Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What did it mean to be human? I looked down at myself in my small handheld mirror, one of my only possessions. I had skin like a human; I had eyes like a human. I stood on two feet, I possessed two legs, two arms, and ten fingers, and I did not have any sort of body hair outside of a small patch atop my head. But it seemed that I still was not human.

I'd come into existence like this just a week ago. I'd woken up in a field, devoid of memory and identity, and yet fully aware of myself. I'd been found and taken in by a farmer and his daughter. They'd clothed me, fed me, and given me a name. I was too young, they said, to do any actual tasks, but I dutifully followed around the farmer, his daughter, and the other farmhands and watched as they did their daily chores.

I was Eve, or at least that was what they called me. But my stay did not last long. Something happened between the farmer's wife and I.

His wife had beautiful blonde hair. She'd been brushing it in front of the vanity, humming to herself. Her hair was so pretty. Like gold that shone with a light all its own.

So I copied it. I looked at it and imagined it a part of myself. And then my hair, short and black, turned blonde, long, and curly. It was a perfect copy of her own hair. It was beautiful, and I simply wanted to share it with her.

She did not take it well. She screamed and shrieked at me, calling me a monster. Her husband, who had been the very model of kindness until then, was horrified. I tried changing the hair back, but this only seemed to further their terror.

I was chased out, thrown out with nothing but the clothes on my back and the name they'd bestowed upon me. I was confused. I'd been enjoying their warm feelings, feelings that I could taste in the air. The warm love between the farmer and his wife. The deep parental bond between the farmer and his daughter. They were comfortable and sweet, something I could snuggle into, like the blankets on their beds. I'd wanted to stay like that.

But I'd messed up. The feelings turned sharp, lacerating fear and deep, heavy, poisonous hate. The hate was the worst. It made me feel like I was drowning in a mire of thick, sticky tar. It was the worst thing I had felt since I had come into existence.

Now, as I walked along the road, I was alone. There were no feelings, no emotions, to hold onto. Being devoid of them, I felt hollow. Empty. Like sadness, but not.

The only thing that kept my mind busy was the mirror in my hands. I'd been bringing it to the farmer's wife when I saw her brushing her hair, and I had taken it with me as I was run off the farm. It was a little hand mirror. A nice, silver-plated handle with a comfortable weight.

I changed my eye color from brown to green to blue to grey to purple. I giggled a little before remembering the hatred that such a simple thing had inspired. My eyes shifted themselves back, and I closed my mirror, tucking it away into a pocket.

I looked up at the grey clouds as I walked. It had been raining earlier, and the air was still humid, with a light mist hanging low over the ground. I was glad for the coat the farmer's family had given me.

What did it mean to be human? Why did the farmer's wife scream like she did? I didn't know. I didn't want to be the cause of those sharp, painful emotions again. I wanted to find the warm ones, to curl myself into the softness of kindness and live in it forever. But what was it that caused this? The negativity, the fear, and the hate.

Perhaps it was the changing. I had never seen the farmer, his wife, or his daughter ever change anything about their bodies other than clothing. Clothing was okay to change, but bodies were not. I found that rather strange. Changing my body was easy for me, as natural as walking or breathing. But I forced myself to memorize this rule so as never to make the same mistake again.

"Clothing is okay to change. But not bodies," I muttered to myself. I would keep this in mind from now on. "I am a human. I don't change my body like that."

Eventually, the sun faded away, leaving only the black, inky clouds in the night sky. I wandered off the road a way to a small copse of trees and settled into one, lying within a crook in the roots. I was hungry, thirsty, tired, and empty. But I could do nothing about any of those things. I had no food or water and did not know how to get them. I did not have the warm feelings of others to fill myself with, either.

I was alone, the only company that of the small silver mirror. It wasn't good company.

Chapter Text

I woke up to the sound of footsteps. I sat up, looking around. There were three men, tall, grinning widely. They were dressed in a mishmash of armor and clothing. Each held a different weapon: a club, an axe, and a sword.

"Well, hello there, little girl," sneered one. "You're a long way out from any town."

He was tall and lanky, holding an axe. His hair was dark brown and short, and his face was covered in stubble. I felt the emotions: a sticky greed, a sickly arrogance, and a sharp malice.

"Are you lost, perhaps?" asked the second, the one holding the sword. He was a little more toned, and his hair was black and slicked back with grease. "Why don't we help you find your way to the next town? I'm sure your momma and poppa would pay well to get you back."

The greed intensified. I could taste it thick on my tongue.

"I don't have a momma or poppa," I murmured quietly, climbing to my feet. The words were hard to say, with the thick sludge clogging up my throat. "I don't have anything."

"Well then, that makes things much easier," said the third. He was shorter and broader than the first two. He held a club in one meaty hand. His hair was blonde, like the farmer's wife, but he wasn't as beautiful. It was more like the rotted wheat stalks that I'd seen being thrown out of the barn.

"You see, little girl," the one with the sword started, "we're not really here to help you. We're here to hurt you. You have no one to go to, so nobody will miss you. We'll see just how much we can get for you."

I didn't really understand these words, but I understood their intent. I understood the feelings that were oozing out of them. Hate, malice, and a sickly, twisted greed. It was a horrible, disgusting mix, one that made me want to throw up.

The man with the sword lunged at me. I was surprised. Was he going to hit me?

The pommel of his sword struck my head. A dull thunk reverberated through my body, but I didn't particularly feel any pain. Nothing at all, not like how the farmer's daughter had felt when she stubbed her toe. I'd felt that pain through her, but when it was my own, it wasn't there.

I felt the minty surprise run through the three men, quickly souring back to the previous malice.

"Losin' your touch, eh?" The club wielder sneered, elbowing his companion in the shoulder. The swordsman flushed and raised the sword again. This time, the flat of the blade smacked me, causing me to stumble a little. I propped myself against the tree, concerned. I didn't like these emotions. They were slimy and sticky, like oil and mud.

I had to get out of here. I had to run. I turned and darted off, trying to escape into the woods.

The man with the club leaped forward and grabbed me, pulling me by the back of my shirt. The cloth caught on his gauntleted fist, and I heard the sound of ripping. It tore, leaving my back exposed to the cool air. But I kept going. Clothes could change. My body couldn't. So if the clothes tore, I was still human.

I slipped free of the man's grip, and I continued to run, but the man with the axe swung it at me. I ducked, but not fast enough. It caught me across the side of my face, knocking me a few feet away.

My cheek stung a little, but still, there was none of that pain I knew was supposed to be there. I touched my cheek, and it was still just the same as before. No cut, no mark. No pain. I stood a little shakily and turned to look at them.

They stared at me in surprise, the mint mixing with that deep, inky fear. I didn't know what they were scared of, though. I hadn't changed my body in front of them, so why were they afraid? Was it that I didn't show any pain? What did that matter? Did humans always have to show pain when hit?

"Ow," I tried saying. "You hurt me."

"Don't fuck with us, monster," spat the one with the club, his fear turning to hate. I didn't like that.

"Why are you so angry at me?" I cried. "What did I do wrong?"

"You're a monster! A freak!" He raised the club, but I'd learned by now. I moved my hands and caught it. It was heavy, but I held it tightly in both hands.

"Stop hitting me!" I didn't like it when they hit me. It seemed every time they did their fear and hatred deepened. And I hated that. "Leave me alone!"

The man with the club tried to pull the club away from me. But I held it tight, and he wasn't strong enough. The farmer had never made me carry anything particularly heavy, but I'd seen him haul buckets of water and baskets of vegetables. I wondered how many I would have been able to lift.

"Get her off me!" the man yelled at his companions. The other two were staring at me in surprise and fear. "She won't let go!"

The man with the sword stepped forward, and he swung it. The blade struck, but I'd braced myself, feet planted firmly and my grip on the club tight.

The stinging was there again, and I looked at it in wonder. A thin line that bled a crackling, grey thing. The hissing of static filled the air, and the man with the axe stumbled back. He screamed.

"It's not human!"

The three ran, the club either forgotten or left behind in fear. It didn't matter. I curled up under the nearest tree again, staring at the fluid leaking from my arm. It was an ever-shifting greyish thing, with occasional flashes of black and white. Constantly changing.

This was inhuman. I had learned that from what the men shouted at me. Humans didn't have this grey stuff inside them. I didn't know what was supposed to be inside a human. Instinctively, I knew that opening a human would make them upset. I didn't want that, so I'd never done it.

But this grey stuff… it wasn't right. If I was going to be human, I would have to have the right stuff inside me. I'd have to find out what humans had inside them and then change this to look like that. Then, I could truly be human.

Chapter Text

It took me a while, but I found a human who let me see inside them. A traveler on the road, mauled by wolves and left to die. I found him, and though he was bleeding, he wasn't quite dead yet. The somber, ash-like taste of his regrets mixed with the sharpness of his pain, and it was a strange taste, an unpleasant one.

He was dying, and I was too unfamiliar with the bodies of humans to try to heal him. But I was not so callous as to let him die alone. I sat by his side, and I held his hand as his blood leaked into the dirt. I watched it. Red blood, not the grey, crackling thing that had come from me. And the insides... guts and squishy stuff, all red and gushing. Bones, white, occasionally poking through, shattered by the wolves' fangs.

I memorized it all—the way the bones were shaped, the way the guts were put together, the blood, and how it carried the air inside it. It was warm and sticky, and it clung in a way past simple liquid. It was a little bit alive, in its own way. When it cooled, it dried up and became brittle. It flaked away and was no longer alive.

I knew that it would have been wrong to open him myself. I also knew that any blood on myself would be an indication, a warning, to others. That I had been around the wounded, that I may have been the one to hurt them. So, while I held his hand, I did not touch him otherwise.

The fading of his emotions was deeply disturbing in a way I could not name. It felt as if a cup, well-worn and well-beloved, always filled with a comforting warmth, had dropped against the cold floor and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, each trodden upon until it became dust.

It left an empty, hollow feeling inside me. Tears, not the tears of humans, but a clear, golden liquid, dripped from my eyes as I mourned his passing.

"Thank you," I whispered to the empty shell that was once a human, "for showing me your insides. Now I know what I need to have."

I closed my eyes, imagining the red blood and the squishy guts. I could feel my body change, the grey stuff shifting, twisting, and taking on the red hues. It grew warmer and softer.

It wasn't quite right. I sat there for hours, but it was like putting together a puzzle, except I couldn't see or touch the pieces. In the end, I mostly gave up. I memorized the shape of the bones and the guts, but I could not form them correctly. The grey stuff was now red, but other than that, it wasn't right. It was a start, though. That was enough. If I were to be cut again, at least the red would flow instead of that grey.

I didn't want to leave the shell behind, though. I didn't know how humans dealt with their shells. I knew they didn't use them anymore, once the emotions had fled. I had no way to give it the proper care. So I just left it there, a bouquet of flowers gathered from the surrounding woods on his chest.

Chapter Text

The first human settlement I came upon was larger than the farmer's place. It was a town with many houses and a great number of people.

I was hungry. I had drunk from various streams I had found, but I couldn't figure out food. The farmer had fed me cooked things, and I didn't know what they were. The only thing I had figured out were fruits. Various bushes and trees had berries on them, so I had tried a few, and they had not been too terrible.

The farmers had given me cooked eggs, bread, and other delicious things. Now, I had no such things, but I was still hungry.

I wandered, looking at the people. I watched the emotions they gave each other. A large, grey patch of ambivalence, with bits of itchy annoyance, metallic duty, and warm fondness. A small child and her father. A pair of friends, their emotions intermingled comfortably. Love between a young man and a woman. It was sweet, soft, and gentle, yet with an iron-hard core. It was beautiful.

I wished I had that, too. Between me and another human? I didn't know, but I wanted to be loved. I was empty, and the love that they had made me feel full—the way I had felt with the farmer and his family.

There were no others like me. This was a certainty, in the same way I was sure I had come into existence a week and two days ago. If I could not find company within the humans, I would be alone forever. This, too, was certain.

I would be a human. I would become one and live among them—to live with their emotions. Then, I would not have to be alone. Even if it meant no longer being me, I would do it.

My appearance drew attention. I felt pity mixed with disgust, curiosity, and surprise from the townsfolk as I wandered. I stopped, watching a mother and her child walk. The child was on the verge of crying, and the mother was tired and annoyed.

"If you don't shape up, you'll end up like her!" She pointed at me, and the child turned to look.

I felt their emotions. The child's curiosity and fear, the mother's disgust, and the sticky, sickly feeling of hate. I didn't want to be hated. I didn't want to be the object of disgust. I didn't want these emotions. They were sharp, and they hurt.

I would have to change myself. I appeared human now, but I was still detestable. If it was not the appearance, then it had to be the clothing. I was wearing the ripped shirt and the pants the farmer's wife had given me, splattered in mud.

It must have been the clothing that was wrong, then. It was dirty, ripped, and falling apart. I had to find another set.

The mother and the child walked away, and I felt their emotions fade as they walked. I wandered, eventually finding a shop with clothes in front of it. Out in front were a brilliant rainbow of clothes: red, yellow, green, brown, and more. I picked a shirt, imagining it on me.

The shopkeeper's sharp anger made me jump. He was behind the counter, pointing at the shirt.

"Put that down! I won't have your dirty hands touching my merchandise!" he yelled at me.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I just wanted to have one."

His anger didn't fade as he tromped over. "Well, you can't. I don't do charity. Either buy one or get out of here!"

I put the shirt back, backing away from his anger. I did not want to make him more angry. "P-please. Stop that. I'm sorry. Please don't be angry."

His anger grew, engulfing me in its fiery fury. "Get out, you little shit! Don't come back, either!"

I ran, the anger lashing at me like a whip. It was hot, sharp, and stung like a nettle. I didn't understand. How could I do anything if even my very appearance was wrong? I needed clothes to not be hated. But to get clothes, I needed to not be hated. It was a loop without a solution.

"Hey, kid." I looked up, and I saw a young man. He wore fine clothing, with a coat, a vest, and a cravat. He smiled at me, but it was not one of genuine happiness or amusement. I felt the emotions from him, that of pride and greed and arrogance. He saw me as 'useful,' but the utility was not a kind one. "Why don't you come with me? I can help you out, give you some clothes."

I got up and looked at him. He was offering what I wanted, but I couldn't help but feel uneasy. His emotions were not pleasant. They were not the warm, safe ones that the farmer and his family had been. He had a use for me. I did not know what that was, but I wanted to know why.

"What use do you have with me?"

He laughed, and it was a sharp, grating sound. The emotions that roiled in him were sour and fetid, like a rotten apple. "C'mon, can't I just help a poor girl like you out?"

The emotions didn't match the words. The words were soft, but the emotions were ugly. I looked at him in confusion. "I don't understand. You say nice things, but you don't feel nice. You aren't nice at all."

That threw him off, and his smile faded. I felt his emotions shift from that sickly greed to a sharp, clawing interest. It wasn't kind, but it was less foul than before.

"Ain't ever met a kid who could read me like a book," he muttered, mostly to himself.

He continued to mumble, the words not quite reaching my ears, but I could feel that investigative, curious interest. He had a plan, a plot, but the details were fuzzy. I just knew that he had a use for me, but not what. What could a human possibly want with someone like me?

I didn't know, but he could give me clothes, maybe even food. If he could, then it was okay, even if the use he had with me was not a nice one. I could bear the unpleasant emotions, the sharp, sickly, and slimy. The emotions would be worth bearing if I could be closer to humans.

He clapped his hands, his musing seeming to conclude. "Listen. I know you're probably gonna keep your past all locked up if you're a real runaway, but if you come with me, I'll get you a better deal than whatever racket you were running back at home, alright?"

I stared at him in incomprehension. Racket? Running away? I was pretty sure he was talking to me, but the words made no sense.

"I don't understand," I answered him, still confused.

"Heh, you were taught well, huh?" He grinned at me. "Even when I'm looking for tells, you've got that completely blank look down pat."

He extended a gloved hand. I didn't understand his words. They weren't meant for me. He spoke of people other than him and me. But I knew his intentions. I could feel them. I was something valuable to him. Not valued as in loved or liked, but valued in the same way that the farmer's wife valued the cow that provided milk. A use, but not a love.

But useful was better than hated. I took his hand, and his smile widened.

"Good girl. Now, let's get you cleaned up and into some proper clothes, eh? Can't have a girl as pretty as you walking around like a beggar, after all."

The words were soft and sweet, but they did not reflect his emotions—cold and calculating, accompanied by a roiling, black glee. I didn't like it.

But I had taken his hand regardless.

Chapter Text

The young man took me to his house. It was bigger than any other house I'd seen in town. It had two floors and many rooms on the inside, and the floors and walls were all a soft and deep red and gold.

There were others there, too. Servants who bowed and scraped and kept their heads low.

I was bathed by one of these servants, a female one. Her emotions were a roiling mess of fear, exhaustion, and desperation; all tamped down by one overwhelming blanket of obedience, of habit—like a rotting fish wrapped in paper. She washed my hair, scrubbed my body, and dressed me. She gave me a dress, a long thing, blue and black with lace.
The young man brought me to the dining room, a large room with a long table in the center. I sat on one side of the table, and he sat on the other.

"I never did properly introduce myself," he said, a smile on his face. It didn't reach his eyes. His emotions were still those cold, calculating, and greedy ones. "I'm Jack. Jack Cecil in proper company, and Jack of Spades to the right people."

"I'm Eve," I answered. "I don't have another name."

Jack laughed, the harsh, sharp sound sending a chill through my body. "Well, Eve, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

He leaned forward, that grin still on his face. "You know, it's not often a man like me finds himself with a girl that can read him like an open book. That's not a talent I can pass up, you know. So let's talk business, shall we? I'll give you a place to stay, three meals a day, and even a cut of the profits. In return, I want your eyes. And I'll make sure to keep you happy, so long as you keep me happy."

I did not know what 'business' was, but I understood the deal. So long as I was useful, he would give me things—food, clothes, and a place to stay. And when I wasn't, he wouldn't. I wondered if the farmer had the same sort of deal with his cows and chickens.

"What do you want my eyes for?" I asked. I could most likely regrow them, but it would probably be uncomfortable to take them out.

"We Spades run a nice little business here in town." He leaned back in the chair, a satisfied look on his face and a warm pride filling the air. "See, people like to gamble. They like to drink; they like to dance. We give 'em that. For a price.

Jack leaned forward, his emotions turning sour as he continued.

"But sometimes, people like to try and cheat us. That's no good for business. So, what I want from you is to be my little helper, to let me know when people are trying to cheat me."

I considered his words, trying to figure out what they meant. The words were strange and I couldn't parse them. But the emotions were clear: the pride when he talked of his business, the sharp malice when he spoke about people trying to cheat him, and the satisfaction when he thought of what I would do.

"What feelings does a cheat feel?" I asked him.

He stared at me, surprised. I felt the minty flavor of it, the curiosity.

"Feelings?" he asked. "What does that have anything to do with this?"

"That is how I read people." I didn't know how else to explain it. I could feel his surprise and curiosity grow, so I tried to put it into words. "I can feel it. What people feel. It's like an open book, like you said."

"Ah. Is this the gimmick you had back before, or are you just pulling my leg?" He leaned back, a grin on his face. "I can't tell. Each and every interaction we have makes me more and more curious about you, you know? It's rare for me to be curious about anyone. I can read most common people like books, too. But you? You're a mystery."

I didn't know what 'gimmick' or 'pulling my leg' meant. "It is just me. I am me."

That made him laugh. I didn't understand. What was funny about that? Was I not supposed to be me?

"I'll humor you, kid. If this is how you were taught, then I'm not one to break a winning formula." He grinned at me, the teeth perfect and white, but the emotions rotten. "A cheater feels like he has the world on a platter, like he knows he's going to get away scot free. Like he's the smartest guy in the world. That's how."

I internalized the words, trying to get a mouthfeel for that emotion. "Okay. I can do that."

"Glad to hear it, kid." He stood up, his hand outstretched. "When you're out in public, you can keep being Eve. But in the Spades? You'll be my cute little Deuce. Deuce of Spades."

I felt the expectation, so I took his hand, and he shook it. Up and down. Another name to add to mine. Eve, the name the farmer and his family had given me. And Deuce, the one the man, Jack, had given me.

I stayed in Jack's house for a few days. His words were kind, but I felt the impatience behind them. He wanted to use me, but not until the preparations were in place. I didn't mind, though. I had food, clothes, and a place to stay. The bed was big and soft, with plenty of blankets.

The only thing left was the emptiness. The servants were bleak, their emotions muted and distant. Their fear, exhaustion, and desperation were covered in that blanket of duty. Only Jack's emotions were strong, and those were unpleasant—the sticky, rancid, and sharp flavors.

But this was better than the streets. There was no pain, no hatred, no malice. I had food, a place to stay, and clothes to wear. And Jack's emotions, while not pleasant, weren't directed at me. That was better.

Jack taught me things during my stay. I was to serve drinks as my cover, so I trained carrying around a platter with glasses. I walked around the kitchen and the dining room, the platter balanced on one hand. He also taught me code words and their meanings. How to tell him what I had learned.

'Do you want a refill, sir?' was code that I believed the man was cheating.

'Would you like a refill, sir?' was what I would say normally, to blend in.

Those were the only ones I had to say. But I had to listen out for words that Jack said. Words like 'eyes,' 'fingers,' and 'feet.' He didn't mean the body parts when he spoke of eyes, fingers, and feet.

'Eyes' meant a heightened alert state. It meant something was wrong and to keep an eye out for danger.

'Fingers' wasn't for me, but I had to know it nonetheless. It meant violence, that the people who served under him should be ready to use their fists. Apparently, it used to be 'hands,' but that did not go well in a casino.

'Feet' was the same as 'fingers,' but instead of using fists, they were to use their feet. To leave. I felt a faint tinge of fear from Jack, even whilst he said it, so I knew that 'feet' was to be the last resort—a code for critical failure.

He taught me the names of his most important subordinates, the men who served directly under him. Nines, Fiver, and Seven.

Then there were Ace, King, and Queen, his superiors. I was to respect them and never talk back. But they were not here and would rarely visit. They were important, I guessed, from the feeling of fear and respect that Jack had when he mentioned them.

"Hey, kid. How old are you, by the way?" Jack asked me the second day I was in the house. "I can't have a kid that's too young working in a casino, you know? So you're gonna have to lie. Tell people you're sixteen, alright?"

I wasn't sixteen. I was a week and four days old. That made me eleven, right? I was lying either way, so it didn't particularly matter. "I'll be sixteen soon. But I will tell others I already am."

"Good girl." He patted me on the head, a smile on his face, but his emotions didn't match. He was just being nice—not because he was nice but because he wanted to make me think he was nice. I didn't particularly know why he bothered when he knew I could feel his emotions. Perhaps it was habit.

Chapter Text

The casino was loud and busy. There were many people, their roiling emotions so intense and numerous that they threatened to overwhelm me. It took a moment for me to get used to the cacophony, to pick out the individual threads of emotion and separate them from the background noise.

Some people were excited, some were angry, and others were afraid. Some felt the crushing defeat of loss, while others had the soaring glee of victory. Every table had its own atmosphere, with its own mixture of emotions. I watched as Jack let me through these confusing feelings into a smaller yet more lavish room. Here, there was a single table where four men sat, their eyes shaded with wide hats.

"Hey there, boys. Ready to get your asses beat again?"

Jack stepped forward, taking the seat at the end of the table. He smiled at the other four men, but it wasn't a kind one. Like a predator, he bared his teeth and grinned.

The other four glared back, their emotions all wrapped in a steely determination. They had something to prove here, to themselves and to Jack. They were here for victory, not to enjoy the game.

"Who's the brat?" asked the largest. He was a broad, heavy man, and he scowled at me.

"She's just the help," Jack said. "Don't worry about her. Now, deal me in, Fiver."

I stepped back as the slick-haired man started dealing the cards. I hurried off to fetch some drinks. I'd been told the bartender would give me their order when I provided my name, but a small part of me still worried. This was my first real task, and I had to do it well.

The bartender was a burly man with a large beard and scars down his arms. His emotions were calm and placid, but there was a depth to them—a hidden, sharp edge ready to leap out at a moment's notice.

"Deuce," I introduced myself. "I need a drink for Jack."

"Yeah, I know. He said you'd be coming." There was a small ripple in that pond as he regarded me. It was like curiosity but muted and distant. He turned and started pouring the drink. "How old are you, girl?"

"I'm sixteen." I had not lied before. I didn't know how to. But I said the words, and I hoped that was enough.

"Heh. Sure you are," the bartender chuckled. "I'm not gonna say anything, though. If the boss says you're sixteen, you're sixteen. It's not my business to ask questions."

With that short exchange, five glasses of amber liquid were placed on my platter. I balanced them carefully, mindful of Jack's instructions, and returned to the private room. The game had started, and the emotions had shifted, becoming a little more intense.

The men were all focused, but one was smug, a little too confident. I served the drinks, then I stood back. I'd never really delved into others' emotions before. I mostly enjoyed their feel and taste, not really picking them apart and analyzing them. But now I had to. I had to figure out what the man felt and what it meant.

I focused on his emotions. There was that same smug confidence, a slight hint of glee, and the certainty of victory. Why was he certain? Was it because of the cards he held or because he was cheating? I didn't know. I couldn't tell. I needed more information.

So I waited, watching as they played. I watched the emotions, their ebb and flow. Slowly, a pattern emerged. The man's emotions didn't change as he drew cards. They stayed the same, no matter the value of the card. He was cheating.

"Refill?" I asked, the word coming out a little awkward. "Do you want a refill, sir?"

"No, I'm good." The man scowled at me. He didn't like being interrupted.

"Okay," I said, backing off. I waited for Jack to make his move, to call out the cheater, and have him removed.

But he didn't. The game continued. Wasn't he going to act on it? Or was I supposed to do something? I sat there, my fingers twisting nervously. If I didn't do my job right, he wouldn't like me anymore. I'd be thrown out, and I would become the hated. But just as it got to the point where I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, Jack called me over.
"Get us a basket of chicken fingers," he said, handing me a few coins.

Fingers. Fingers. I was supposed to warn the others. I took the money, then hurried out of the room and down to the bar. I placed the coins on the table.

"Fingers," I told the bartender. "Chicken fingers."

"Sure thing, kid." The man nodded, and I felt his emotions shift. It wasn't much, but the sharpness, the edge of his emotions, grew a little more prominent. "I'll send out a server with the plate."

"But I—" I started, but he cut me off.

"I'll send out a server." The sharpness was there, alongside a concern. A concern for my safety, I realized. "Trust me, kid. You don't want to be in that room for this."

I swallowed and nodded. I didn't want to disobey Jack, but the bartender was one of the people who worked for him. I should listen to his orders. I watched as the basket of chicken fingers was brought in, and Nines, dressed in a uniform and carrying a platter, went inside. Then the door closed.

A minute passed, and I could feel the maelstrom of emotions even from this far away. Rage and terror. Pain and fear. But I didn't hear a thing. How could such intense emotions not produce a single sound?

Eventually, the door opened again, and Nines walked out. He had a few specks of blood on his shirt. The basket of chicken fingers was gone.

"Jack's calling for you," he grunted. "You did a good job, kid. Don't worry."

I said nothing as I walked past him back into the private room. The card game was over, and only four men remained. The cheater was gone, and I felt a pang of concern. What had happened to him? Did they hurt him?

The three mutely shuffled out, their fear mixed with grudging respect. They were scared, but they acknowledged Jack's power. They acknowledged that the force he'd displayed, ultimately, was fair. Justified. They would certainly not try to cheat after this display.

"Good job, Deuce." Jack smiled at me. He was genuinely happy now, the razor-sharp yet full and sweet taste of a predator that had made a successful kill. There was also pride, a softer, warmer emotion that wasn't directed at himself but at me. I'd made him proud. I'd made him happy. It was a fulfilling thing, something warm and soft that could finally fill the empty space inside. "You've proved your worth."

"Thank you," I replied, my voice quivering just a little. "What happened to the cheater?"

"He tried to cheat, and he learned his lesson." Jack shrugged, the smile changing meaning, cruelty slipping into his visage. "Nines escorted him out and taught him what happens to cheats."

"Okay." That was all I could say and all I felt able to ask. A part of me knew what that meant.

Jack was a predator.

And that cheater had been his prey.

Now, somewhere I could not see, a human's insides were visible again.

Chapter Text

For the next week, I worked as the eyes and ears of the Spades, as the little girl who walked around the casino. I served drinks; I served food. I watched the emotions; I picked out the cheaters, not that we'd encountered any more in this time.

I was good. I was useful. So Jack liked me. I was treated well, given a warm room and good food and clothes. It was nice. It was better than when I had been wandering, hated and despised. I could feel the warmth of appreciation from the others of the Spades, who knew that I was helping them earn money and that I helped to keep the peace.

I had no friends, though. I was alone despite the warmth of their emotions. The people were friendly, but they did not love me. They did not care about me, not beyond my utility. I was a thing, not a person. Not a person like they were. I was a useful tool—but not beloved.

Still, my needs were satisfied. My hunger and thirst were satisfied, my room was warm, and my bed was soft. The clothes I wore were soft and clean and pleasant against my skin. I had no worries about survival or the cold. The Spades' appreciation was comforting enough.

Then came the day when Seven approached me on the eighth day of my employment, when I was twenty days old. I hadn't seen her on the floor before. But the words she whispered were not for me but for Deuce, the one the Spades knew. It was a warning, one that I was to spread.

"Eyes on hearts." Her voice was low, her emotions muted and calm.

Hearts. I knew little about the grander operation, but the Spades were only one of four. There were three others: the Diamonds, Clubs, and Hearts. The Spades handled the casinos and the gambling. I didn't know what the rest did, but I felt the fear radiating off of Seven, like an icy breeze. Hearts were dangerous, and they were here. I had to warn Jack, and I had to do it quickly.

I found Jack in the private room, the one where he had taught the cheater not to cheat. He was in a game, so I couldn't just blurt the code phrase. I had to wait for an opening.

The opportunity came when the game paused to let the players refresh themselves. I walked around serving drinks, then approached Jack with the platter. "Do you want a refill, sir?"

It was the code phrase I used for cheaters, but directed at Jack. His head snapped up, and I felt his curiosity and his wariness. "There's a new drink the bartender's working on. A real heart-stopper, I think."

He understood. I felt the shift in his emotions, the wariness becoming sharper and more pronounced. He nodded slowly.

"I don't think I'd want to try it, then!" His laugh sounded the same as always, but I felt the edge of tension behind it. "In fact, tell the old man he needs to lay off the drinks. Tell him to close up shop early. I'll be calling it a night in the private rooms. No one else in or out, you got it?"

I nodded. He'd gotten the message. I was glad that I had managed to deliver it without anyone else figuring it out. The other gamblers were too focused on their own cards and drinks to hear the message hidden in the conversation.

I returned the tray to the bar. "Jack says you need to close up. Eyes on hearts."

The bartender frowned. I could feel the shift in his emotions, a pebble sinking into placid waters. I could feel the tension in the air.

"Got it." He nodded and raised his voice. "Last call!"

The people in the bar groaned in disappointment, but the bartender was firm. I hurried my way into the kitchen and up the stairs—right into the arms of someone dangerous. I felt it radiating off of her, the sharpness of a hunter. She was tall and thin, her hair dyed a shockingly inhuman pink. It was short and messy, her eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. A cigarette hung from her mouth, the smoke drifting into the air.

She looked down at me, the cigarette dangling. Then she pulled out the stick and blew smoke into my face.

"Huh." Her voice was low and raspy. "Didn't think Jack would stoop to having a kid as a runner."

She was dangerous. I could taste the danger coming off of her, malice and a sadistic glee, the desire to cause pain and to inflict suffering. It was a sharp taste, one that burned the tongue.

"Who're you?" she asked.

"I'm Deuce," I replied, my voice quiet. A sour disappointment filled the air.

"You? A Number? Pah." She snorted and dropped her cigarette on the ground, grinding it with her heel. "Can't just snatch you up, then."

I didn't know how to respond to that. I had the distinct feeling that she would have done something very bad if I hadn't been a Number, though. "Who are you?"

"Me? Just a lowly 'ol one," she replied, a smirk on her face. "Such a petty number, no?"

The astringent taste of sarcasm. She didn't think her number was low. If anything, the emotions I felt told me that she was proud of it. It was the kind of pride a predator had in its sharp claws, or a snake in its venom.

I felt the fear, a cold pit in my stomach. But I couldn't let it show. I had to stay strong.

"Hearts." The cold, authoritative voice came from behind me. Jack's voice. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Call me Ace." There was none of that playfulness now. She was serious, the sharpness in her eyes directed at him. "We have business to discuss."

I felt his emotions, and they were not pretty. The sharpness of his fear and hatred, the sourness of his distaste, and the bitterness of his resignation. "Fine. Deuce, you can head back to your room."

I nodded, turning to go. But then came that sing-songy voice.

"Nuh uh. I want her here, too." I felt the malice and the sadistic glee, a selfish desire that bordered on childish. "C'mon, you can't tell me you're not going to involve her in this, either. She's a Number, right?"

I felt Jack's hesitation. He didn't like the way this was going. But he didn't have a choice. "Fine. Let's talk in the meeting room. I'll call in Nines and Fiver."

That sharp grin. It was the grin of a monster, the grin of something inhuman. Was this what the other humans had felt when they'd looked at me? This instinctive aversion, this fear?

"What about Seven?" she crooned, the grin widening. "I'd love to see her, too."

Jack's anger spiked, overtaking his fear. "We had an accord, Hearts. Don't go breaking it so soon."

Ace's grin didn't waver. "Fine, fine. I can live with the others. For now, at least."

Her emotions were a mess, a swirling mass of contradictions and sharp edges. Malice and sadism and glee, but also boredom and apathy. I couldn't make heads or tails of them. I didn't know what she would do from moment to moment.

"Are you human?" I asked, the words falling from my lips before I could stop them. I could feel those mixing emotions birthing confusion, then settling into amusement.

"Human?" She laughed, and the sound made my skin crawl. "None of us Aces are human! We're the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the monsters that top all other monsters. We're above humanity."

I blinked, a certainty crystalizing within me. No, no matter how inhuman she looked, no matter how inhuman she thought she was, she was still a human. Her emotions were human, the same as any other. Why would she want to be anything else? It didn't make sense. Humanity was the goal, the thing to aspire to. How could anyone want to be anything other than human?

"Come on, Deuce," Jack said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go. We have business to attend to."

And so I pushed these thoughts away, even as they confused me. There would be a time and a place for them. But that was not now, and that was not here.