A Syndicate is Formed (FAB Fan Fiction)
The Arthouse Syndicate offers fans of Flesh and Blood the unique experience of connecting with official artists through the sale of artist proofs. At the beginning of 2022, The Art House hosted a fan fiction writing contest to explain how their Syndicate was formed. Using the unique character cards from their website, I wrote the following story. Set in the Pits, this story mixes known elements from FAB lore, with story elements I imagined to develop the characters of the Syndicate. Enjoy!
Arthouse Syndicate proofs and sketches (Check this site out)
A Syndicate is Formed
Patrons of Blackjack’s Tavern sought more than ales and toxins. They hungered for marks, contract cards that paid simultaneously in coin and in strokes of ego. These marks unveiled a myriad of job opportunities for the criminals in The Pits including arson, kidnapping, murder, theft, extortion, racketeering, smuggling, laundering and vandalism. You’d have to be stupid to ever take a mark, and stupid-lucky to ever complete one. Such were the tavern patrons.
The Pits illustration by Grafit Studio
When constructed, Blackjack’s Tavern represented the abyssal floor of The Pits, an eroded serpentine undercity spanning hundreds of miles beneath the gleaming brass enterprise city of Metrix. Now, a few decades later, the miner’s chasm delves deeper below the tavern exposing it high on a cliff face. Held up by a patchwork of wooden scaffolds, Blackjack’s entrance is accessible only by a network of roped and rotting bridges which connect the tavern to the surrounding undercity.
At Zero Hour, a grease-stained thief limped into Blackjack’s and took a seat at the bar. His faded beard was flecked with white and his would-be brown hair was blackened with soot. He retrieved an onyx canister from his tabard and placed it on the bar. His leather gloves dotted with the deep berry stain of blood. “Greenbird,” he winced. “Where is Greenbird?”
A thin dark-haired bartender responded without eye contact. “E’s gone. Left ‘alf an ‘our ago.” She dashed a pint of ale with a bone-white powder. Green flames emanated from its foamy head.
“Tell em’ it’s Phillip,” he gloated. “I’ve got double of what the mark asked for,” he flicked a crumpled paper rectangle on the bar.
“Congrats,” the bartender smirked. She raised two mugs to the tap and revealed a network of serpent tattoos on each arm that coiled into a pair of fangs on the back of both fists. She placed a mug in front of Phillip. “Enjoy yer poison dear.”
“I’m not here for this,” he insisted, shoving the drink away. He pressed his canister and card forward.
The bartender took in the scruff of the thief and his materials. “What’s this?” She inspected the mark. “A low-level stack completes ‘is firs’ job and wants to speak to Greenbird ‘imself?” She laughed fanning her chest.
“A what?” Phillip rubbed both ears in confusion.
“A low level, a non ranker, a stacker. Ya know, Jack’s, Batters, Coppers, Cups. We got ‘undreds of contracts out there. Jus’ cause you finish one of em’, it don’ make you special.” The bartender savored the humbling of new recruits.
Phillip lost patience. If she knew what was inside that canister, she wouldn’t be so condescending.
Phillip had taken the contract out of desperation a few weeks ago. His personal finances were in ruin, but far worse, his reputation in The Pits was nonexistent. He’d heard about hired work and fame at Blackjack’s Tavern. He sifted through the postings on Blackjack’s noticeboard, looking to establish himself among the trash and vermin that littered The Pits. Unsatisfied with the noticeboard, Phillip begged the large man behind the bar for something more. Phillip stayed until the bar was nearly empty and the bald figure behind the bar introduced himself as Greenbird.
Greenbird ran Blackjack’s Tavern and all it’s criminal contracts. He conducted himself with few words. He extracted twice the amount of meaning from conversation and his ability to read body language was unparalleled. He could interrogate with a few facial expressions and outdrink all his patrons. Late that evening Greenbird told Phillip about the contract for stealing plasma from Teklo Industries. Phillip took it despite Greenbird’s warning.
Back in the Tavern, Phillip debated telling the bartender what she was really looking at. “Listen, that there’s nothing to be messed with.” He pleaded. “That’s a whole pint of tek—“
“—Quiet.” A meaty palm covered Phillips back.
Phillip knew it was him. Greenbird had been listening from the start.
“Aye Greenbird,” the bartender cooed. “Yer off for the night.”
Greenbird harrumphed and shooed the bartender away with a sausage-sized finger.
“Got eight ounces?” Greenbird reached for the canister.
“Sixteen.” Phillip corrected.
“Not bad.” Greenbird frowned.
“Pay up,” The thief felt unusually bold. When the mountain of a man gave no reaction he tried a different strategy to rouse him. “I’m ready for more work?”
“That’s more like it.” Greenbird’s smokey voice dripped a bit of confidence back into Phillip. “Ever been on an art heist?”
“What? Like stealing fancy tapestries from churches?” Phillip amused himself.
“I gotta guy.” Greenbird folded his arms. “Lost a bet during a big game of cards up in The Expanse.”
“The Expanse?” Phillip tried to follow.
“Yeah, rich prick-filled section of Metrix.” Greenbird pointed above his bald head. “Client lost a painting in a bet, and your going to recovery it.”
“Oh, am I?” Phillip tried to read Greenbird’s impossible expression “I don’t steal anything that I can’t fit under my clothes. A painting—that’s mad.”
“Shhhh.” Greenbird stood up and took the canister off the counter. He exchanged Phillips crumbled mark for a smooth one and handed him a bag of coin. “Show that mark to the team, you need to help.”
“Team? But I don’t need help?” Phillip protested.
Greenbird shrugged, “Too bad, you are the help.”
“What?” Phillip didn’t agree to any of this.
“You better hurry and catch them. Your associates left here about an hour ago on their way to The Maw. They may already be on the next lift up to Metrix by now.” Greenbird spoke like they had discussed this all before. They hadn’t.
“Who?” Phillip’s head spun.
“An ill-tempered alchemist named Dane. And another bloke who kept singing songs about the End Times in Rathe—David.” Greenbird never repeated things. “Now go.”
Phillip hobbled out of the Tavern and began the crooked ascent of suspended bridges that led towards The Maw and out of The Pits.
City of Metrix by Grafit Studios
About the Author
Evan McGrew is an active member of the FABTCGDC group and 1/2 of the creative force behind FAB TCG CARDS’ playmats. He enjoys helping grow the local community one player at a time. When he is not putting counters on his Dawnblade, Evan teaches 5th grade in Fairfax, VA.