Chapter Text
Jesper Fahey is not an idiot.
Well, alright, not totally.
He knows how to cook for himself. He knows basic mathematics and chemistry. He can sew up a wound, he can run a factory machine, he can, evidently, flirt his way into any gambling hall in the Barrel. He can turn a metal button into a paper thin medallion or some lumpy impression of a flower if he really focuses on it. He can dance ( not formally but it’s still something he considers to be a skill ), and he can read a book in less than two days if he really likes the story. He speaks Zemeni and Kerch fluently and understands enough Kaelish to hold a conversation.
And he can shoot.
Apparently, that’s the only special little talent of his that counts in this city, or at least in the Barrel. The riveting fact he can use the shiny revolvers on his hips, and well , he might add, is apparently a valuable asset to many around here.
And being valuable means money , and money means gambling.
So Jesper shoots.
As he searches around the silent courtyard for a piece of evidence to take back as an indicator of a job well done, he can’t help but wonder what he’d be doing right now if he hadn’t accepted that offer for a night out all those months ago.
It was meant to be an amicable invitation, a couple of university students inviting the new kid at school to play some card games at a hall and get to know people. But when they entered the colorful casino, with dealers smugly flipping cards across tables and crisp looking businessmen laughing to show good sportsmanship as their kruge is raked away from them, Jesper latched onto it like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d spent all the kruge in his pocket and was hungry to win it back, to double it, to lose it all again.
Something. Anything. Roll of the dice. Spin of the wheel. Risk. Risk. Risk.
He soon learned that there was nothing that soothed his urge for unpredictability like spinning Makker’s Wheel. No amount of rich tasting alcohol or sensation heightening drugs could make his hands stop itching the way that holding a hand of cards or a pair of dice did.
He’d needed to keep going, he was a moth drawn to the big, distracting flame of Ketterdam’s gambling halls, and even as it burned him he kept dragging himself back for more.
When he’d run out of money, he’d quickly resulted to begging. And though he’s sure he looked pretty doing it, the dealer’s and the big shots running the gambling halls are immune to his kind of charm. If only he had better cleavage.
Even as he fell into debt after debt, lost game after game at the tables, he would not ask his father for money, he’d made that promise early on to himself. His father was already ferociously overprotective of him even before Jesper moved to the city, hearing that his son is currently throwing away his education to win some money playing cards? He’d drag Jesper all the way through the True Sea to bring him back.
So the days went on, his nights became restless, being in classes became well and truly impossible , and waiting for kruge to fall into his lap so he could spend it was too slow a method.
That’s when the first offer came.
Jesper remembers the day well, a man had seemingly emerged from the shadows to follow him home, and when Jesper finally turned to ask him what . He’d just said.
Pretty guns you got there. Know how to use ‘em?
And Jesper had scoffed, cocky and unwitting, and the rest was history.
He’d learned later that that particular time, it was work for the Black Tips, tattoos of a hand with two fingers missing. Then he’d done more than a few hits on people for members of Harley’s Pointers, the ace of spades card held by a black gloved hand. And a couple of Razorgull big wits bet him he couldn’t shoot a shot glass from fifty feet away a couple of weeks ago, a flock of pointy looking birds flying in a triangle. He in fact could, with his eyes closed. Ever since then, he’d done a few sporadic clean up jobs for them, tying up their loose ends with a spark of gunpowder and a well placed bullet.
Tonight, he had been asked to check if there was anyone waiting to attack along a route the Black Tips were taking a Shu hostage they needed to get out of the city, or something like that. There was a group of big men in black suits lurking along the path that all fell easily enough. Jesper still had an hour to kill before he was meant to meet the man who hired him, so he emptied the bodies’ pockets and stole one of their fingers as proof. The Black Tips appreciated that sort of thing, as he’d learned.
He kicked over one of the bodies and spun his revolver around and around in his hand; they'd been getting much more use lately, and Jesper was glad for it. His mother was a peaceful woman, but she would have hated it if she knew his father had planned to keep her shotgun on the wall, mounted and pretty and stationary , never to be used again.
His revolvers were not her shotgun, it had made his arms hurt to keep it on his back all the time, and his hands always started shaking after he held it for too long. But the pearl handles on his revolvers were a piece of her, he hopes she’s happy with that.
Footsteps on the cobblestones behind him break him out of his reverie, he turns and sees a man, flipping a coin up and down and up and down in his hand.
Jesper grins, a little uneasy at how simple sneaking up on him seemed to be, “Evening.” He says, running a hand through his hair.
The man chuckles, catching his coin in midair and stretching his hand. “Evenin’. Word on the street says you’ve been getting busy for a new arrival.” His sleeve pulled back, Jesper glimpses a cat curled around a crown on his wrist.
“Eh, I s’pose so. Maybe everyone else just has a bad work ethic.” Jesper says, scanning the man’s face for a reaction, an identifying feature. Nothing, just the tattoo on his arm and the silver coin gleaming where he holds it in between his fingers.
“Oh no no no,” The man chuckles, “not working, boy, gambling .” He whispers, starting to spin his coin through his fingers, “And you’ve amassed quite a debt with the Dime Lions.” His dark eyes scan Jesper disdainfully, “A debt you’ve yet to make any progress on.”
Dime Lions . Jesper recognizes, that’s what they’re called , he starts flipping through his brain, trying to remember if he’d heard anything about them in bars or halls over the last few weeks.
Pekka Rollins’s gang, a pigeon on a street corner had whispered fearfully. Jesper turned around, there were two other men approaching him from the other direction. They’re the ones who were responsible for those mutilated bodies they found in the sewers last month . He swallows, hands fidgeting and brain playing with the idea of grabbing his guns and just starting to fire .
Three men. Jesper blinks and sparks his power in his chest to get a sense of where he was, he feels twelve warm pulses back. Twelve bullets. He stretches his fingers. Three men, twelve bullets. Easy game .
He tucks his hands into the pockets inside his coat, reaching for the handles of his revolvers imperceptibly, “Well,” He grins, “glad I’ve caught your eye either way.” Jesper rocks on the balls of his feet. The man with the coin grins back and Jesper suddenly feels a fourth presence emerge from somewhere behind him. There’s a palpable feeling of dread stirring in his stomach, four men, twelve bullets. Still easy, Jesper doesn’t doubt his ability to take all of them down with one bullet each , just annoying.
He steps to the side, catching a glimpse of the burly Dime Lion that was lingering in the shadows behind him. “Sorry to disappoint you gents,” He says hesitantly, “but I’m afraid I’m meeting someone shortly.” He tips his hat, “Best be going, have a nice night.”
Before he can even take a half step away two strong arms grab his wrists and pull him into a hard chest. As he’s grappled back into place the whispers he’d heard that night at the bar come back with sparkling clarity.
They’re ruthless. The pigeons had whispered. They’re sadistic. The others had said.
Worse. One had said grimly. They’re creative.
They’d elaborated with a frightened mutter. Their kills are always personal in one way or another. The other pigeons had sat still in their seats, mugs of ale and glasses of wine forgotten on the table.
The other had just shrugged. I’d see to it I just give up if they ever get me cornered.
Give up. Something that sounds like his Da pleads in Jesper’s head. Let them take you. Don’t resist.
He swallows, and goes limp in the man’s strong grip. The response is the slightest loosening of his arms.
Jesper sees the opportunity.
Give up . He hears, an echo of the pigeon in the bar, of his father.
Jesper snorts. Fuck that.
He knocks his head backwards into his captors face, there’s a howl of pain and arms being released from his shoulders as the man reaches for his broken nose.
Jesper spins. Guns. Guns. Your guns Jesper.
He spins his revolvers out of their holsters and puts two bullets into the pair of men standing at the edge of the courtyard. They both fall, one clutching his chest and the other with a bullet hole in his forehead.
He turns and shoots the man who’d held him through the neck. He spins again, the man with the coin is still watching him, grin as shiny as the coin in his fingers.
One man. Nine bullets.
Jesper twirls his gun and points it at the man. He chuckles, and it’s chilling .
The man with the coin snaps his fingers and something hits him on the side of the head. The world flashes white hot with pain and surprise. That’s enough of a slip up. Fuck.
There’s two pairs of arms around him now. Dragging him back and into a dark, foreign alleyway. He kicks backwards but one of the arms shifts around his middle, snapping his hips back and making moving his legs without pulling them out of their socket impossible. He tries to snap his head back again but a hand the size of his face grips the back of his neck. They shove him backwards and grab his guns.
No.
They toss them somewhere beyond Jesper’s sight. But he growls like a wounded animal when he hears them skid across the stone. He dashes forward dizzily, but the men holding him back are both at least half a foot taller than him and much better built.
Jesper looks around, vision still fuzzy. There’s walls on either side of him. His guns are beyond his reach. And he has about the same amount of control over stone and metal as a three year old.
I’m trapped.
The man with the coin finally stands to his full height and walks over to Jesper, coin still flipping through the air.
“I think we’ll start with your face first.” He says. Pulling his fist back, Jesper can see the glint of brass.
He closes his eyes when the first blow cracks across his face. He feels his jaw crack and he rocks forward with a cry of pain. Another hit from the other side. He feels blood start to leak down his forehead.
The pummeling continues, the hits against his chest and head starting to sound like a beat on a war drum.
Jesper’s vision is blinking in and out of darkness when there’s a shout from somewhere beyond the alley. The man with the coin’s raised fist falls as he looks behind him with a look of surprise.
Jesper hears a gun go off. One of the burly men who’d grappled Jesper into the alleyway falls to the ground with a cry, gripping his leg. There’s a bullet hole straight through his calf.
Someone else is here. Fighting Dime Lions Jesper manages to process dizzily, something giddy rises in him.
The man with the coin is shouting something, his back is turned. He’s motioning ridiculously to the other man in the alley.
Jesper pushes him over and runs out of the alley in the chaos.
Guns. Where are my guns? Jesper looks around frantically for the gleam of their pearl handles under the night sky.
There’s a flash of something dark and someone behind him cries out. Jesper turns and sees a dark coat flapping into the shadows of the alley.
What the fuck . He manages dizzily, eyes still scanning the street for his guns.
His eyes lock onto it. One of his revolvers sits on the road, shining against the dark stone in an impressive spectacle of colors. Or maybe that was just Jesper’s head injury.
He runs for it, almost falling over when the cool metal hits the palm of his hands.
He holds out his gun behind him and starts shooting before he even turns around. An impossible shot . He thinks, but he feels each bullet hit its mark anyhow.
There’s a loud cry of pain after each time he fires, and then there’s loud, aggressive swearing. Or at least something loud and angry, Jesper can’t tell. He wipes the blood from his forehead and shoots another bullet. The swearing stops. The street is silent, but Jesper can feel he isn’t alone.
Jesper looks at the alleyway, vision loosely focused on the fallen bodies in the entryway. There’s someone standing over them he realizes with a start, they’re in all black, but Jesper can see something glinting in one of their hands.
He squints then breathes in tightly. His revolver. They were the one who shot the man.
Jesper swallows, “Who…” His jaw pulses before he can finish and he winces, his tongue feels heavy and his throat feels hot.
The shadow steps over the man with the coin’s body and limps toward Jesper. One of their hands is clasped around the metal head of a cane. They hold out Jesper’s gun by the handle, offering it back to him, they’re wearing gloves the color of the waters in the harbor at night.
Jesper blinks at them and takes it, holstering both of his guns and glancing skeptically at the figure before him.
The boy in front of him can’t be any older than Jesper. He looks pretty, like someone fabrikated his face out of a chunk of marble. The only indication he isn’t a statue is his dark hair falling into his face and his eyes, deep brown like the color of black coffee. His expression is sharp and his eyes are fixed on Jesper’s, picking whatever expression is on his face apart.
He clears his throat and the figure blinks at Jesper, at attention, ready to respond, “Who are you?” He tries again, voice sounding awkward and wrong in his mouth, it hurts to open his mouth and his head is pounding, “Why did you…?”
Why did you save me?
The boy scoffs, Jesper watches his lips make the motion. When he looks down, there’s a glove hand outstretched, waiting for a handshake.
“My name is Kaz Brekker. And I believe we could work together, if you’re up for it.”
Jesper has heard that name before, and the grotesque and morbid rumors that followed it. Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel, death incarnate. Someone not to be trifled with. An unpredictable force at just fifteen.
You’re going to get yourself killed. He’d thought to himself the first night he’d done a job like this. Over time it had faded, the visual of a man falling to one of Jesper’s bullets became as standard as memorizing a mathematical equation, only infinitely more exhilarating. The cautiousness and panic of his own ability to kill wasn’t as obvious now as it had been a month ago.
Kaz’s hand remains outstretched, that feeling of inevitability, of death looming over his shoulder is back. You’ll be sent home to Novyi Zem in a body bag. Or you’ll be taken on the reaper's barge and no one will ever know where you went.
Risky. Unpredictable. Dangerous. His father’s voice rings in his head. Kaz’s hand stays waiting, Jesper makes his decision.
“Jesper Fahey.” Jesper grins, Kaz raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement.
I should know I love to gamble . Is all he thinks, and he shakes Kaz’s hand.