text: it was a damp, heavy day. A day who's air made your lungs doubt if they wanted another breath, the kind you get in summer evenings the day after a storm. Perhaps it was that very weather that compelled a tall, fair gentleman of about 30 to purchase a lottery ticket. Taking shelter from the light drizzle, hanging his coat on a rack, and browsing lightly through the aisles of liquor... no, it was that. The sheer unappealingness of the liquid that had nearly killed his father was what turned his gaze away to the lottery tickets. Perhaps it was luck that had made him win just two days later, but the common opinion was that it was, in fact, Luck. “and why in the hell is that proof?” said the man at his desk. “most of our targets are off the charts! this bastard only won a single lottery! It wasn’t even ours!” “yes, sir” replied the official, Jones. “but frankly, hes a white, fit man living in America, with a good job, no history of illness, and about a thousand other advantages. I’m not saying he’s a Lucky, I’m saying to investigate. Remember, Leave Nothing To Chance.” “I bloody well know how lucky he is, but I've got about 40 other cases cluttering up my desk and I'm not gonna let-” he stopped, rummaging through his papers to find something “This guy go! You really think he isn’t a Lucky? Wins powerball, commits a goddamn crime spree, and gets away with it without a single RAT DIME in fines because of a court technicality? “yes, but its not as if hes going to come into any power. He’s hated by the public, both for winning the lottery they think they deserved, and for committing murders and thefts, even if he got away. Besides, he’s low enough socially that he can’t be higher than a 7, but this guy has the potential to be a 9! a 9! the last time we let a 9 go loose we had to cover up the loss of a whole county!” The man at the desk, who was commonly called agent Hanson, did not agree in the slightest. But that was the problem with secretaries and officials. None of them felt it. None of them knew what it was like. There was more difference between knowing and Knowing as between him and a goddamn bunny! But it was no use. Get enough papers in your hands and you could contest any amount of knowledge and experience. “I'll get my coat”. The standard equipment of your average powerball agent is a 15mm pistol, some dog-ended cigarettes, a badge, and a cellphone. Like most things, these were not very useful. Most Luckies worth shooting were Lucky enough that your gun would jam, you never had time to call dispatch, and all the badge did was assure a couple of police officers you had a warrant. As for the cigarettes, well, Hanson never brought a lighter. While he was hoping that the rain would pick up and maybe strike his cigarette with lightning, or at least strike him and end his misery, he spotted a truck. Now, a truck coming down the road is not a problem for an ordinary man in ordinary times. Hanson was, unfortunately, neither. Hanson was a man closing in on the location of a persons who, knowingly or not, controlled chance, and he was on a fairly slippery road. “goddammit” he said, and threw away his cigarette. There was no crossing the road, and frankly no chance that it wouldn’t hit him. He wasn’t scared, but he felt a low dread of knowing he was in danger. It was getting too likely for him to die for Luck not to cinch the knot. Perhaps...yes perhaps all it took was to let the driver know he was there? No, too rainy, coat too dark. He wouldn’t notice anything that wasn’t drastic. Suddenly, an idea occurred. He crouched low, angled himself farther down from the truck and jumped into the road, waving his arms. Doesn’t matter how unlucky you are, no bugger will miss this. Unfortunately, broken break pedals don’t care what their drivers notice. You learn the sound of broken breaks in the academy. An agent who didn't know it would be road paste. And agent who did know probably would be too, but at least they might be able to get their dog-tag straitened before impact. Fortunately, the academy also taught aim. Probably this wasn't the best skill to teach either, but it was useful in the moment. Two shots rang out, two tires deflated, and one now very scared agent pulled up his hood and ran further down the road. “end wot the ‘ell waz oll that then!” shouted the driver. “yoo blooty well neah kilt me! Ye com back ‘ere efore I kick yore ass six ways from Sunday! And ye gon be there a long time, cos I only know bout fore kindsa hell”. He would stand there for about ten more minutes just puttering around in the rain, thinking very rude things about the man in the coat. *Dammit dammit dammit*, thought Hanson, *so he’s not just a Lucky, as I suspected. He’s a Chancer. That wasn’t just lucky for him. Had It stopped, I wouldn’t have slowed down any less than when I shot the tires, but I was in a lot more danger. Things aren’t just lucky for him, they’re unlucky for me. Just my luck.* And about a mile away, a stockily built man of thirty was feeling worried. He did not know why he was worried, as he had just won the lottery, and was not of the intellectual persuasion to view that as a subject of worry. It was an odd feeling of dread he often got near danger, and often danger came right behind it. He thought it wise to purchase a revolver, given his recent lottery winnings, and to leave it on the counter. It was the only unlucky thing in the last 5 years of his life: that he didn’t leave it loaded. Hanson, still rattled, gun left loaded, was closing in on the target, in the odd, shaking gait of one moving as steadily as he can despite fear. The rain pattered on his coat, slowly soaking coldness into his skin. The gun clacked and rocked in his holster, a technique he had learned to scare away any oh-so-lucky would-be muggers. He had a feeling of danger, quite accurate, and he was not aware he was sharing the feeling with a stocky blond man he was closing in on. Yet as he walked up the driveway to the large and lavish house, straightening his false badge and now concealing his gun, he became aware of a slight simpatico, knowing that the man inside felt as he felt. *Luckies are dangerous. They feel, they think, they don’t deserve this. But they are dangerous. Maybe we can contain him instead. But a Chancer...no, not a Chancer. It’s so bloody unfair. I mean, its almost unlucky! But we can’t let them go on like this. With a feeling of setting forth an axiom he thought, for the thousandth time: power is dangerous, no matter who has it, no matter if it is used.* Had the stocky man considered the danger of an armed agent walking up his driveway after he won the lottery sooner, he may have summarily killed him. But it was the little hesitation, the brief, mad stupidity of hoping that an obvious danger is fictitious that made him fail to load the gun. He did know to point it at the door, at least. And as the armed man approached his door- “Hello! I am your real estate agent, my name is Halbert, I look forward to our chat! I don’t mean to disturb you, you are quite a busy man I take it, but it seems you have a bit of a property issue with a certain neighbor of yours!”. Hanson hated the high, preppy voice, but he was eerily good at it, and it always lowered someone’s guard. Maybe, maybe it would bring him to the door, and then a quick movement and- he shuddered, and cut the line of thought. A gruff voice came from inside “and who the hell do you think you are?” “there is no need for obscene language, sir, I am just inquiring as to a property dis-” “yeah you can cut that shit right there” and there it was, stronger now. A feeling of intense danger. He clicked the gun. Agent Hanson thought fast. Hearing that click told him all he needed to know. He knew that he wouldn’t miss, too lucky, and he can’t shoot first. No talking him out of it, he saw through the illusion too quickly for that. He had no shield, and knowing the other man’s Luck it would go through anyway. Only one way, he thought, put his hands behind his head, curled in, and rolled down the steps, just as a shot rang through the door. He got up, pain shooting through his spine, and let out a shot. Bullets don’t work on Luckies, the gun will jam, or the bullet will ricochet, or hit some non-essential part of them. No, it was the lock he shot for. He heard a second click, and dove under the man’s car just as a rocket of dirt shot up, hit by a bullet the size of a large bee. *It’s not that you can’t leave it to chance. It was chance it didn’t hit the car, but that would be too unlucky now wouldn’t it. I may have some Unluck, but its less than his Luck. This might not be so hard* Hanson knew how little time he had before the next shot rang out, but he also knew staying under the car would just buy that man some time. He ran out, and in a leap of faith, grabbed the railing of the stairs, and pulled himself up, rolling through the doorway. He breathed a sigh of relief, now hidden in a side chamber of the house. But he could hear the man approaching. Bullets wouldn’t work, but it might hurt his luck. Worth a shot. He sprang out from behind the small wall and shot three times, and three jammed clicks came from the gun. “worth a shot”, he said, and the blond man charged. Seeing a man built like an ox charge at you with his bare hands is something Hanson did not wish to experience, but it certainly made him reflect very, very quickly. *can’t open a cupboard for a weapon, it’ll turn out to be his towel drawer. No go with a knife, it’ll be blunt with his Luck. Maybe his revolver...no, 3 shots isn’t enough of a probability stretch. Maybe I have a-* The man hit him. It wasn’t like a fist, it was like a small car hitting him square in the chest. Hanson coughed blood into the man’s face, and landed hard, cracking his head. Slowly, hand twitching, Hanson grasped his badge, feeling the sharp point with his thumb, and said into the rage-filled face: “I'm sorry, you don’t deserve this” in a smooth motion, his hand flung out, holding the small gold thing tight. The blond man’s grip slowly relaxed, and he slumped over, a long, red cut like the rind of a melon slowly widening on his neck. Hanson sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, and checked the man’s pulse. Stone dead. He never even caught his name. He pulled out his cellphone and said “dispatch? I got him.