Chapter Text
"19," the casino dealer announces as he flips over a card, revealing a king of clubs. He adds it to the already showing nine of hearts in front of Kim.
Kim mindlessly draws circles with her wrist, watching ice cubes collide and clink against the crystal tumbler, amber whiskey catching the casino's neon lights as it swirls. She bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to leave teeth marks, furrowing her brow in a practiced performance of contemplation.
In truth, Kim doesn't need a second glance at the cards spread before her. The outcome is already mapped in her mind like a familiar constellation. Years of honing her skills have etched every possible combination into her memory. Game after game. Casino after casino. From the gaudy excess of Vegas to the weathered grandeur of Atlantic City, there isn't a blackjack table she hasn't conquered.
It isn't card counting—that would be too amateur, too easily detected. Kim's abilities run deeper, more primal. ESP comes closest to describing it—a phantom sixth sense that allows her to read not just the people around her, but to glimpse threads of possibility unwinding into the immediate future. The ability isn't infallible; nothing in life is, as Kim has painfully learned through years of surrendered hopes. But through countless hours of practice that left her temples throbbing and vision blurred, she's refined it into something she can summon at will, a weapon to be sheathed or drawn as needed.
Kim releases an elongated sigh that carries the weight of secrets in its sound. She runs her hands through her slicked back, short, choppy locks, fingers careful to navigate around the bulky silver rings that adorn them like armor. Her eyes, dark and guarded, meet the dealer's gaze, and with a deliberate hesitation meant to project uncertainty, she taps her fingers on top of her cards.
The dealer's eyebrows lift slightly, surprise rippling across his otherwise impassive face. "You sure?"
Kim nods and takes a long, measured sip of her whiskey, letting the liquid burn a familiar path down her throat. "As I'll ever be."
With those words hanging in the air, the dealer flips over another card, revealing the two of spades. "Blackjack."
A small but noticeable smirk crawls across Kim's lips as she gives the signal to hold. The victory is already inscribed in her bones; she doesn't need to see the dealer's hand to know the outcome.
The dealer proceeds to flip over his second card, five of hearts. "Five of hearts. Dealer has 17."
As the dealer counts out a neat stack of $100 chips with practiced precision, Kim takes a moment to readjust the sleeves of her black leather motorcycle jacket, feeling the worn material slide against her skin like a second self. She plucks a single chip from the vast pyramid before her and begins to dance it between her fingers. Back and forth and back again, the motion hypnotic and soothing against the cacophony of the casino floor.
One more hand. Just one more before the shift change.
Kim closes her eyes for a brief moment and downs the rest of her whiskey with one, hard swig. The liquor scorches its way down the back of her throat, temporarily drowning the symphony of emotions bubbling just beneath her carefully constructed facade.
Just one more hand before she'll come face to face with—
CLAP.
Kim's eyes snap open at the all too familiar sound of the dealer clearing his hands. The sudden realization crashes over her—there isn't one more hand after all. Her calculations, for once, have failed her.
A wave of panic surges through Kim's system, her pulse quickening as her hand subconsciously reaches upwards and grasps something buried beneath the collar of her grey v-neck shirt, fingers clutching it like a talisman.
"Miss, it's been a pleasure, and I hope your luck continues with my colleague," the dealer says with a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Thanks," Kim manages to reply, her voice steady despite the internal hurricane as she mentally pushes her panic back down, replacing it with her cold, almost emotionless mask—the one she's perfected over years of necessary isolation.
"Drinks?"
Kim whips around in her seat, back momentarily facing the table, just in time to catch a waitress as she glides past, tray balanced expertly on one palm. "Bulleit on the rocks."
"Sure thing, Honey," the waitress responds, scribbling Kim's order on a small pad with a practiced flick of her wrist.
Kim drops a $25 chip onto the waitress' tray and then, as an afterthought, "Actually, make it a double."
"You've got it." The waitress scurries off, back into the sea of gamblers, their faces all blurring together in Kim's vision. Kim watches as the woman pockets the chip with a subtle movement born of long practice.
Kim knows she shouldn't be throwing her money around like this. Especially given that she's operating on borrowed time, each second ticking down to an inevitable confrontation. But old habits die hard, and she's learned through bitter experience that if she doesn't tip well, she'll most likely end up getting served watered-down whiskey instead. And she can't afford a hangover. Not with what lies ahead. Not with what she needs to do.
"Straight up whiskey on the rocks. My kind of woman," an all too familiar voice calls out from behind Kim with a slight tone of friendliness that signifies one thing and one thing only—that voice is blissfully unaware of what's to come.
Kim takes a deep breath, runs her hands again through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame the unruly strands, and then with all the confidence she can muster, turns back around.
And suddenly, time stands still.
There, on the other side of the table, is the most beautiful woman that Kim has ever laid eyes on. A woman whose face has haunted her dreams for the better part of the last eight years. The one person who should've been Kim's forever, if only that pesky little thing called destiny hadn't intervened with cruel precision.
To say that time has been kind to Trini is a vast understatement. No, it's been beyond kind. It has sculpted her into someone even more breathtaking than the ghost in Kim's memories.
Trini's signature ombre locks have been replaced with a sleek, sophisticated bob that cuts sharply at her jawline, the edges precise as a blade. It angles down around her face, somehow accentuating her classical features even more than before. But this isn't the only noticeable change. She's somehow softer looking, more feminine even, with seemingly flawless makeup that highlights rather than masks and medium-sized silver hoop earrings that catch the light with each subtle movement of her head.
A singular and jarring thought flashes across Kim's mind as her eyes finally move upwards to meet Trini's chocolate brown orbs, which still hold the same intensity that once made Kim's knees weak.
Twenty-five-year-old Trini, in some ways, is a complete and utter stranger.
The flirtatious smile instantly drops from Trini's face as the realization of who's sitting before her sets in. Her expression cycles through emotions like a roulette wheel—surprise widening her eyes, sadness darkening them, anger tightening the corners of her mouth—before settling into nothing. Just a hard, cold stare, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, a perfect mirror to the mask Kim herself has perfected.
"Hey," Kim quietly whispers, breaking the silence between them, the single word carrying the weight of eight years of unspoken regrets.
But Trini doesn't respond. She goes about setting up the cards and stacks of chips as if Kim's just another stranger looking to play a hand or two of blackjack, her movements mechanical and precise. "Place your bet."
Kim places a large stack of $100 chips down in the designated circle without even taking a moment to double-check just how much she's betting. It's an impulsive move, one she recognizes even as she makes it, but she can't seem to help herself. This moment isn't about the money. It hasn't been about money for a long time.
"That's it?" Trini scoffs with a subtle hint of sarcasm that cuts like a razor. "Not gonna go all in?"
Kim looks up, locks eyes with Trini once again, and then, unceremoniously slides the rest of her chips forward, the plastic discs scraping loudly against the felt in the sudden silence between them.
"Here you go, Sweetheart," the waitress announces as she places Kim's glass of whiskey down in front of her, the interruption jarringly mundane against the electric tension at the table.
"Thanks." Kim picks up the glass and takes a much-needed sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down her throat as Trini deals out the cards with deft, practiced movements, her fingers moving as if they've never known anything else.
Nine of clubs and seven of hearts. Not the strongest of hands, but then again, it doesn't matter. None of this matters except the woman across from her.
Kim takes a quick look at her cards and then at the queen of spades showing in front of Trini. She signals to hold, fingers steady despite the adrenaline racing through her system.
"You're fucking kidding, right?" Trini blurts out, unable to contain herself, the perfect professional mask cracking for the first time.
Kim shakes her head and continues to sip on her whiskey, watching Trini over the rim of the glass.
"Imbecíl," Trini mutters under her breath, the Spanish rolling off her tongue like venom as she flips over her hidden card, revealing the five of hearts. "Dealer has 15."
Trini draws another card and turns it over. The eight of clubs. Bust.
"23. Dealer bust."
Another moment of silence falls between them as Trini starts to count out Kim's winnings, her fingers moving with mechanical precision, as if each chip were a tiny barrier she could erect between them. Then—
"Trini…"
Trini looks up from the stacks of chips with a flash of anger in her eyes that makes them seem almost liquid in the dim casino light. "Why the hell are you here, Kimberly?"
An icy cold chill runs down Kim's spine at the sound of her full name. It feels foreign and yet oddly familiar, like a ghost of distant, happier memories—a name spoken in laughter, in passion, in the quiet moments between.
"You're in danger."
"And?" Trini's eyebrow arches, her face a study in forced indifference that doesn't quite mask the tension in her jaw.
But Kim doesn't respond immediately. She knows deep down that she has to be careful with her words, regardless of how much her impulsive side is begging to tell Trini everything. Every last detail of the past eight years. Every last secret that's carved itself into her soul.
"You suddenly up and care that I'm in danger? Why the fuck now?" Trini can't hold back her emotions, momentarily forgetting where they are, her voice rising just enough to draw glances from nearby tables.
"Because of this." Kim reaches into her pocket, pulls out her pink power coin, and places it on the table. The coin seems to pulse with inner light, a stark reminder of everything they once were. "Something's coming for us. All of us. And trust me, it isn't good. We need to return to Angel Grove."
Trini stares at Kim in sheer disbelief for a moment or two as the words fully sink in, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Then—
"Fuck you."
"Trini…"
"No. Seriously. Fuck you, Kimberly." The words are quiet but heavy, each one landing like a physical blow.
"Trini, I'm telling the truth." Kim leans forward, her eyes never leaving Trini's, willing her to see the sincerity, the urgency behind her words.
A harsh laugh escapes Trini's lips as she narrows her eyes in pure and utter disdain. "So convincing."
"Trini, I—"
"Place your bet or leave," Trini states, once again devoid of any emotion whatsoever, her face settling back into the mask of professional indifference.
Kimberly runs her hands through her hair and takes a deep, sobering breath as she doubles her efforts to keep her emotions at bay. She then reaches out, snatches up the glass of whiskey, and throws the rest of it back with one, hard swallow. "Okay."
Trini starts to go about dealing out the cards when suddenly she's caught off guard by the sound of chips sliding across the table.
"What are you—"
"For the dealer." Kim finishes sliding her entire pile of chips towards Trini and then simply stands up, re-adjusts her jacket, and gives a slight nod goodbye. "Be careful, T."
And with that, Kim musters up all of the will power she has left within her battered heart and then makes her way through the labyrinth of tables and slot machines. The cacophony of sounds—mechanical beeps, drunken laughter, the constant clinking of coins—seems muted against the roaring in her ears.
She can't allow herself even the slightest of glances back at the woman who owns her heart… At least not today.