Andy potted the black ball and collected his winnings from a shelf beneath the chalkboard. Beside the bag of ammunition was a pint of ale, purchased by the loser. He swigged it and pocketed the pouch of .22 rounds–they weren’t useful to him right now, but they could be traded.

“Anyone else?”

The common room had gotten busier throughout the afternoon until it was full. Folks sat in their groups, drinking pints or sharing bottles. There were townsfolk, mercenaries and others: fuel jockeys, traders, travellers come from the marketplace in town. A lot of them looked at him, but few now dared to take the bet.

“Quit hogging the table,” one woman said.

“Wanna play me for it?”

“Come on now,” a bloke with her said. “You’ve proven your point.” They were both dressed in simple, worn clothes. Thick animal pelt jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. They had arrived, bathed and eaten in the time it took Andy to defeat nine players at pool.

“I’m having fun,” Andy said. “Why should I quit?”

“I don’t have wager,” the man said. “I don’t have anything. Me and my wife just want to play.”

Andy frowned, that kind of took the fun out of it. He leant on his cue, reluctant to concede the table. But he’d earned a fair bit already–enough to afford his bart tab, he just wanted a little extra.

A tall man ducked through the doorway into the common room, purveying the folks gathered with an impassive sneer. His skin was the colour of charred brass, his black beard trimmed short like a scraggly balaclava. Tucking a strand of long blond hair behind his ear, his eyes settled on Andy. “I heard talk of a wager.”

“That’s right,” Andy said. “Want in, pretty boy?”

The man’s eyes flashed with anger, then they drifted over Andy’s outfit. Raising his chin, his sneer joining points with a callous smile. “Everything you’ve got, I’ll match it.”

Andy grinned. “You’re on.”

The challenger racked up while Andy chalked his que and inspected his attire. There was an empty holster beneath his fur-padded denim jacket, and an empty sheath strapped to his tall leather boots. Three more guys from his troupe watched on. They varied in age, each dressed differently, a real boy-band of a group.

“I want 5.56 ammo,” Andy said. “Match what’s on the shelf.”

“Curly,” the man said, and one of his companions filled a bag with rounds. “What do you play by? Milltown rules?”

“Merc rules,” Andy said.

“So, I’m right to assume… cushion touch, no double on the black, no carries?”

“Yep.”

“I take it you are a mercenary.” The way he spoke added a flavour of grandiosity where it wasn’t necessary, as if he was trying to show off with every breath.

“Uh huh.”

“What brings you to Milltown?”

Andy placed the white on the dot and lined up for the break. “Work.”

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

“You’ve gotta pay more for that.” Andy breathed in smoothly, a cool calm sensation seeping into his veins as a fraction of his Augmentation’s Marksman powers activated. He struck the white. It smashed into the break left of the lead ball, scattering them with three satisfying clunks–Two reds and one yellow. Andy lined up to claim the colour, and took a sharp angle on the closest red, knocking it into the middle pocket. The white ball flew across the table, bouncing off the cushion to settle behind two yellows.

His shot was blocked. Striding around the table, Andy swept past his opponent and angled the que above his head. He struck downwards, chipping the white over the yellow balls smack bang into a red. The ball careened into the nearest pocket, but Andy had overshot the white, and it trailed in after the red. He winced.

“A nice break.” The challenger chalked his que. “I thought you were going to run away with it then.”

He leaned over the table and potted two easy yellows without much thought. Then he drew an angle on a yellow ball down the table. The black and one red stood between his target, it wasn’t a shot Andy would have taken. But as the man hit the cue ball, it spun, slowing down and speeding up minutely, circumventing each obstacle, potting his target yellow with precise power. The white continued to spin, bouncing off the cushion and lining up for another pot like a dream. The challenger sunk one more easy yellow, then prepared for another impossible shot. He screwed the ball in a circle, bouncing it out of a cushion and back in on itself. It knocked into the yellow, rolling it over the pocket, teetering on the edge. Andy blinked, vision blurred by booze. Even with his Augmentation’s powers, Andy would have struggled to hit a shot like that. This man was a magician.

“No carry,” the challenger said. “So it’s your turn.”

Andy observed the table. It was three balls to three, but two of his reds were lingering over a pocket guarded by the challenger’s yellow. Time for the big guns. Andy leaned over the table, allowing his Augmentation’s hormones to rush through his veins like twisting on a gushing tap. As he swayed, his Inebriation Inhibitor module compensated his aim. Andy’s focussed zoomed in on his target with Enhanced Precision, imagining a bullet flying out the back of the red ball’s head. He launched the cue ball into the red, which pelted into the yellow covering the pocket at just the right angle to force it into the teeth of the cushion. Both balls bounced out of the pocket, stealing the guaranteed pot from his opponent. But it had cost him a turn.

Thankfully, the challenger did not have an easy shot to follow up. All of his remaining balls were near or touching the cushion now. He lined up to knock one out into the open, and tapped the cue ball gently. It kissed the yellow, bouncing it off the cushion, sending it rolling into the centre of the table, but it did not stop as Andy had expected. It rolled, leaning left like a drunkard in the road, rolling, rolling, rolling… Clunk. Sunk.

“Ah, table lean,” the challenger said. “They must get that sorted, raise the leg a little.” His comrades laughed at their table. One looked Andy’s way, a sheepish grin on his face. The table wasn’t wonky, Andy would have noticed by now, but before he could protest, the man had sunk his penultimate yellow ball, and lined up for the last. He tapped the final yellow into a cushion, and it rolled off the wall into the centre of the table, open on every angle for his next turn. “Ah, How unlucky. Your shot.”

Andy glared at the table. Whatever tricks he was playing, Andy could do better. The first shot was easy, and he sank the red without difficulty, but the second was unclear. Andy imagined the cue in his hand was his rifle. He willed his Augmentation to display ricochet calculations, but it wasn’t coming to him. He’d never had a problem before applying his Augmentation’s abilities to pool, perhaps it was because his new ability–the magic bullet–hadn’t calibrated yet. Perhaps there was something to what his AI and Clara were constantly nagging him about, and now he was paying the price for not listening to them…

But no, that wasn’t it… In his horror, Andy realised the true cause: the drink he’d accepted earlier was his eighth that night–an even number! His mojo was off.

“Barkeep,” he shouted, hastily downing his current pint.

“What is the matter?” the challenger said. “Are you nervous?”

“Fuck off.” Andy wiped his lips, a flush of anger changing the taste in his mouth from an iced vodka to a cheap metallic whiskey. Trusting his instincts, forgoing to aim, Andy remained standing and took the shot. One red collided into another perfectly, each careening into opposite side cushions at the far end of the table. While the room was silent from shock, Andy swooped over the black like a hawk and pulled the trigger. It sank with a thud and clanged through the table’s internal mechanism.

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Andy grabbed his winnings from the shelf, keeping an eye on the challenger and his entourage. He half expected them to contend the victory, but they simply spectated.

“Double or nothing,” the tall man said.

“You’re on.”

They played again, and Andy won by the skin of his teeth. The tall man hit some shots which just didn’t make sense to Andy. Power and ricochet were Andy’s wheelhouse, but he couldn’t make the cue ball move like the challenger could, make it spin like a dancer. The merc raised the odds again and they went on to a third game.

“Last one,” Andy said. “I wanna spend your bullets before the bar closes.”

“Last one,” the merc promised, racking the balls. It was Andy’s break. He darted around the table like a torrent of flames, licking the balls back into line. He spun, lucid, the alcohol sweeping through his veins, loosening him, relaxed but fierce. He was on fire. He sank six balls in quick succession with an easy line on the seventh. Seven-balling his opponent off of the break was a humiliation he would relish. Andy took the shot from feeling, without much forethought. The cue ball slammed into the yellow, and they yellow dashed towards the pocket.

At the last moment, the yellow stumbled, catching a divet in the table’s felt. The divet knocked it a few degrees off-course, enough to intercept a red ball along the way, which rolled into a far pocket on the table like a dog woefully obeying its master. Andy stood, frowning. He inspected the felt for divots or debris, but it was clean.

“Do not tamper with the table,” the challenger said.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” Andy looked around the room. Folks had stopped drinking and talking amongst themselves. A crowd of people spectated their game, standing in the dim light of the electrical lamp shade above the pool table. “You all saw that?”

“Just bad luck,” one of the challenger’s lackeys said, a short bald man.

“Don’t be sour,” said another.

The tall merc took his shots, planting red after red, clearing up down to the black. Andy’s heart raced. He was about to lose all of his winnings. The barkeep was holding a tab for him and he’d have no way to pay it. Clara would freak out. He’d never hear the end of it. Andy’s hand drifted to Julie at his waist, but she was absent, locked away in a cold metal box outside. He had to think creatively.

The challenger lined up his final shot on the black, a straight line down the table into the back right pocket. Andy searched his jacket for something that could help. Anything. He found a bottle cap, a small screwdriver with a broken handle, a guitar pick which he didn’t know he had. What was he even looking for anyway? Then his fingers touched something small and round, seemingly insignificant to an unseasoned merc. An apple pip.

Andy withdrew the pip, holding it in the thumb of one hand. With his other, he drank from his pint as though he wasn’t paying attention to the game, but one eye lined up the shot. The challenger struck the cue ball carefully, precisely, and just as it hit the black, Andy summoned all of his Augmentation’s Enhanced Precision and flicked the apple pip at the black. It pinged off the ball quietly, altering its trajectory minutely. The black bounced off the teeth of the pocket, rolling back on itself.

“Unlucky,” Andy said. “I thought you had that.”

The man frowned at the ball, then stared at Andy. “You did something.”

“Don’t be sour.” Andy chalked his que, attention fixed on the table, pointedly ignoring his opponent. Andy lined up the shot and struck it with all his power. The white ball detonated like a bullet punching the black ball towards the back pocket.

As though it hit an invisible wall, the black ball rocketed off the table into a crowd of spectators. A man yelped and dropped his drink as the ball struck him.

“Bullshit,” Andy said. “You did something.”

“Too much topspin.”

“That’s bullshit!” Andy threw his que at the merc like a javelin, then jumped onto the table and kicked him in the head. Like an explosion, pandemonium broke out. Somebody grabbed his legs from behind and pulled him off his feet. Slamming into the table, Andy snarled and kicked at his attacker. Hands reached for him, hungry like the undead. Like a shot of whiskey, Andy’s Evasive Fire protocols flared. Andy rolled off the table and grabbed another que from the rack. He swung it like a club as men assailed him, smacking one in the skull, another in the knee. A third man grabbed the que as he swung it, tossing it aside.

Darting for the fireplace, Andy snatched a handful of winnings from the mantlepiece and fled to the staircase. Drawing a dagger concealed in his beltline, Andy crouched on the bottom stairs, ready to pounce. “Come on then, fuckers.”

Two more of his opponent’s posse drew concealed daggers. Andy stiffened. His mind raced. His Augmentation’s powers could only take him so far. Knife fights weren’t exactly his specialty. For once, he didn’t fancy his odds. There were windows upstairs. He could jump out of one, break into the shed outside and reclaim his guns, then kill everyone who had cheated him.

A gunshot bellowed like a father’s command, silencing the room. The big barkeep stood in the doorway wielding a double barrel shotgun. “Quit fighting now!”

Any spectators who hadn’t already ducked for cover, backed off, leaving three mercenaries who Andy had pissed off standing in the centre of the room. The fourth was on his knees, clutching his bloody skull.

“I’m sorry, Alister,” the Barkeep said. “But you know the rules.”

“I was defending myself,” the tall merc said, straightening his shoulders, glaring at Andy. “That man is a bad sport, and a sore loser.”

Andy flipped him off. “Three-nil says otherwise.”

“You lost, you must pay.”

“Come and get it.”

“Fucking hell, Andy.” Clara entered behind the barkeep, hand on her holstered pistol.

The barkeep turned, saw her firearm and laid a hefty hand on her bicep. “Don’t you even think about drawing that in my establishment, young lady.”

Andy’s attention fixed on the back of the barkeep’s neck. He must have a deathwish to grab his sister like that.

“Sorry,” Clara held up her hands. “I heard a gunshot, I came from outside.”

“Lad, take her guns,” the barkeep said to a serving boy. He turned back to the common room. “There’ll be no more games tonight. Any more trouble, and I’ll be kicking out. That’s including you Patrician lot.”

Clara gave her pistol up and stormed over to Andy. “Give me it.”

“What?”

“What you’ve won. You’ve been betting, haven’t you?”

Andy handed over one of the pouches. It was full of small-arms ammunition, six blister packs of painkillers and a tube of superglue.

“Drinks are on us,” Clara announced to the room. “A round for everyone.”

“That’s our money you’re paying with,” one of the mercs argued. He was stocky and bald, shaped like a fat shotgun shell.

“Listen,” Clara said. “I wasn’t here for the details, but I get the picture. Let’s forget the bets, you lot take what’s on the shelf, that should split the pot fifty-fifty. Call it a draw.”

“I earned that playing the room,” Andy said.

Clara turned to him, lowering her tone. “Then you should have got out when the getting was good,” She faced the mercs again. “Gentlemen, might I assume you are the New Patricians I’ve been hearing about.”

“That’s us,” the tall one said. “Hello again.”

Clara paused. Her back was turned to Andy, but he had trouble reading her expression at the best of times. “Alister. I’ve got business with you.”

Slowly, he nodded. His demeanour changed, shoulders relaxing as he took up a table. The townsfolk already sitting there rose with their pints, moving quietly away to the back of the room without complaint. The tall merc ignored them. “My apologies for this brutishness. I did not recognise your partner.”

“Forget about it,” Clara said.

“It is only natural for stags to butt heads once in a while.” He smiled. “Am I right?”

“I suppose so.” Clara spoke in a distant, reserved tone she often put on while trying to figure someone out.

“Then be our guests. I must insist. Let us talk about the mission for Blue Eyes, which I assume has already failed.”

The mercs sat back at their table as the serving boy carried over fresh pints, but Clara lingered near the stairwell with Andy. The serving boy approached her and took a sack of winnings as payment, then held his hand out to Andy. “Your weapon, sir.”

“This?” Andy said, holding the knife in his finger and thumb in an attempt to make it look small and unthreatening. “It’s cutlery.”

The boy scowled.

“Andy, just give him it,” Clara said.

Andy gave up the backup dagger, grateful to have a second backup stashed inside his boot.

“I hear you’re the ones with an AMC in town?” Clara said. The air was terse, the common room much quieter than before the fighting had started.

“That’s right,” their leader said. “We have an Augmentation Master Console in our camp. It is fully functional.”

“Think you can play nice?” Clara asked Andy under her breath.

“If there’s a drink in it for me.”

“Haven’t you had enough?”

“I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

Clara groaned. “Glad to see you back to full health.”

“Not if I can help it.” Andy clicked his fingers at the serving boy. “Whiskey. Top shelf.” He threw the kid a smattering of miscellaneous rounds like throwing bird seed. The boy jumped and caught one, but the others bounced and fell to the floor. “Well that’s embarrassing.” Andy threw one last round at the boy's feet. “Make that two, one for yourself. Get an early start in life, kid.”