wrote a little thing for my upcoming cod fics (which won't be for a long time yet but i wanted to write something with nell in it hehe) — snippet under the cut. around 1.5k words. also, forewarning—i know nothing about poker lol.
this snippet def will be more polished up when i bring the fic out. again, as i said, i wanted to write something with my bbg in it. :3
The well-worn oak table sat in the center of the common room, its scratched surface topped with playing cards, three bottles of opened stout beer, a glass of whiskey with two fat ice cubes clinking together as they drifted like icebergs amongst the amber-coloured sea, and a dirty ceramic ashtray housing a smouldering cigar. Four men sat around this table in cold metal folding chairs, each one shifting their weight about as they studied the cards in their hands.
A card was flipped, paired with the two other cards sitting face up on the table. The Ace of Spades, paired alongside the Ace of Clubs and King of Hearts.
A clock ticked by, a few seconds passing before a soft voice chuckled, the sound echoing in the dimmed room. “I raise—put a tenner on the pile for me,” a playful Scottish lilt rumbled from the man’s chest as he dug his hand into the open packet of Walker’s Sour Cream and Onion crisps and dropped two of them onto the pile in the middle, signalling his bet.
“Fine,” the man sitting directly across from the Scotsman hid a smirk behind his cards, placing more ‘chips’ onto the table in the form of Pickled Onion Monster Munch. His dark brown eyes glittered beneath the flickering fluorescent above their heads as he scratched at an itch in his jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper as a delicate hint of an East London accent rippled through the room. “But I bet you’re bluffing. You always brag when you bluff.”
“I do not,” the Scotsman proclaimed, puffing his chest out, yet the smile on his face said that he most definitely had that exact tell.
“You do, Johnny. You very much do.” A third man picked up the cigar and breathed in a fat plume of smoke, expelling it slowly out of the corner of his mouth before he brought his own bet to the table. His murmur rumbled like an engine, carrying an air of authority even though the men weren't on active duty.
“I raise. An extra fiver.” He dropped a Tyrell's Sea Salt and Vinegar crisp onto the pile.
“Christ, Cap. Got deep pockets tonight?” The Monster Munch holder grinned.
“Just in a good mood at the moment, Garrick,” the captain sniffed and shifted, the chair creaking beneath him as he studied his cards again.
“Why? You found an extra cigar in your pack?” The Scotsman joked.
“Do I need a reason to be in a good mood, MacTavish?”
The Scotsman stiffened slightly beneath the captain’s sideways glance, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze back to his hand. “No, sir,” he mumbled, his cheeks flaring red.
The captain smiled fondly, the corners of his dark blue eyes crinkling. “Settle down, Sergeant. I’m just playing around.”
A fourth card was produced by the silent dealer: the fourth man sat at the table. The light was warm against his black balaclava, narrowed brown eyes focused on the cards before him.
“Queen of Diamonds.” Garrick noted, huffing out a sigh and tossing his cards toward the center of the table. “I’m out.”
MacTavish’s bright blue eyes shimmered greedily as he tossed a few more chips down. A man on a mission, it seemed—either to win this hand, or bankrupt himself. “I raise. Another tenner.”
“That's currently seventy-five in the pot right now. Sure you can afford that?” The captain asked, studying his card for a moment more before also tossing his cards down, nodding silently to the masked dealer, who placed three McCoy’s Flame Grilled Steak ridge cut crisps onto the pile, signalling that he was still in play against the overconfident sergeant.
“Scratch that,” the dealer added, seeming to hide a grin beneath his mask, his eyes narrowing in challenge. “It’s now ninety.”
MacTavish whistled low. “Aye, Ghost. Me an’ you, is it?” He leaned over to clap a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, forcing a grin as the other man blinked blankly at him. “Last man standing?”
“Someone has to knock you down a peg,” the masked man muttered, his voice gravelly and laden with a slight Mancunian lilt.
“Don’t be afraid to go all-in, then—if you really want to make him cry, that is.”
The new voice—soft and slightly feminine, but heavy with an East London accent—had the masked man whipping his head around instantly, each muscle in his body tensed with a sudden wave of flight-or-fight, opting quickly for the latter.
He looked into the woman's amused blue eyes and her full lips curled into a teasing smirk and scowled. “Who the fuck are you?”
A smothered chuckle had Ghost’s eyes whipping back toward MacTavish, whose reddened face was stretching up toward his messy mohawk from how hard he was holding back his amusement. “She frighten you, LT?”
“No.” The word was spat out with an arctic chill.
“I’d say she did,” MacTavish mused, nodding toward the woman who was now folding her arms triumphantly across her chest. His gaze then flicked back to the lieutenant again, who was still ramrod straight. “That's a first. You’re never frightened.”
“I was not frightened. I just wasn’t expecting it,” the masked man doubled down, grumbling softly under his breath. “Bloody creeping Jesus..”
“Gentlemen,” the captain drew the focus back to him, motioning a hand toward the woman. He smiled fondly, and in turn the woman bowed her head. “This is Penelope Price, the newest member of Task Force 141.”
“Call me Nell,” the woman offered, shuffling closer to the table and properly into the light, leaning against the back of Ghost’s chair—much to his annoyance as he once more shifted and cleared his throat a little too loudly.
“Price?” Garrick questioned, looking at Nell, then at the captain. He did this a few more times before putting the pieces together, adding, “you two are related?”
“Niece by blood,” the captain confirmed.
“Daughter by choice,” Nell added with a smug hum, as if proud of that fact and was planning to use it at every opportunity she could.
“Daughter? Niece?” MacTavish asked, looking at Price for the explanation.
“She’s the daughter of my brother and my sister-in-law. I took her in when they died.”
“Oh.” MacTavish looked like he was regretting asking for the explanation, shrinking back into his seat with a weak laugh. “Aye.”
Garrick stood up from the chair, offering it to Nell. She nodded in thanks, folding one leg over the other as she leaned back against the cool metal. “So,” he said after a beat, his eyes quickly scanning over her and taking note of the main features that stood out first—her dark brown hair tied back into a messy ponytail, an athletic frame hidden beneath her black tank top and jeans.
“What's your specialty, then?”
“Tech.”
“She’ll be working mainly on comms,” the captain explained, leaning back and folding burly arms across his chest, one hand scratching loosely at the thick mutton chop on the left side of his face. “But she specialises in tech. Hacking, gadgets, what have you. Intel gathering.”
“Ah. The woman behind the curtain,” MacTavish mused, leaning forward with interest. “Sounds fun.”
Nell shrugged casually, though it seemed clear she didn’t mind the attention—maybe even thriving in it. “What can I say? I’d be too scary on the field,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, a Cheshire cat grin breaking across her face.
MacTavish raised an eyebrow, leaning into the strange emotion bubbling within him. A combination of amusement, recognition of mischief and a desire for something else. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, lass.”
A sharp cough pierced through whatever was starting to bubble between the sergeant and the new recruit. All eyes turned toward Ghost, who placed down the fifth and final card to signal the end of the round. The shiny card face showed the King of Clubs.
MacTavish placed his cards down rather proudly—the Ace of Hearts and King of Spades. “Two pair. Kings and Aces. What about you, LT?”
Ghost placed his cards down wordlessly without the same flare or flourish. King of Diamond and the Jack of Clubs. “Three of a kind.”
Garrick grinned, eating up the way the Scotsman groaned and collapsed back in his chair with defeat. “Knew you were bluffing, Johnny.”
“Ah… stop rubbing it in, bawbag,” the Scotsman complained with a bitter mutter, pulling out his wallet and rifling through the notes until he pulled out four twenty pound notes and a ten, sucking his teeth as he pushed them toward his masked lieutenant.
“There. Ninety.”
“Thank you kindly,” the lieutenant replied, accepting the money before gathering the cards up and handing them around the table toward Garrick, who had pulled up another chair to awkwardly place himself between Nell and Ghost.
“Another round then?” Garrick began to shuffle the cards and deal them out, glancing at Nell. “You in, new girl?”
Nell held up her hands with a sheepish laugh. “I’ve never played before. Never understood it.”
Garrick placed some cards in front of her anyway, his smile friendly and welcoming. “We’ll show you the ropes. You’ll be rinsing us in no time.”
“Unlikely,” Ghost cut in, glancing at his cards before starting off the bet, placing three crisps in the center of the table. He tapped the wood twice with a gloved finger, his mutter almost like a threat as he added, “watch and learn, Creeper.”
