Chapter Text
Spades Slick v. Jack Noir
2 Years Post-Landing
It became clear, very early on, that the two of you weren’t gonna be able to co-exist.
You were friendly with the troll kids, and he still wanted to kill them, even though both your sessions had been over for years now. He’d taken over the Felt. You hated the Felt. He wanted your gal; your gal made it clear she didn’t want him. He seemed to be havin’ a hard time taking ‘no’ for an answer, and that’s when you decided you hated this little punk enough to want him dead.
So here you are - Spades Slick, fighting for the right to be Jack Noir again. Challenging your younger self for the title. Town’s not big enough for the both of you.
He chose a construction site outside of town, a sensible choice. You chose midnight as the time; he sneered, but agreed. He chose bladekind as the weapon, and you didn’t care to object.
You chose the terms. To the death. And what the winner says, goes.
He smirked, and agreed.
So here you are. On your side of the circle: your Crew, your dame, and the Vantas kid. The kid looks a bit weird, kinda sick - somethin’ about him pupating soon. But he’s good to watch you fight, and help the Crew protect Paint if things go south.
On his side: the motherfucking Felt, those dumb fucking leprechauns. He stands there, that decades-younger piece of shit, grinning and licking his teeth. You’d forgotten how intoxicating the blood-thirst was; he’s clearly high on the idea of killin’ you. He’s got a robot arm, now, but he still has that strip of Paint’s dress tied around it, like it’s her favor. Your lady scowls. You’re already itching for your knife.
Paint takes off her kerchief, and gestures for you to bend down. You do, and she ties it around your neck. There. Clearer now, who she’s rooting for. You turn to face the shadow of your past.
He whips out a katana, clearly thinking he’s hot shit. Gods, were you ever this arrogant? You step into the ring. So does he, and Vantas starts the clock.
3...
He sneers at Vantas. You know he’s the first he’ll go for if he wins, and you share a look with the kid. The young troll nods. He knows - he’ll be ready.
2...
Paint clasps her hands together in prayer. Hearts and Clubs look at you with utter faith. Droog, you can tell, is prepared to finish this for you, if it turns out your clock is finally up. Good.
1...
There are two Jack Noirs in this city - in an hour, there’ll only be one.
0
The young punk is fast and strong, reflexes quick, the katana giving him a further reach than your knives. But you’re more experienced, by a long shot, and he spent three years chasing after a meteor and the last two doing fuck-all. He takes his advantages for granted, the undisciplined, overconfident little fucker. You dodge and weave, your knowledge and cybernetics helping predict his attacks, and before he knows it, you have a blade in his guts.
He snarls. He may be young and full of vigor, but you’re old and cruel and know more about his own body than he does. You twist the knife and sweep his legs as he tries to bring the katana down on you. It breaks on your metal arm, like the piece of shit it is.
He grabs both parts of the blade and starts dual-wielding. Smart. Resourceful. Pity he’s too busy twirling the damn things and growling to notice you’re throwing a few more knives at him. One lands in his eye, and he screams. Now you’re matching.
He rushes for you. Sloppy, he left himself wide open. You kick your heel straight into the butt of the knife. The guard crushes right past his carapace and into his ribs. He chokes, and falls, throwing the pointed end of the broken katana at you. You don’t even have to dodge - it misses by a mile.
He’s as good as dead, shaking, on his hands and knees, snarling up at you like an animal. You take the handled half of the katana. Searching for another weapon, he pulls the knife out, like an idiot, and charges you.
The broken sword goes straight into his throat. Normally, you might be tempted to say some witty one-liner to finish it off. ‘Be a good dog, and play dead,’ maybe. But you’re just fuckin’ tired. Sick of this bullshit.
He chokes and struggles, stabs you in the meat shoulder a couple times, trying and failing to get at your ribs. Ow.
But before long, he’s just another corpse, hanging off the end of the sword. You throw him down into the dirt.
Paint rushes forward to try and patch you up - Vantas and your Crew step in front, ready to fend off the Felt. But the leprechauns don’t do anything. They just look.
At you.
For orders, you realize. You scoff.
“Fuck off. Get lost. Leave Earth. Die, if you have to, just leave .”
They scatter.
As Paint kisses you on the cheek, tears of relief in her eyes, you put your arm around her and decide that’s gonna be the last time you kill anybody. You’re old, you’re tired, and Jack Noir needs to be buried.
And now that you’ve done that, you can finally retire, and call this place home.