"So, Robert..." the Colonel was saying as he flicked the Oracle's own Tarot cards onto the floor, one by one, as if he were looking for the answers in them as well: "Why don't you tell us what you told that reporter?"

"I don't know what you're talking about" Robert replied, trying to ignore the two men in 50's pinstripes who held him in an iron grip, the pain from the beating they'd given him, and the strange, silvery knives they'd crossed over his neck. The irony was as stifling as they were: the best Reader in the whole of the Boston Necropolis - to hear him tell it, anyway - and he hadn't even seen this coming...

"We know you do, Robert," the Colonel told him.

"I said-"

But the Colonel looked up from the rapidly-depleting deck, and Robert's lips froze at the direct, unblinking stare from his ugly, diseased face. It was covered with warts, puffy lumps and patches of runny, decaying flesh, as though he'd died from venereal disease. Maybe he had...

"We know, Robert," the other man insisted. The way he said it - crisp as apples and cool as steel - made Robert think that maybe he had been in someone's military, once, and that was the reason he insisted on being called by that rank. He certainly wasn't wearing a uniform, now - just rich and sumptuous clothing that reminded Robert of Olde English plays on Masterpiece Theatre, or maybe Black Adder...

"Really..." Robert said, just to say something. You couldn't stay silent in front of a ruined face like that. Being quiet made you think too much about how it got to look that way. {A line from a Radiohead song wound its way through his mind in spite of it all.}

"Yes," the Colonel insisted, again: "Really. We can do things you can't even imagine."

Robert swallowed, and the men holding him down increased their grip. One funny move on his part and they'd slice - doubtlessly doing just enough violence to him to send him down to the Void, given the damage they'd treated him to before the Colonel had marched into the room. {His insides felt like they'd been taken out, kicked and shoved back into him incorrectly, and his prized Devo t-shirt - Duty Now For The Future - was in tatters}

But he knew they could still do worse, somehow. And while the notion of going down to the Labyrinth now, during a Great Maelstrom, was bad enough, it was made all the more frightening by one other, important detail: a lack of foresight. Not only had Robert failed to see this coming, but he couldn't see any further than it, either.

And that scared him worse than anything any of these guys could do.

As far as Robert could tell, his problems using the Art had started about a year ago: maybe more, maybe less - it was hard to be sure. Fatalism was never the most certain thing in the world, of course, and everyone had their "off" readings, or clients who rubbed the wrong way. But after a while he came to realize that he had a real problem.

What it came down to was that there were some things he just couldn't see, and some people he just couldn't see for. He would try to look at how things would resolve themselves, using his cards, and he could get no answers that seemed right. He was reduced to either blanking or guessing, and it showed - badly.

He tried to deny it, at first. Everyone had an "off" day, now and again. Some Oracles of Robert's aquantance were known to have "off" weeks, or months. There was even one poor fellow who'd had to take a five-year break from his calling because he just couldn't do it, anymore: no matter how hard he tried, his Arcanos just wouldn't work.

For a time, Robert worried that had happened to him, too, and checked to see if someone was fucking with him using the Art. When that came up blank, he took a week off to see if he was just stressed. And when that didn't work, either, he went to the Pardoner early to see if his Shadow was causing problems.

It was only when that didn't help, either, that he swallowed his pride and went to other Oracles for aid. It was, quite possibly, the most embarassing thing a Card-Carrying Member could ever do - admitting to being unable to see. But if he had to get help that way, he would: he wasn't too proud to beg.

That's when he learned that he wasn't the only one having problems. Everyone he talked to either admitted to blanking on certain subjects, or certain people, or beyond a certain time frame, or they refused to have any problems with such near-violence that it could only be a desperate lie on their part.

That didn't make him feel any better, though - especially when he learned about some other things, too. So he started looking into those matters, maybe a little too loudly for the liking of some. And when the reporter had come around, looking for his own answers, he'd given what he could, hoping they could find the truth together.

But now that reporter was missing, as well as some of the Oracles Robert had been talking to. And here were these fucks who claimed to be Oracles, beating him up for answers. And nothing he could do would show him anything about what was happening here and now: not where it came from, how to get out of it, or what happened later...

And while it could just be stress or some strange trick of theirs, he doubted it was anything so refreshingly normal. Somehow, he knew this was it. He knew he was going to be ended, here, in his small Haunt, with some pox-victim Oracle he'd never even heard of overseeing it all.

He knew he was going to be done away with by his own Guild - something that had his Shadow all but cackling in glee.

You know you had this coming, his Shadow told him in the voice of his 2rd Grade teacher, Mrs. Brock: If you won't follow the crowd you'll be trampled. Didn't I tell you?

Yes, she had: several times, in fact. But he hadn't given a damn, then or now. If this was really it, and there was no chance of escape - no chance of anything at all - then Robert was going to do the same thing he always did when faced with unpleasant certainties.

Flip it both birds.

"I'm still waiting for an answer, Robert," the Colonel said: "And I don't think it will be found in your silence?"

"I'm pleading the fifth." Robert snorted: "You think you know so much... you tell me."

"As you wish," the other man said, and put down what was left of Robert's deck. Oddly enough, the two henchmen didn't slice through his windpipe, but Robert knew he couldn't be off the hook just yet.

"I know that Sam Greely came here several times over the last few weeks," the Colonel continued, getting up and pacing with his hands behind his back: "I know he wanted to know about certain... prophecies."

"Like what?" Robert asked.

"That is what we want you to tell us," he replied, turning to look his captive in the eyes: "I could guess, but that would be useless."

"Well, I'm pleading the fifth, so there you go..." Robert chuckled. The two men twisted his wrists behind him just a little more, but he didn't bother gasping or wincing.

"Hm," the man said, nodding: "So you won't cooperate?"

"I'm gone either way," Robert replied: "Maybe if you'd had the sense to just fucking ask me without beating me up first, you might have gotten somewhere."

"That was to convince you that we weren't playing around," the Colonel replied, taking something from his pocket. It was a deck of cards - old playing cards, from the look of them.

"So what are we doing now?"

"Something different," he replied, turning back to the table and returning to his seat: "Sit him down across from me."

The two men gripped Robert tighter, and jerk-walked him over as they were instructed. A calm wave of the Colonel's hand sent the Oracle's own, prized deck flying all over the Haunt's floor, and the other deck of cards was sat down in its place. He might have said something to it, but Robert couldn't hear what it was for his own grunting.

The Colonel was the very model of cool, keeping his hand atop the deck as he waited for Robert to be put into position. Once he was, the two other men stepped back a bit, so that the knives were no longer at their prisoner's throat. They were still close enough to his neck to keep him from trying something rash, though...

"This is a very old game we're going to play, here," the Colonel said, patting the deck of cards as one might pat the head of a favorite pet.

"Master and Servant?" Robert quipped.

"I think you've already played that, Oracle."

"Not so much anymore. It's a bit hard to do that when you're dead-"

"I meant in the more philosophical sense," the Colonel interrupted, still quite cool: "You chose to look at the world as a book that has already been written, and sought only to see a few pages ahead, or perhaps an entire chapter."

"So?"

"So you chose poorly," the man answered: "And now it will cost you."

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate Gamblers?" Robert sighed, guessing what faction his interrogator belonged to.

"So you know nothing of we Gamblers, I take it?" the Colonel replied: "If you did, you would agree with us.

"That'll be the day..."

"We believe in Chance, not Fate. We believe that the future is shaped, not predestined. Otherwise... what's the point of playing?"

"You know, I've heard all that bullshit before," Robert smirked: "If that's what turns your crank, then play away, but you're the ones who made the poor choice. Fate is-"

"Your views are unimportant, much like your incorrect viewpoint," the Colonel said, allowing a very ugly smile to break his face, making it look even more hideous than before.

"So why...?"

"Because your information is important. And since you will not willingly give it, we are going to take it."

"Well, get on with it, then..." Robert sighed: "I figure you can get a few good swings in before I go down for the-"

"Do you know what this is?" the ugly man interrupted, indicating the deck of cards. Robert didn't bother answering that, no, he didn't; One thing he'd learned from lots of television was that you let the bad guy talk to himself.

"It is a True Deck of Cards," the Colonel answered after receiving no answer but an angry look: "It's a very simple thing. Whomever wins a hand may ask one question, and whomever loses that hand must answer the question - fully and truly."

"What if I don't want to answer?" Robert asked.

"There is no want involved. The cards will enforce your honesty. That is why it is called the True Deck."

"So what if I don't want to play?" Robert asked, and - at a flash - the knives were right back at his throat.

"Then my men slit your throat from ear to ear, you go into a Harrowing, and you don't come back from it."

"But when we're done playing, you slit my throat anyway, right?"

"Yes," the Colonel replied, not missing a beat.

"So what's my fucking motivation?"

"A matter of curiosity, which I know you have in spades," the man said, not grinning at the pun {provided he was aware of his making one}: "If we end you now, you will cease to exist without ever knowing the reasons why we are doing this, and your last few moments of consciousness will be all the more frantic and painful for your ignorance.

"But this way... through this game... you may be able to ask a question or two."

"If I beat you."

"It has been known to happen. Gambling itself largely loses its meaning if one never loses, wouldn't you say?"

Robert nodded, slowly, and the knives were taken away from his neck: "So I get to learn why I'm dying again."

"If you beat me."

"I'm not very good at cards."

"But you can play...?" the Colonel asked, drumming his fingers on the deck. It made a very full noise as he did, as though the cards were made from something other than old, coated paper.

"If I have to," Robert said, looking at the deck.

"Splendid," the man said, picking up the deck with very practiced hands and giving it a shuffle. As he did so, an ugly grin burst from his face like a wound, and Robert looked away, disgusted at what he saw.

But when he looked to the floor, he espied a single card. It had fallen face-up while those immediately around it had gone face-down, and seemed to be shining in the low light of the Haunt.

The Sight opened a small crack for Robert, then. It closed as quickly as it opened, and what it had to tell him was just as fleeting. But by the time he chose to look back at his interrogator - still smiling that ugly smile - he understood the full measure of what he'd seen: something very important was going to happen here.

And while most Oracles would roll their eyes at a half-assed prophecy gleaned from but a single card, it gave Robert a glimmer of hope.