To be honest, it kind of pisses him off. Doesn’t that just beat all? The last few hours of my unexceptional existence winding away and now a streak of decent fortune finally falls my way? Figures. The blackjack dealer, a female uniformed in the orthodox manner for the Alaungpaya casinos (neutral gold tunic and kufi hat), is maybe a year past forty. With soft facial features, she offers Flynn a tight, saccharine smile as she moves a pile of winnings across the table toward him. Flynn takes his winnings and starts tidily arranging the credits in his growing pot. Albeit slightly addled from his Depressus medications and a few quick shots from that bottle of aged beauty he’d been saving back in his quarters, Flynn entertains a fleeting notion. This dealer? She might be the mother of that dopey kid who reported that fighting incident earlier today. Like an inquisitive terrier, Flynn angles his head and strains to see a resemblance. He supposes it might be possible. Then Flynn notes the possession beacon on the dealer’s wrist pulsing out its dull bioluminescent strobe just below the surface of the skin—a warning of disease.
