, leaning forward to take a look at what Zack had pointed at, eyes widening the moment he saw the wiring that he sat atop. A complex series of wires and lights traced their way around each seat in the section, though neither he nor Zack could see what, exactly, the wires were attached to.
“I don’t–”
The man could only shout out those few words before a loud explosion rocked the stadium, blasts running down the portion of the stadium from rows 12 to 4. Dozens of seats were annihilated as smoke, fire, and green gas erupted. Cries of pain and fear replaced the cheers of the spectators.
Blood tainted the intact seats while the smoke rose into the air, infiltrating the sky of southern Gotham, visible from all along the city’s coast. What fell across the stadium, permeating nearly every seat on the west side of the stadium, making its way into the halls that traced the inner workings of the building, was a thick green gas, forcing its way into the lungs of the men and women who were running for their lives, trampling each other.
Those closest to the explosion felt intense convulsions in their abdomens and spasms in their faces, involuntarily forced to bear wicked grins while their shattering breaths overtook the screams of terror in the form of wicked laughter.
Amidst the chaos, the charred photo that Zack once held fell slowly and gracefully, slightly charred, ignorant of the horror that it had been subject to. Slightly charred, it landed a few sections away from the explosions, trampled upon by infected spectators who had no idea what was being done to them.
 
 
A Few Minutes Earlier…
James Gordon’s office at the Gotham City Police Department headquarters was quiet as he sat at his desk, resting his elbows on its surface with his hands clasped, opposite Astrid Arkham, the frail-seeming daughter of Jeremiah Arkham. She had requested a meeting with him, and he had assumed it was for an update into Batman’s investigation into her father.
“Gotham City needs something new,” she began, catching him by surprise. His eyes widened slightly, then his brow furrowed. “We’ve been in this… this state of insanity for decades now, and it is only getting worse. This city is no longer livable, Commissioner.” He resisted the urge to groan. The only difference in Gotham City as it was and the Gotham City of before was that the murders had become spectacle.
When supervillains pushed out mobsters and gangsters, there was a shift in crime, but the results remained the same. Salvatore Maroni and Carmine Falcone knew how to keep their business quiet to the public unless they were in active war. Those were the good old days, now.
“Insane, maniacal supervillains,” she continued. “They rule the streets whenever they so choose. The police cannot deal with them, not under you. You rely on the Batman,” there was venom in her voice as she spoke the name, “and she sweeps up the problems while bringing deranged cultists and assassins into this city. She’s the heir of a small personal army with untold technology and she runs free. The Joker Riots, the assassin siege, Simon Hurt, all because the Batman has infested this town with these misguided thoughts of the supernatural, supposedly haunting our city.” Gordon remained silent.
“Essen’s incentives are now failing,” she said, watching Gordon closely for a reaction. If he gave one, she couldn’t see it. “How many companies that were enticed by her incentives have moved headquarters out of Gotham? They pay nothing in taxes, they have Essen licking their boots, and it’s still not enough. Despite all that’s happened, we haven’t been through hell yet, Commissioner. We’ve only arrived at the gates.”
“If I may, Miss Arkham,” said Gordon, leaning back in his chair, scanning the young woman up and down. “What’s your point?” He understood what she was saying, and he feared she was right, but he didn’t like the conclusion she was bringing forth.
“You are antiquated, Commissioner,” she replied, her face straight. “Obsolete. Your methods don’t work anymore, the law you uphold is no longer effective. Besides that, you are getting old. I can see the fatigue in your face, the bags under your eyes, your paleness. You’re not the detective you used to be.” Astrid leaned forward in her seat, putting her weight on her cane. “Gotham needs something new.”
Gordon’s phone rang, and for a brief moment he was thankful for the reprieve — but only for a moment.
 
 
I’d say I feel bad for the people at the Nighthawks game, but, if I’m totally honest, they had it coming. It’s about time everything caught up to them.
While we all ruminate on what’s happening at the game right now, let’s listen to some good music. This is Confetti by Viscera.
 
 
Batman had listened to as many notes as she could about a green gas that made anyone who inhaled it laugh uncontrollably. It typically led to suffocation through the inability to control the diaphragm, but this time it didn’t, and it confused the Dark Knight. A familiar sight, an attack that resulted in eery laughter, and yet it wasn’t what the city had seen before. None of the victims that hadn’t been in the initial blast had died, though medical care for each of them was necessary.
As much as she cursed herself for being late, not able to save anyone as the events unfolded, she knew that she needed to take control as fast as possible. She, along with every person in the city, dreaded what this attack meant. The name of a particular clown lingered on everyone’s tongues, though no one dared invoke his name.
Batman wasn’t so sure, and she hoped that her gut feeling was right. Most of the bodies that were recoverable had been extracted from the blast zone, over a dozen dead and dozens more injured. Blood and soot equally covered the destroyed seats, and even more on the concrete below.
One thing caught Batman’s eye amidst the mess, two sections away from the initial blast. A small instant print photograph, half burnt, laid on the ground, covered in dirty boot prints. She picked it up and looked it over, squinting as she studied the subject.
It was a blonde woman, head down with wet hair covering her face. Almost lost in the details was a small trail of blood behind the hair, mixing with trailing makeup. Batman frowned as she flipped the image over, seeing the note for a specific seat in the section of the stadium that had been blown to bits.
She approached the seat and kneeled, ducking down to see under the seat. It was one of few that remained intact after the explosions. Zack Howard’s Final Stop was scratched into the bottom of the seat, and at the sight of it, Batman signalled to Oracle to scan the engraving. She couldn’t identify the woman in the photograph, but she could see clearly enough that the attack was targeted at a specific person.
Another killer, she thought to herself, fearing what it could mean for the city. Pyg almost tore the richest members of the city’s economy apart, and they were ready to throw their own to the wolves. Now, there’d been a deadly gas attack at a football game — one that had been sponsored by many of Gotham’s elite.
The idea that the Clown Prince of Crime had returned was already making its way through the city — Batman knew she would have to exert control over everything she could to keep it from tearing itself apart at the seams. She was more than prepared to do so.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said to Oracle.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice distant. “I hope it’s just another copycat, they’re much easier to deal with.”
“I don’t know,” Batman replied, looking back at the photograph. “Something’s different.”