Las Vegas never slept.
As a world-famous gambling capital, it welcomed tourists from every corner of the globe at all hours. Most didn't arrive expecting to become millionaires overnight. Still, very few resisted the temptation to try their luck at least once.
Richard walked among them with sunglasses and a baseball cap, his long silver hair uncovered. He didn't try particularly hard to hide it.
As expected, most pedestrians glanced at him briefly and moved on. A few looked twice, but their expressions carried mild judgment rather than recognition. To them, he was just another young man with a dramatic fashion choice.
Silver hair wasn't rare anymore.
Satisfied with the reaction, he wandered the Strip like any other tourist, absorbing the noise, lights, and layered chaos of the city.
Las Vegas had its own branch of the Department of Mutant Affairs, of course. But unlike branches in cities like New York or Los Angeles, agents here had a unique additional responsibility.
Preventing mutant cheating in casinos.
Officially, that wasn't part of the Department's core mandate. Unofficially, it was a lucrative arrangement. Casinos paid generously to ensure no telepaths, clairvoyants, probability manipulators, or kinetic enhancers siphoned millions from their tables.
Department salaries ranged around two to three hundred thousand dollars annually—high by national standards, but modest considering the risks mutant agents faced. They regularly confronted illegal mutants at the Beta level or higher. Since most agents were Beta-level themselves, one-on-one engagements were hardly guaranteed victories.
Supplemental casino contracts helped.
After strolling for half an hour, Richard entered a well-known casino. Despite being an S-level wanted figure, no alarms rang. No barriers blocked him. He exchanged several thousand dollars for chips like any ordinary patron.
He circled the gaming floor casually before settling at a Texas Hold'em table.
Compared to blackjack or roulette, Hold'em was relatively niche. Before transmigrating, he had played online and understood the mechanics well enough.
This would be his first live game.
He didn't activate telepathy. He didn't use super vision. No cheating. Just calculation and psychology.
Texas Hold'em wasn't really about luck. It was about probability assessment, micro-expression reading, bluff construction, and risk modulation.
Strangely, whether because of luck or relaxed focus, he won more hands than he lost.
The stack of chips in front of him grew steadily—from a few thousand to tens of thousands.
As his pile increased, so did his aggression. His betting pattern shifted from conservative play to calculated pressure.
Ordinarily, that transition would invite disaster. Many gamblers overextend at this stage and lose everything in a single swing.
But tonight, fortune favored him.
The chips continued to accumulate.
Nearly one hundred thousand dollars now sat before him.
Am I actually good at this?
The thought crossed his mind briefly.
Other players began excusing themselves from the table, choosing less intimidating competition elsewhere.
Then a smooth, magnetic voice drifted over.
"This seat looks lucky. I think I'll take it."
Richard looked up.
A middle-aged man approached, dressed like a wandering aristocrat. A black cowboy hat sat tilted on his head. A metal cane rested casually in his hand. His demeanor radiated effortless confidence with a hint of theatrical charm.
Richard recognized him immediately.
Remy LeBeau.
The King of Cards.
In certain timelines, Gambit would have been far older by now. But this wasn't the X-Men film continuity. The man before him appeared in his early forties—sharp, charismatic, controlled.
Richard withdrew his gaze calmly.
He hadn't expected this encounter, but he wasn't opposed to it either.
As Remy sat down, Richard mentally reviewed his abilities.
Kinetic and potential energy charging. Mind shielding. Hypnotic charm. Limited precognition. Enhanced physical conditioning.
By mutant classification standards, Gambit was a textbook Alpha-level mutant. No visible mutation. No crippling side effects. High combat adaptability.
In cinematic portrayals, his power ceiling appeared modest. In the comics, however, he was far more dangerous.
At peak output, he could transform into an energy entity known as "New Sun," composed entirely of accumulated kinetic force. In that state, he could manipulate any object storing potential energy, freeze targets mid-motion with telekinetic control, even compress space-time for dimensional travel.
And that wasn't his only extreme form.
As "Death," his kinetic manipulation evolved into matter alteration. He could turn air into poison. Physical contact could infect consciousness itself, reducing victims to obedient puppets. Devoured opponents could even be sealed into playing cards.
Comic-level Gambit was terrifying.
This universe's Gambit?
Uncertain.
Richard wasn't particularly worried.
If Gambit provoked him, plundering an Alpha-level power set would be an acceptable outcome.
Remy leaned back in his chair and offered a smile designed to melt hearts.
For women, it might have worked.
For Richard, it felt oily.
Their eyes met briefly.
Richard was about to speak—
—and a system notification materialized before him.
[Mission: One-Winged Angel (II)]
[Mission Content: Rescue "Scarlet Witch" Wanda and "Quicksilver" Pietro who are imprisoned by the Hellfire Club.]
.....
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