You peer at your cards. Positive thinking! "Hit!"

"On a—" Madrigal shuts her mouth, raises her eyebrows, and flips her own card over. "Damn, who would've guessed. Five of shells. You bust. Tokens, please?"

You hover your hand over your pile of wooden tokens. (You had no idea Game Night had such an elaborate prize-exchange system! Why didn't anybody ever tell you there were prizes?) "Who says I bust? I think I drew a perfectly good card, and— I mean, a five is low. And what are you going to do with these, anyways? Aren't you organizing this whole thing? That sounds a little bit like cheating to me, but maybe I don't understand the rules of gambling, which I hear leads many people to a life of—"

"Gilman, how many drinks has she had?"

"...One. I-I-I think."

"One drink. Have you ever played blackjack with her?"

He shakes his head.

"Lucky bastard. Charlotte?"

You fold your arms. "Yes?"

"You don't know how to play blackjack."

Richard had offered to tell you what all the optimal moves were. You told him to shove it. "Yes I do."

"You hit on a 18, dumbass. I know you're not actually dumb. Can I teach you? Or can Gilman? This guy knows his shit. Maybe he's actually cramming aces up his asscrack, I dunno, but I'm sure he can teach, if you don't wanna see my mug anywhere. 'Course, then I keep your tokens."

"They're my tokens," you say sulkily. "But I guess Gil—"

"Great. Then I'll go grab a drink, and I'll watch." She reaches over the table and pats you on the hand, then stands. "Oh, yeah. Want anything?"

You had, in fact, only finished one drink— you were planning on more, but then there were prizes, and you wanted to keep your sharp mind intact. So much for that. "Yes! One—"

"I'll getcha the punch. Bugs? Anything? Wait, you got the— Pat's thing. The insta-drunk. Shit sucks. Still, if you—" Gil shakes his head. "Got it. Okay, seeya." A few steps away, then she turns. "Shouldn't leave this empty. ELL! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!"

Her voice has a way of slicing through the sea of chatter, laughter, clinking, thumping, swearing: easily 40-odd people at 10-odd tables, counting the one for drinks and the one stacked high with prizes (admittedly nothing fancy— all donated by the attendees— you spot several of Eloise's found-object sculptures among them). Several heads turn, but only one pops up: Fake Ellery, wide-eyed as usual. He appears to be in the middle of a game, but when Madrigal jerks her thumb he traipses over haplessly. "Hi, Maddie. Uh, hi, Lottie. Hi, Gil. Is something the matter?"

"Yeah. You're gonna deal blackjack for anyone who stops by. You know how." Fake Ellery opens his mouth; Madrigal puts her hand over it, then pecks his cheek. "Thanks, bud."

Then she goes. Fake Ellery pushes a card around with his finger. "...So, uh, were you guys gonna play?"

(2/5)