Showdown at the Card Table
1 Showdown at the Card Table
He looked through the dark glasses shielding his eyes, down at the cards he held in his hoof; each spaced equally so as not to give any indication to his opponent of their respective value or significance. She was a worthy adversary, the breakneck chase through the town earlier had dispelled any doubt on that score, but this was his game and he knew it.
She eyed him through her own dark glasses, checking out his every reaction from behind the barrier afforded by her own cards. The locks of beautiful pink and purple mane that protruded over her head partially obscured her flawless cream complexion and retained a look of casual elegance, still looking gorgeous despite the exertion she had put herself through recently.
He knew he was up against the best, clearly a secret agent of some renown, but who she worked for remained a mystery. What he did know was that she would use every trick in the book to get him to comply to her will. She lowered her cards fractionally, just enough so he could see her lips, but the whites of her eyes remained hidden behind her dark glasses, stubbornly refusing to give him the luxury of being able to read her.
She knew how to work that look; he clearly wasn’t the first to face her in such a situation and he wondered briefly whether she was more focused on playing the game or playing him. Hers may have been a look that worked on weaker minded opponents, but not him; he was beyond that temptation and nothing was going to deflect him from beating her at cards. The prize at stake was so much greater than his pride and he knew he could not afford to lower his guard for an instant.
The tension was building palpably and although he fought to suppress the bead of sweat beginning to form on his muzzle, he could tell that it had the potential to give him away. Was she that skilled an operative that she could read him through his minutest signal, even the ones he had no control over and couldn’t suppress? Her reputation preceded her, so he had to assume she would be onto it like a charm on a bracelet. He had to think fast, and reached for his drink, not taking his eyes off hers for a second and in a single deft, surreptitious action brushed the tell-tale droplet away.
Behind those all concealing regulation issue dark glasses were two cerulean eyes, forensically dissecting his every move. Had he gotten away with it? He couldn’t tell. The stakes were high and he couldn’t afford to gift her any advantage whatsoever. He had to assume he had been successful, because there was no room for self-doubt.
“Well?” his attractive opponent purred quizzically.
Darn - why did she have to look so mysterious? He fought to keep his calm, but feared that there was only so much more of this subliminal heat he could withstand.
“Don’t let her rattle you” he told himself “Don’t let her get to you – she can’t read you. Now focus!”
No matter how hard he tried, he could tell she was beginning to get to him. He felt those eyes unblinkingly unlocking the secrets behind his eyes; the cards he held, his game plan and worse, much worse.
This couldn’t be happening to him, not at his game. He had to reassert himself and searched desperately for some ploy he could use, no matter how underhoof or unworthy of him it may be.
“A bit of your mane’s caught in your glasses” he commented by way of a diversion.
“Oh, really?” retorted his opponent, unmoving and unblinking. She made no move to react; she must have seen straight through his scheme and he kicked himself immediately for his lack of subtlety. Then a few seconds later, as if to prove her action was not in direct response to his observation, she very deliberately removed her glasses, shook her mane and looked deep into his eyes; Oh Celestia, how deep into his eyes, before sliding her glasses back on again. He had cleverly managed to use the brief moment of distraction to regain the initiative; it was now his turn to be on the offensive once more.
He felt suddenly more confident, more self-assured, and at the top of his game once more as he took his next turn with renewed bravado, allowing the corners of his mouth to curl slightly in the startings of a triumphant smile. He had her on the run now; nothing was going to deny him the victory that now seemed certain to be his.
She studied her hand closely and paused momentarily.
No! Surely this couldn’t be!
His hoof faltered and he played a card. His opponent cracked an enigmatic smile and reached down in front of her:
“Gin!” she called, laying out all seven cards; four of the same denomination and three in a run.
Lyra put her head round the door and called “Rumble, your brother’s coming up the drive. Do make sure you’ve got everything before you go.”
The grey colt pouted and took off his glasses; he would win next time. He looked at the model town laid out on the floor where he and Bon Bon had chased each other’s model figures up and down the streets in a frantic chase earlier, scattering trees and houses in their wake.
“Thank you Miss Lyra, Miss Bon Bon” he said politely, picking up his belongings. Then he turned to the cream coloured mare “I bet you’d make a really cool spy!”
“Run along now” said Bon Bon “Your brother’s a great flyer, why not check out what he’s been up to today?”
He gave her a smile and one last hug before trotting off happily to listen to his brother’s stories about the new display routine the Wonderbolts had been practicing that afternoon.
“Spy, huh?” said Lyra, raising an eyebrow, once they were alone.
“Yeah” responded her partner “Foals say the funniest things, right?”
