Two weeks of this. Sunrises, sunsets. Drinks in hand, chips lost with poor bets. Fontvieille’s mode de vie.

At every dawn, Fervidora marches up the Grand Staircase bringing breakfast. She’s always covered in a film of sawdust, smelling of fresh-cut elm like her family’s shop. Lacquered, with the same smile.

She arrives with armfuls of fresh baked viennoiseries; lemon-infused croissants, pain au chocolat, and still-warm bread. Then chestnut canistrelli, hand-sliced, from the bakery below your window, served with cédrat and arbutus jams. The ass continuously, politely, accepts another cup of espresso, lingering, making petty conversation for as long as you and Ø allow, before you vibrate between drinking, gambling, yachting, and other miscellaneous debaucheries.

The heart attacks you have as Fervidora tallies your previous evening’s expenditures have decreased in severity. The seven, eight, nine digit numbers roll together, and on the afternoons where you sit with her grandfather outside his shop, sharing drinks at siesta, they’re meaningless altogether.

“You’re a natural,” Charlie proclaims often. You want to agree—that you’re getting used to the lifestyle. Both you and the mare.

Ø’s hands are never empty, and neither are Dutchie's. Furred fingers always pass glasses back and forth. Unfilled to filled, in perpetuity, as the two girls trot from pool to pool in the spa, enjoying the masseuses’ diligent hands, the mare’s cupped thighs bruised with air pressure, numbed by a steady supply of alcohol. You may as well call them friends, ones united by a shared fear of both sobriety and kind dispositions.

Today, the mare’s voluntary bruises are warmed by the noon sun’s rays. The yacht is eighteen meters from bow to stern. Sail plan optimized for optimized performance with the smallest breeze. She’s the Duchesse’s ship, of course, and if you hadn’t assumed, Duchesse reads along her side in sealed gold leaf.

“Duchesse Duchess’s Duchesse,” she laughed. You hadn’t believed her in the spa last evening, and now you’re eating your words. In addition, you’re drinking her wines from below-deck, sharing charcuterie with Charlie as the girls lounge on the bow, taking in the sun. Transmitted muzak, a selection of café chantant tunes from one of the local tavernas, belts out atop the calm seas. Today’s selection of lounge music nearly masks the snores of the two girls, passed out on their trillion-threadcount towels, sun-bleaching their pelts.

“The dames can drink, can’t they?” Charlie whispers, unwilling to sacrifice your brief solitude. You both linger at the stern. He carves an orange. It’s imported from the other hemisphere, sold at the dock where the Duchesse was found asleep earlier this morning, lingering atop the tide. He hands you half. It’s sticky, and you wipe your fingers against your vest. “How’d you get yours?”

“Don’t know. Luck,” you joke. The acidity seeps into your gums, cleaning them of the cigar residue that seems to stick forever.

“Bad luck?”

“Not sure yet,” you smile. “Depends on who you’re asking, I guess.”

“I think I’ve got the same deal as you, then,” he muses between bites. “She’s a wild one. You know that whole black hole thing? She believes it, for real, it’s not just an intimidation thing. If you couldn’t tell the first ten times she’s screeched about it, I mean. She’s got the right attitude, though, just a bit too hoity-toity at times,” he adds, tossing another peel into the surf. “But, we all put up with something, right?”

“Right,” you agree.

“Breaks up the boredom. Fontvieille’s just… Slow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean slow. Tepid. No trouble, no issues, no… Action.”

“Isn’t that good, though?”

“Very good. Well, maybe. Sometimes. If you’re running from action, sure.”

“Which we all are.”

“For now,” he interjects, holding a finger for pause. “Running for now. But not forever. I’m not about to sit up in the Casino for the rest of my life, and you know why. It’s the itch.” You allow your companion time to munch through another gooey membrane of citrus, content to allow his monologue unabated. Accordion keys waft from a clutch of yachts on the waterline, kilometers away, the group set to sea for six months in total. “That feeling you get when you sit still too long. You know it.”

“I don’t,” you contend.

“Yeah you do. I know you do, because you’re like me. Like Dutchie and your dame. You’ve got that pit in your stomach. That void that acts up when things get too slow.”

He’s wrong. You think of your room, of the Lamanon N-12 Deluxe. Spa days. Sweat dripping from your eyebrows, collecting at your feet, rubbing elbows with bosses and bigwigs in total anonymity. Roulette wheels, spinning fast enough to lift into the air, flying around the Casino’s main hall along with the angels adorning the walls.

And the Tenth Floor lounge. The three-dimensional gladiators fighting to the death, New Port Moresby close enough to safely touch with your fingers, the holographic display devoid of perspiration, contorting around your digits. A simulacrum of your own suffering, of George Merrick and the mare, who both taught you to kill. Close enough to vicariously place yourself back in The Deseret, in the hammocks where your adrenaline could never subside, where you were pushed to your mental, emotional, and physical zeniths.

He’s wrong, you assure yourself.

“Come on. Last month, you were killing in the pits. Then you were cracking skulls all around Echelon. Pure action. No man can really relax after that, can he? I know I can’t. You want some more too, right?”

Before you can contend further, arguing with your own emotions, the familiar shrill yowl ricochets off the waves.

“Chahlie!”

“Relax already,” he shouts, the both of you clamoring back to the girlies, who are both now awake, glasses at their sides, their empty nature spitting orders on their behalf. Charlie uncorks another bottle of sparkling wine.

“What’re you two arguing about? Woke us up with your chit-chat. You know that?”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Action, Dutchie. Just talking action.”

“Action? I love action! You’re not talking about that one thing, are you?” A smile draws across her face. Its mischievous. More than usual.

“That’s a secret, Dutchie,” he chides. “So no, I was not talking about that thing.”

“What thing?” Ø interjects. She’s slow on the draw, yet drawn to the commotion. Too busy reliving her nightmares from her nap, pupils dilating from the sunlight, to listen in on your private conversation moments earlier.

“Come on, you know I can’t say. Loose lips, you know. And that’s just business to everyone else, no offense meant. Shouldn’t you know that better than everyone?”

“Chahlie,” complains Duchess, nagging her suitor as the glass is refilled. “Come on already. You’ve been holding onto this job for months, quit teasing them.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, gesticulating as if his hands were tied. “But only if our man over here admits he wants some action.”

“Him?” Ø laughs. “He doesn’t like action.”

The recently delivered tortoiseshell sunglasses on her snout slide towards her nostrils. The way she’s shaped, they always do, the slathered oil on her pelt nothing but an inconvenience. She’s wearing another Baronne Bernard, a one-piece. Monochromatic, a bright navy, making her sorrel pelt pop in contrast. It’s conservative enough, but leaving her extremities bare, vertical and horizontal scars marring her muscled skin.

You assume that the great Baronne would have made a cap, had the mare’s skull been more befitting of one, or had the mare’s file not mentioned that she never minds her hair wet.

“Besides, we’re on vacation. We don’t need a job right now.”

“That’s not how you said it works,” the cat chastises. “You was saying they just come out of thin air for you two.”

“Well if your memory’s that good,” the mare hisses, “you’ll know that wasn’t my idea. It was his, so he handles anything incoming,” she gestures to you, almost splashing you with half a glass of sparkling wine.

“Oh, so he calls the shots?” Charlie baits.

“Not what I said. I’m the one in charge here. And I never take a job before I know it inside and out.”

“But,” the man laughs, “it sounds like it’s still my friend over here’s decision, not yours. Especially since this job is coming out of thin air, right?”

“Alright,” she growls. She calls his bluff with gusto, contorting towards you, lips flapping with anger. “What do you think? You want some action for once? Something like getting caught up trying to knock over the Casino?”

“Of course not,” you say, once more disgusted with her behavior.

“See? That’s what I mean. Hates action, would rather be here stuffing his face. I mean, just look at him,” she spits. “He’s softer than the both of you put together. You know, if I weren’t here, he’d be dead by now. Worse, I bet. So don’t either of you get it mixed up,” the hiss rolls of her lips, nearly spitting on your slacks as she points towards a bemused Charlie, “when I say jump, he jumps. Not the other way around.”

Her nickering is accompanied by a subconscious broadcast, one that fights for dominance over the muzak in your mind. One of self-satisfaction. Alcohol fueled, spiteful as always. But, as Charlie looks to you, you can’t help but respond in spite as well.

“So once we hear it, we’re in?”

“Yup,” he smiles. “That’s the score. No running once you hear it. And Dutchie can make sure of it.”

“That’s the truth,” she brags, sing-song, “from red-tape to black-bag.”

“But this is a real job?” you pry.

“Well, let’s just say a certain big man up top would be pretty appreciative. Ain’t that right, Dutchie?”

“Oh yeah,” she smiles a toothy grin, flicking her tail, conscious of Ø’s ire boring into the side of her head. “Real apprecia-tory.”

Ø instinctively wonders where she put her Narragansett, remembering that the force of a pistol whipping would put you into a coma. She’d throw her glass were it not empty, if it had enough weight to maim you in the slightest. Whatever skepticism she holds towards your companions is superseded by the implication of insubordination, a gesture specifically meant to spite her.

She remembers that she left her pistol below decks, and at that realization, knowing you have a few seconds of safety, you smile at Charlie.

“Fine. We want in on the action.”

“Attaboy,” he returns, patting you on the shoulder. “And the maîtresse d'équidé? Last chance, if you want to swim back to shore.”

Unsurprisingly, the mare only glares, shaking her empty glass, which Dutchie overfills, the bubbly dripping onto the deck.

“Well, with that out of the way, here’s the score. Ø, sweetie, you’re gonna love this one,” he assures before turning to you. “Last night when we were on the First Floor, losing all our dough, did you see who was next to us?”

“No,” you admit. “Should I have?”

“Should you have? Yeah, you should’ve. He was a warlord. Ibrahim Saad of the Cimraan. Or, well, his brother, Mohamed. Less of a killer, but still technically a warlord, you know?”

“On vacation,” the cat adds. She’s lounging once more, basking in the exposition as if you were discussing odds for the upcoming race. “Got jammed up on Yamato.”

“Greater Somali,” Ø scowls, and you wonder if she’s actually said it out loud.

“That’s the ticket, that’s the ticket. But I don’t care why he’s here. I don’t think he cares either. But it’s what he’s got. An artifact. A robe, of some kind, worn by some big religious hotshot. But it’s not his, not his clan’s. He stole it.”

Ø’s glass rests at her lips. The bubbles tickle her teeth. She’s trying to mask what she feels, hiding whether its anger, fear, or a blend of both.

“Something already stolen. Perfect thing to steal,” Charlie gloats. “And get this. There’s a market ready to buy it back: the other clan. They can't let this Saad doofus run around with great-grandpa's varsity jacket, you know?”

“That’s not the best part,” Duchess crows.

“She’s right. Once everything’s said and done, once we’ve fenced the thing to the original owner, they’ll just get mad at each other and not us. I mean, hey, it’s not like we stole the thing in the first place. And a blood feud takes two to tango, anyways.”

“A good deed,” the cat mewls, “to be rewarded.”

“Everything’s tracked,” you contend on the silent mare’s behalf. “If we have it in our hands, we’ll get caught.”

“What?” the cat yowls with surprise.

“Tell ‘em, Dutchie.”

“That ain’t how it works at all! The sensors don’t track anything versus your file. Only when it shows up in orbit, and then when it leaves. Imagine, just a second, a gun-runner. There’s lots of them, like the guy staying in 10-611. Let’s say, when he showed up, that inside his suitcase, he’s got a Nobel 94-V Disintegration Round. An antique, one he dug up on Tiangong. Armed. Able to obliterate the whole floor if it goes off wrong.”

“Hypothetically, of course,” Charlie adds.

“Sure! Hypo-themically, he’ll visit here to make a house call or two, trying to fence it. Maybe one at Pontenegro too because of how good the Department's food is. Then he’ll head to a flotilla, an exiled warlord’s yacht, and finally sell it. After picking up a girl or two, he’ll cruise to the Casino, make a million credits on a chance hand, and blow it all before the night ends. Well, when he leaves a pauper, ship stripped for cash, our scanners won’t be checking if he’s the same man. They’ll be checking to see what’s leaving. A man, cashless,” her hands raise in celebration for the Casino she represents, “then a platinum watch or two. But no Nobel 94-V Disintegration Round. And if it doesn’t show up after a while, something dangerous like that, we’ll start searching for it. And if someone reports a robbery, sure, we may start a little early, but takes a bit since nobody ever goes into the Casino. Politeness and everything.

“So when we arrived,” you begin, hoping for more.

“Well when you arrived, your file only mentioned a few things. The ship you sold, all the heat you were packing, and two heartbeats, a man, and an anthropomorph. Whether you leave here with more or less than that isn’t my concern, it’s not my employer’s, the island’s, Casino’s, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” she slurps. “Just that you leave here sans all the dough you brought.”

“And, what, a coat? They won’t look for that. Not for a while, at least.”

“Besides,” the cat continues, “I’ll just delete it in the file. The guys in orbit’ll think we bought it here or something.”

“It’s not something important?” you ask. “They just want us to steal something from a tourist and not, I don’t know, rob the Casino vault?”

“What’re you, crazy? You’ll get yourself killed!” Charlie laughs. He looks towards your mare, who sits in silence, jaw clenched, mane drifting the breeze. She’s staring past you both, towards the same clutch of yachts on the waterline, knotted together in perpetual floatation, strapped together, hoping for calm waters. “What’s wrong with your dame? Looks like she saw a ghost.”

“Hey!” Dutchie screeches, “I told you not to joke about that kinda stuff!”