A Friendly Little Game

Captain Malcolm Reynolds sat at the card table, occasionally lifting a hand to wave in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear a breathing space in the miasma of smoke. The entire room being filled with a choking cloud of the smoke, from tobacco and other not-so-immediately identifiable combustibles, made his attempts almost pointless. At least he felt as if he could breathe slightly better when he did so, even if he actually could not. Of the other four players at the table, only one of them -- noticeably an offworlder, as was Mal -- seemed to be having as much difficulty with the tainted atmosphere. The other players looked as comfortable in the smoke-filled saloon as Mal would have on the deck of Serenity.

A delicate cough from behind him made Mal look quickly over his shoulder. Inara sat there, watching the game with interest, and the smoke had finally become as much as she could handle, at least for that particular moment. “You okay?” Mal asked.

She waved a hand in answer, as the other hand delicately wiped away the tear that had formed in one eye, managing to remove the moisture without marring the meticulously applied cosmetics. Once she had found her breath, she replied, saying, “I’m fine. It’s a small price to pay to see such an accomplished cardsmith at work.”

Mal quirked a half-smile at the praise, saying, “Aw, I’m not all that good. Just passing some time until our... meeting.”

“I wasn’t actually talking about you, Captain,” she said, inclining her head towards one of the other players, “I meant Mister Barlowe.”

Mal’s eyebrows rose for a moment as he turned back to the game. “Of course you did,” he said, “how silly of me.”

Barlowe, the gambler Inara mentioned, tipped his hat in her direction, and said, “Just a humble sporting man, ma’am. If my feeble attempts bring you some small measure of amusement, I am honored much beyond my paltry winnings.”

Mal barely suppressed a snort of derision. Those ‘paltry winnings’ consisted of the