~The first weekend of the Fall semester at CIT~
House found the place by accident, which was never really an accident when Robert was actively looking for a place that suited his needs. With his 10 in Luck, the pub he was looking for was found, wedged between a closed tailor shop and a florist shop that seemed to be out of business for the past year given its dilapidated state. The pub's windows smoked, its sign hand painted and deliberately crooked, it was called the Black Harp. The structure was completely made of aged wood, if looks alone could make you guess what it smelled like on the inside, the Black Harp would involve a blend of cheap tobacco, sweat, and most likely piss. House's expectations were not disappointed by the putrid aroma he walked into, the bar was nearly desolate, with only a single bartender active and half a dozen clients drinking their troubles away.
The bartender was a man in his late 50's, his hair gone iron-grey and pulled back, with a face carved by decades of smoke, laughter, and bad news he never asked to hear. His eyes were sharp and tired in equal measure, the kind that remembered every drink poured and every secret spilled, even if he pretended otherwise. This bartender looked upon Robert as one would a mosquito flying towards the bright device that would zap it out of existence. Like the Velvet Knuckle it seemed like the staff of the Black Harp did not care to know about Robert's age, only what the Black Harp could do for him.
"I'm seeking to make multiple wagers, in a fun and memorable experience. Any chance you can help me with that?" House pulled out a bundle of bills equaling out to $1,000 cash and placed it before the bartender. Grasping the bills without even looking at them, the money smoothly disappeared from sight with speedy hands far more experienced than the old man's physique revealed.
"Aye then, I'll see ye have a memorable night, so I will. But hear me now, laddie, ye get the one warnin', and only the one. Start no trouble in me house, or it'll not end pleasant for ye at all." The thick irish accent of the bartender's voice was low and gravel-worn, the kind that sounds like it's been steeped in smoke, stout, and bad decisions for decades. The bartender nodded his head towards one of his customers who was hunched over a mug of beer. The client rose from his stool, lifting up his seat, taking the entire bottom floor with it, opening up revealing a staircase that descended down towards a portion of the pub that House would bet that it did not appear anywhere on the original building's blueprint. The old man behind the bar watched House as he descended down the stairs of the Black Harp and into its underworld.
Reaching a black metallic cellar door down at the end of the staircase, House opened it all while entering a secret speakeasy that suddenly had laughter rolling out behind the soundproof door. Where the upper floor of the pub smelled foul, the underground gambling ring was a mix of sweet floral scent mixed with a small hint of sweat. Inside the sinful place that once had been a haven for thirsty men during the old days of Prohibition, the space of the secret speakeasy opened wider than the stairs suggested. Stone walls braced with old iron beams and draped in dark wood paneling that dulled the echo of voices and fists alike. Green felt tables dominated the center and the back ends of the room, crowded with cards, chips, and men leaning too close to one another, their murmurs punctuated by sudden cheers or curses. Along the walls, polished brass lamps cast a warm, honeyed glow over leather booths and shadowed corners where deals were whispered and debts were remembered.
Deeper in, past the gambling floor, the sharp tang of blood cut through the perfume as a recessed fighting pit drew a tighter, meaner crowd, while behind barred windows at the rear, suited men watched everything with practiced calm, pencils moving as fast as the money changed hands. Nothing here felt temporary or improvised. The place breathed routine, confidence, and the quiet certainty that anyone who crossed the wrong line would not be leaving via the same stairs they came down.
House did not rush the tables. Men who rushed either wanted to be noticed or wanted to lose quickly, and both drew attention he did not need. He took the time to walk the room, hands folded behind his back like a curious spectator rather than a gambler, letting his eyes catalog patterns instead of faces. He noted how often decks were swapped, how the dealers cut the cards, which hands lingered too long near the chips, and which watchers behind the barred windows leaned forward when certain players sat down. This was not a place that tolerated amateurs for long, and House had no intention of being mistaken for one.
Robert started small, as etiquette demanded. Blackjack first, a modest table near the edge of the room where the stakes were low enough to be ignored by the suits but high enough to matter to the men playing. His first buy-in barely raised an eyebrow. He lost the first hand deliberately, then another, just enough to establish a rhythm that suggested mediocrity. House smiled, cursed softly under his breath, and leaned back like a student indulging a vice rather than a professional at work. All the while, his mind ran numbers effortlessly, probabilities stacking and collapsing with each card that left the shoe. Luck favored him, but discipline controlled him.
When the wins came, they came unevenly. A double down that paid off when it should not have. A split that turned disastrous for the dealer. Enough to claw back his losses and then some, but never enough to suggest anything unnatural. He rotated tables every hour, never staying long enough for a dealer to feel watched or a pit boss to feel curious. Dice were next, a brief flirtation with craps where he played the pass line conservatively, letting his fortune ride just long enough to swell his stack before cashing out with a sheepish grin. He avoided poker entirely. Poker required memory and psychology, and while he excelled at both, it was also the fastest way to earn unwanted attention.
By midnight, his initial thousand had quietly become eight. By two in the morning, it had crossed fifteen. The room noticed then, but not with alarm. Winning was permitted here, after all. Losing was preferred, but winning was tolerated so long as it followed rules everyone pretended did not exist. House kept his demeanor loose, laughed when others laughed, bought drinks for a table once when the mood soured. He played the role perfectly, the charming student indulging recklessness, his luck unbelievable but not yet offensive.
House let the chips sit for a moment before moving them, a pause long enough to look like temptation rather than calculation. Then he gathered the bulk of his winnings, transferring it into a folded envelope of cash that he then placed under one arm, and followed the sound that did not belong to cards or dice. The pit lay recessed beyond a half ring of bodies, sweat thick in the air, the floor scarred and darkened by old blood ground into the stone. The champion of the pit, stood at its center like a monument, a hulking slab of a man with a broken nose that had healed wrong more than once, forearms corded and nicked with pale scars that spoke of repetition rather than bravado. This was not a fighting ring for theater, but a battle ground that House was sure would generate experience points.
House stepped forward and caught the eye of the pit boss, a hairless man that looked quite similar to a mole rat, short only of the features of an extended snout and whiskers. The pit boss wore a grimy brown suit that began moving towards House when he raised up an envelope containing his winnings, his beady eyes never leaving the sight of Robert's winnings. Once the molerat of a man was close enough House leaned in towards his ear, speaking words that the pit boss never expected.
"Your Hound of the Black Harp is in need of a better opponent. Let me in the pit, give him something to sweat over." House spoke with a tone as serious as a man making his vows to god. The pit boss looked him up and down, unimpressed.
"You've lost your mind, lad," his words were oozing out amusement and confusion in equal quantities.
"I have not," House whispered with persuasion that could convince the pit boss that Robert was an alien from outer space. "I have money and confidence, and I would like to wager both."
"He'll fold you in half." The pit boss snorted the words out, glancing back at the champion of the Black Harp as if disbelieving that the boy in front of him wanted to fight the same opponent.
"I am willing to accept that risk," House said. "At favorable odds."
The pit boss leaned closer, voice low. "No one bets on themselves against him. Not unless they are drunk and suicidal, or insane and suicidal. I recommend you sober up boyo."
"I'm not a depressed drunk, I'm a degenerate gambler with a dopamine addiction." House said. "And I am willing to stake everything I have taken tonight for an even better payout. Give the crowd a spectacle, a short one. I am certain your champion will fall 1 to 2 rounds after facing me."
The pit boss studied him for a long breath, half impressed, before the bravado of Robert Edwin House started sounding more like delusions to the pit boss. Either way the molerat of a man smiled thinly as he spoke. "You win in the first or second round, you walk rich boyo. You lose the fight, or it runs longer than two rounds, you crawl out of here penniless."
House nodded. "That is acceptable."
The pit boss went towards the ring, informing the referee of the change in events. A spectacular madness was about to take place and the referee alerted the crowd of gamblers of what was about to happen. Many went to place bets on the champion winning when they saw the young 17 year old House begin stripping off his shirt without ceremony. Folding his upper clothing and setting it aside with his shoes, revealing a smooth unblemished skin a little red from the poorly ventilated warmth of the room. Entering the pit, bare foot with his sweat pants the only thing on him. The crowd closed in, the murmurs turning sharp, expectant, the easiest money that they believed they won all night the odds on the Hound of the Black Harp being low, with the payout odds on house being 40 to 1.
The bell rang. House saw the giant of a man rush forward, signs of steroid grade aggression were clear for a medical expert when looking upon the champion's bloodshot eyes. The hound of the black harp moved faster than his bulk should have made possible, connecting callus thick knuckles against House's young face. A brief, disorienting instant, Robert House was not entirely Robert House. The punch had landed like a sledgehammer, all brute mass and practiced cruelty, turning Robert's head hard enough that light flared behind his eyes. Pain bloomed sharp and undeniable, not the abstract acknowledgment he usually filed away, but real, intimate pain. His feet skidded on the stone. His shoulder clipped the pit wall. The crowd roared thinking the fight was already over.
Roberts' health, which was at 999 points, dropped down to 964, as the single strike shaved a nice portion of health away. It was then that something old, something buried deep beneath layers of calculation and restraint, woke up. John surfaced briefly. Not as a voice, not as words, but as sensation. The memory of sleep deprived trembling hands and late nights hunched over a screen, the rush of a perfectly timed kill. The electric thrill of seeing the low odds of VAT's, yet succeeding the low percentage of success that resulted in defeating an enemy. That was what Robert felt as he saw the giant pit fighter prepare another fist to rattle House's brain. The brute again, swinging wide, confident, certain that mass alone would decide this, but house did not let him score another hit.
House slipped inside the arc and drove his fist into the man's ribs. The impact shuddered up Robert's arm, solid and satisfying, and hearing the large Irish man's grunt of pain flooded joy into House. Something sudden and wild. Not rage, nor superiority, but simple joy. Pure, visceral joy of violence, meeting force with force and winning the exchange. House heard laughter between each of his strikes, it took a moment for him to realize it was his own, the sound of it so foreign it startled even him.
The champion grunted, just as surprised as he was, each blow House dealt him hurt the Hound of the Black Harp worse than any bee stinger. There would be more painful surprises in store for the pit fighter as House moved like he had been waiting his entire life for this brutal scene. He struck low, then high, then low again, feet light, balance perfect. Each hit was feedback, confirmation, pleasure as the youth of 17 years humbled a pit fighter twice his age. Finally the pit fighter clipped House again across the cheek, taking 14 points of health with it. House felt the pain and welcomed it, a reminder that this was real, that he was here, that for once the world was not a puzzle of plots and careful steps but a contest of might, and House was in the right of it.
The giant slowed. His breathing turned ugly and wet, crimson trickled out of him just as much as sweat laced with primal emotion. House could smell the thick fear rolling off the champion and capitalized on it with glee. A final feint drew the giant's guard up. House swept the legs and drove a knee down as the man fell, the stone shuddering beneath the impact. Within the first round the pit fight came to an end, even a ceremonial count was done by the referee. The champion did not rise. Silence fell in a room that had not known it in decades.
House straightened, barely winded, chest rising slow and even. Somewhere at the edge of his perception, cold and familiar system text chimed in with musical notes.
500 EXPERIENCE POINTS AWARDED.
Exiting the ring, House found the pit boss staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, mouth slightly open, the brown coat hanging forgotten from one hand. The envelope Robert's earlier winnings still clutched in the pit boss's hands. With this outcome of the fight, House would be leaving with multiple envelopes if that was his intention. House put his shirt back on as the champion was carted out of the ring, he soon found the pit boss with two goons by his side.
"This way," the pit boss said at last, his voice tight, but respectful. Two large men stepped in close, not touching, but close enough to make the intention clear. This was not about the fight anymore. This was about money, and what kind of man could walk into the Black Harp's underworld and take it, the summon was far larger than his reno winnings, for his 15 grand would become an impressive $600,000.
The joy of combat had left Robert just as quickly as it came, the last vestiges of John returning to slumber under the cold calculation of a youth that overwrote the will of a man that had long passed away. As House stepped beyond the barred windows, following the Black Harp's pit boss who navigated deeper into the twisting corridors of the Black Harp's underground tunnels. Each step was measured, purposefully especially when new paths appeared, the molerat of a man directed House with experience, clearly he knew his tunnels. House walked between the brown coat and the two large thugs that flanked him like shadows, silent and unmoving, each man a wall of muscle and menace. The casino floor chaos faded behind them, the shouts, the cheers, the clatter of chips and cheers, until only steps on concrete and brick could be heard, with the scent of damp, dust and smoke lingered.
At the end of a narrow brick tunnel stood a door with a lit brass lamp near it. Inside was a low ceiling room dressed in dark wood and old money where a scarred oak desk faced two hard chairs, the air heavy with cigar smoke and the faint copper tang of violence. A framed photograph of Dublin hung crooked behind a short man who was flanked by a wall safe and a single shaded lamp that left most of the room in shadow. The room of the irish mobster was the kind of place where decisions were made quietly and mistakes never walked back out. The mobster boss in question was a stocky, compact man, with a face that looked permanently scowled, every feature sharpened by suspicion and years of command, and eyes like dark embers ready to flare. House could tell this was the man in charge of the Black Harp, whose height was as short as his temper and some seemed to have already set it off as the man was in a dark mood. The pit boss stopped, placing himself a few feet next to House, as if the tension radiating from the short mobster might explode if not carefully managed.
"Mr. Donovan," the pit boss said, voice low, "this is the lad, the one that won big tonight. Beat the champ. We owe him a payout. A heavy one."
Donovan's eyes snapped to House, the intensity of his stare drilling straight into him. The crowd of muscle surrounding House seemed to vanish, leaving only that stare, full of suspicion, anticipation, and lethal promise. House didn't flinch. He inclined his head slightly, a small, polite acknowledgment of the man's presence. House waited until he was allowed to speak, a deep grunt of approval came from Donovan, enabling House to speak with care.
"Mr. Donovan," House began, voice calm and smooth, the tone of someone in control, with enough acting to fill a role. "Your establishment…is… impressive."
Donovan's scowl deepened, his voice cut sharp, short, angry. "Aye, impressive, is it now? Ye've only gone and laid out me champion, then strolled off with more cash than this place sees in three months. D'ye have any notion who I am, boyo? D'ye know whose house ye wandered into, an' now mean to walk out of it with half a million clinkin' in yer pockets?"
"Connor Aodhán Donnchadh Ó Donabháin. Or better known around this part of the Commonwealth as Mr. Connor Donovan." House kept himself cold, yet respectful, as he needed the mobster's help more than his winnings. Slowly House unleashed his charm, working like an invisible hand, all while lifting his hands up slowly, open, showing no aggression. "I may not know you personally Mr. Donovan, but I have heard enough to know that you are above all the rumors, all the whispered comments, that you are a business man. A respected business man and one who likes money coming in more than it goes out unless it comes with advantages. And that's why I'm here to make sure you gain more than you lose."
"Go on then," Mr. Donovan spoke the words rolling slow and thick, g'wan softened by a warning edge, as if he were daring House to dig a deeper grave. Yet, Robert could see that Donovan's scowl didn't soften, but the edge of curiosity crept into his gaze. House took a measured step forward, relaxing his stance, letting his words drip with sincerity and calculated ease.
"You run your house well, sir. Probably the best on the east coast. But not the best gambling house in all of America. Las Vegas, my home, is the mecca of gambling, and everyone knows the House always wins in Vegas. I have seen what they do and how that might come to help you. Your tables, your underground fighting ring, even the slot machines. The players love the thrill. But let me be honest: I noticed a few things tonight. The card decks swap out far less than they should, the decks are lighter, and easier to count cards. Your fighter, the Hound of the Black Harp, is talented, but more importantly he's victorious too often, costing more payouts than you would prefer. It's not a criticism, far from it, it's simply an opportunity."
"Opportunity, is it now? And what exactly d'you think you're suggestin', lad?" Connor's brows are knitted. House let his gaze sweep the room, discreetly noting the framed photographs on Mr. Donovan's oak desk, some of past champions and of his homeland before speaking.
"I can help you protect the house, not just from men counting cards or cheating, but from fights that cost you more than they bring in. I can offer to be… a special fighter, an equalizer." he said, letting the words hang just enough to pique interest. "Someone who can even the odds, make sure fan favorites don't bankrupt you while keeping the crowd entertained. Your audience doesn't have to suffer; your books don't have to bleed. More importantly your fighters can try their best, only one holding back will be me. I can make the fight last one round, or go for all 9 rounds, whichever one you think the audience would enjoy."
"And why in God's name would I be trustin' a wee pup like ye to see it through, eh?" Donovan leaned back slightly, his tone was harsh, but his early hints of intrigue now showed up visibly enough his goons in the back noticed, their postures relaxing. The entire environment of the underground office turned from tense to a modicum degree of a sale's pitch. House smiled, something genuine, small and confident, yet never smug.
"Because like you Mr. Donovan, I am a business man. I like money, I like hoarding it, but more importantly I like spending it. Even if my savings become less, I'm hoping to acquire some sort of benefit from spending my fortune. More importantly, I'm willing to work for the horde of wealth. A tit for tat, a reasonable approach. You pay me, I make sure you remain whole against any future bad luck that pops up in your gambling house." The beady eyes of the molerat looking pit boss were completely dumbstruck as he stared at the owner of the Black Harp who looked calm, something the mobster goon never thought possible after such a horrific night of loss. For Mr. Donovan was considering the sweet honeyed words of House, pondering it all while focused on House, never breaking eye contact.
"Aye, I suppose it's me partin' with yer winnings that get ye to work for me. All six hundred thousand of it, a bleedin' fortune fit to gut a gamblin' house and leave it beggared." House could see the trap, he saw it the moment the pit boss and the goons walked him through the underground tunnel system. Robert knew that Connor Donovan would never give him the full amount of his winnings, not even half of it, and as much as that irked House being cheated of his full payout, his plan as well as his life depended on something far more reasonable for a greedy mobster such as Mr. Donovan.
"Only $50,000 of my winnings. I need that, to come out clean, documented, taxable, but more importantly able to be spent without people wondering if I robbed a bank to get it. I need that money given to me as if I have been legally hired for a job, an advisory role or something that could explain how a 17 year old got ahold of that much money in such a short amount of time. The rest of my winnings are to be put towards legalizing your magnificent gambling House." Mr. Donovan for the first time since House met the mob boss had an expression completely flabbergasted by the direction which the conversation was going towards. Requiring House to repeat what he had just said.
"That is correct Mr. Donovan, you will take my remaining $550,000 and spend it on legalizing your business. The state of Massachusetts allows for gambling, I can help you establish a legal gambling operation. All permits filed correctly. Money spent bribing the right people so no risk of cops breathing down your neck. You want to bring this underground operation above ground? I can make it happen, where you no longer need to live down here in these tunnels, using drunks to sit on the entrance to your little kingdom. Hell, if you want I can even do the paperwork to make your underground gambling floor legal, dress it up as a Prohibition themed gambling House, the tourists would love that. Even get foot traffic into this area." Connor's eyes narrowed, scanning the room as if trying to weigh House's youth against his words. The pit boss shifted uneasily, glancing at the two goons flanking House, sensing the tension but letting the exchange unfold.
"Yer tossin' around some mighty big words there boyo," Donovan said at last. "Permits, grease palms, themes, the lot of it sounds lovely on the tongue, but how in God's name are ye sayin' ye'll actually get it all done?"
"The same way I got you to listen to my pitch instead of having your goons beat me to death. I do my homework Mr. Donovan, I study real hard, and I accomplish what I need to do right away. That's the main reason I am a business major within CIT, a scholarship student to be specific. I can not afford not to do my homework. I've even started studying Business law to get ahead of my next semester classes. All I need to get you to believe me Mr. Donovan, is your time, and a game of cards. Bring your best dealer here, have them start passing out cards, and I can show you how best you can improve their job, and we can go from there." Mr. Donovan made a gesture towards one of his men, at first House thought he had overplayed his hand, expecting the goons to strike him then and there, but instead the pit boss left to most likely get a card dealer.
"So then, laddie, what's yer name, eh? Be nice to know who me new star earner is," Donovan said, jerking a thumb toward one of the two chairs sitting opposite his oak desk. As House gave his full name, the Irishman pushed himself up with a grunt and walked towards a cupboard hidden in the corner of the underground room. Mr. Donovan poured out two generous measures of whiskey, and set one down within House's reach.
"Well now, Robert," Donovan went on, voice low and edged with iron, "ye've got grit, I'll give ye that, but not so much that I'd like to see it spillin' across me floor. Can't say I'm shocked ye're a scholarship lad, boyo, though if ye've any sense, ye'll keep that little truth tucked away tighter next time. Ye've gone and stirred me hopes somethin' fierce, and if ye end up lettin' me down, well… I know just where to send these two fine friends of mine to pay yer college a visit and have a quiet word with ye about disappointment."
"I'm sure that even if I didn't tell you that I was a scholarship student, your friends here would find me no matter what. I try not to make enemies near where I sleep Mr. Donovan, and I plan to sleep in Boston peacefully for the next four years." On a bed of money and investments. House did not voice the last part, but the thrill of the gamble paying off rolled around in his mind endlessly.
The final few moments would decide that future investment, and as the molerat of a pit boss returned with a raven haired beauty wearing the outfit of Black Harp dealer, the group of mobsters learned just how good Robert Edwin House was at a game of black jacks. So much so they banned Robert from ever playing at their casino, and took his advice on risk management seriously. Things ended with a firm handshake that impressed Connor Donovan almost as much as the game blackjacks. The Irish mobster even cut House a check and told him which bank he could cash out the large amount of money from. Informing House that his legal paperwork from one of Connor's shell companies would be sent to him soon, to back up House's work as a specialist and advisor by the end of the month. More so, Donovan even offered House a ride to his job at Gadget Galaxy, the long night had ended and House's Sunday shift would start in two hours. House finished his drink, the warmth of whiskey spreading across his chests the tension fading like smoke curling toward a ceiling no one could see, he even accepted Donovan's offer of a car ride.
~Thursday, November 18th, 2037-10:00 AM~
Victor had long ago alerted House the moment Professor Malvagio Gorllewin and his cronies within the administration board mobilized, preparing everything they would need for the summons that would decide House's future within CIT. Any evidence of House's excessive wealth, they were carefully hidden away, off of the university premises the weekend before security was allowed to investigate his dorm room while House was busy with classes and clubs. The university charter that all students sign allowed the university staff to search their rooms for anything suspicious without alerting the students in question. They found nothing in Robert House's room, not even the trap that House had prepared against Mao, all such incriminating evidence was safely disarmed and stored away, including the laptop that Victor liked resting in, now forced to be a ghost within the CIT network. An occasional pair of eyes always lingered on House, he did not need Victor to let him know that he was being followed beyond the college grounds to his job at Gadget Galaxy, carefully observing him.
Reports of House's movements found their way to Gorllewin which then was hand delivered into the abyss that was the Dean of the institute. If the mastermind of the university found anything in particular, it would be a routine that was surgical and robotic in its intensity as House went to work on the weekend, only to return to his classes and club activities on the weekdays. Victor alerted House to any changes of tactics by the University higher ups whenever they made the mistake of not remaining in the secure recesses of the Dean's black zone. Whatever they thought of House was taken seriously, but not serious enough to cover their tracks better against a spying AI, but serious enough that House was curious at why the intense observations.
The summons finally arrived in a thin cream envelope, embossed with the seal of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. It requested Robert Edwin House's presence before the Board of Administrators on Thursday, November 18th, 2037, at 10:00 AM, for clarification regarding financial assets inconsistent with the terms of his scholarship and student status. Officially it would be talks over the funding for his scholarship for next semester, but House knew that the board was set for something else. The players wanted to know how House had acquired $20,000 to invest it so publicly. House's time in the Black Harp would be more than enough to explain it all away, but even so, he wore his best suit before the administrators, taking in the full effects of his perk Impeccable Presence and his maxed out charisma.
The room of the administration hearing had been designed to make students feel small. High ceilings, narrow windows, heavy oak table polished to a mirror sheen, the seal of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology mounted behind the administrators like a warning rather than an emblem. Robert Edwin House stood alone on the far side of the table, hands loosely folded behind his back, posture relaxed enough to be interpreted as confidence or insolence depending on one's disposition. A familiar feeling to that of House's first meeting with Mr. Donovan, yet here instead of determining the outcome of his life, the CIT administrators would determine his future livelihood. House had displayed his tailored neatness, nothing ostentatious, nothing cheap, a careful middle ground that suggested discipline without wealth, and brought his overpriced CIT backpack stored with documents of importance.
Five administrators sat in judgment. Four looked curious looking through Robert House's performance throughout the first semester, turning curiosity into impressed praise. Yet, one of the administrators looked predatory. Malvagio Gorllewin had not sat back like the others. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on House with the same intensity a man might reserve for a malfunctioning machine that refused to break no matter how hard it was struck. Yet the one to get to speak about the most important topic of today was one of the 4 other administrators, chairwoman by the name of Diana Clarence who cleared her throat before speaking.
"Mr. House, this hearing wishes to request something a bit more informal. We are not accusing you of wrongdoing. We are… seeking clarification."
"Of course." House smiled pleasantly.
"Twenty thousand dollars," another administrator said, an elderly grey haired man tapping a manila folder. "That is the amount you invested earlier this semester is a large sum. Enough to raise attention"
"You are a scholarship student," the chairwoman Diana continued. "An orphan. Your documented assets prior to enrollment do not account for that sum."
House tilted his head, as if considering the problem for the first time. "Would you believe me if I said I found it on the bus?"
The line landed perfectly.
There was a beat of silence, then a surprised chuckle from the administrator to the far left. Another smiled despite themself. The elderly grey haired man shook his head, but was amused. The chairwoman Daina raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained even as she tried not to be. Gorllewin did not smile.
"Lying to administrators is grounds for expulsion!" he said sharply, his tone clear that he was taking this hearing seriously.
"I wasn't lying. I was asking whether you would actually believe it." House turned toward him fully, unoffended, attentive, as though Gorllewin were the only person in the room worth listening to. Gorllewin's eyes narrowed.
"The cost of a bus ride in this city is several hundred dollars. Even if such a sum were plausibly lost, a CIT student would be morally obligated to report it, either to campus security or the police." His words broke no argument.
"Yes," House agreed easily. "That would be the correct ethical response."
"Which you did not do." Gorllewin's eyes glinted, as if he had found House trapped in a corner.
"No, I did not return it to the proper authorities," House said. "because I didn't find a bag of money on a bus."
The elderly administrator leaned forward. "Then let us be direct. Where did the $20,000 come from? Our own internal investigation on the matter drew no clear signs, the only form of income that we are certain that you are able to acquire is from your job at Gadget Galaxy. Yet, such a job should not be capable of generating the amount of money you flaunted in the Commonwealth Enterprise Consortium, only enough to afford your stay within CIT."
House exhaled softly, as if relieved they had finally reached the interesting part. What Robert said next drew a few puzzled looks. "I'm not the best student…I don't mean academically, I enjoy risk. Probability. Games of chance. I enjoy gambling. I am from the city of sunny Las Vegas."
The words rippled through the room. The chairwoman stiffened. "Gambling by a minor is illegal and—"
"I agree," House said calmly, all the while lying expertly. "Which is why I did not obtain the money through gambling."
Gorllewin seized on the opening. "Then how did you acquire the large sum?! No more games Mr. House, your scholarship is not only on the line, but also whether the commonwealth PD is to open a criminal case against you!"
consultant
"No, gambling, nor illegal activities we're involved, Professor Gorllewin." House replied, unshaken. "I simply have a second job, one that pays well for consultant work."
He let the silence stretch just long enough to force them to wait.
"A business entrepreneur by the name of Connor Donovan was interested in starting his own casino business here in Boston. I met him through a recommendation, and Mr.Donovan was interested in learning how to protect against players who could count cards."
"This Mr. Donovan paid you $20,000 to have you teach him how to prevent people from counting cards?" The chairwoman Diana spoke the words now disbelieving it as much as Professor Gorllewin.
"Incorrect Chairwoman Clarence," House spoke quickly, preventing Professor Gorllewin from accusing Robert of wasting the administrator's time. "Mr. Donovan paid me $50,000 for aid in training his employees in noticing card counters, AI use, and aid in handling the paperwork required in granting a gambling license by the state of Massachusetts. Which the state approved last month. Everything is entirely legal, I have the bank withdrawal statement to back it up, as well as a Form 1099-NEC ready for the upcoming tax season."
Both forms were handed to the administrators for review, each taking a moment to review the forms, awestruck by what they were seeing. Gorllewin on the other hand was seething, House swore the man was a moment away from tearing up the evidence before him. Instead the administrator passed the paper work back to House, undamaged.
"Are we to believe a seventeen year old orphan was involved in advising an adult businessman on casino security?" Gorllewin spoke coldly, looking to the other administrators for a sign of their agreement. The other four members were beaming with amazement, only the elderly administrator was on the fence.
"I can assure you that Connor Donovan did grant me the money in question, if you are willing, I have already called Mr. Donovan to appear before this hearing, and give testimony." House had it all planned out before. After Connor Donovan's beaming testimony, one that was thoroughly prepared for ahead of time, even professor Gorllewin was convinced by the magnitude of evidence of no wrong doing on how the funds were acquired. Instead Gorllewin leaned back, his expression dark, but calm as he redirected the conversation onto another matter.
"How did you bypass the IRS alert thresholds embedded in federal banking terminals? Any account exceeding one thousand dollars triggers a notice." House blinked, an expression of innocence clear for them all to see, as the administrators exchanged glances, the first time hearing of this matter by Professor Gorllewin.
"I didn't. It wasn't my account that was used within the CIT banking system. I'm still underage, they won't allow me to directly trade on the stock market for at least another year." House continued. "The deposit was made into Theodore Maxwell's account by Theodore Maxwell. He is a third year student and a close friend. He handled the transaction. It was even seen by Professor Leonard Kline, with me literally putting the cash into Theodore's hands."
"Then why were no flags raised when your friend Theodore deposited your large sum of money. More importantly, the funds were approved for investment that very same day without an audit being called for. That would be impossible without direct government involvement." Gorllewin's dire tone did not match his calm expression. The man was clearly trying to accuse House of something, his high perception recognised as fear…towards House.
"I have no idea… that seems like a very important problem that the CIT's banking system should take seriously. If you're looking for help on software or possible faulty hardware I am more than willing to give it a look." House attempted to unleash the full might of his 10 charisma on Professor Gorllewin, but the man spoke no further, instead Chairwoman Diana spoke.
"This seems to be an internal matter that the rest of the administrators were not told of. We apologize for this strange line of questioning, the board thanks you for your offer Mr. House, but the matter of our security system will be managed by CIT personal and not our students. If there are no other questions to be raised we can-" House interrupted the chairwoman could finish, raising his hand alerting her to an important matter.
"Appologize for interrupting Chairwoman Clarence, I was wondering about my scholarship funding for the next semester. As I am sure you all have access to, my grades are at the top of class. I am hoping for continued funding for my education." House had plenty between his reno winnings, his job at Gadget Galaxy, and his victory from the Black harp, but his legal clean money was only enough to pay for his room, board, school supplies, and text books. The big books of Science will be getting more expensive next semester.
"Oh, yes, we should take note of that." Chairwoman Diana was flustered with the constant interruptions, but House's sweet words prevented any outright outbursts from the woman. Instead she and her fellow administrators spoke among themselves, Gorllewin stared with eyes that could peer into House's soul, but was eventually exhausted by his fellow administrators, giving up with a groan. Chairwoman Diana spoke her good news to house. "In lieu of this summons, your academic performance, especially with your handling of the impossible work load, merits continued scholarship funding. We administrators of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, would be negligent in our duty to not offer a rising, impressive star such as yourself from pursuing your higher education within our walls. Your next semester within the halls of CIT are secured, no matter what technical issues appear. Do you concur Professor Gorllewin?"
The administrator solely in charge of the scholarship program grew more annoyed by the declaration. Whatever he had attempted to do with this hearing failed spectacularly, House had an idea, but it was something to worry about later. Professor Gorllewin voiced his assent regarding the scholarship funds, Chairwoman Diana spoke again. "Then this hearing concludes, you are dismissed Mr. House."
House turned and walked out without haste, the door closing softly behind him. Leaving the hearing, House found Mr. Donovan thanked him for his testimony. The Irish mobster left, yet hinted at a pit fight that Robert would have to come and participate in. A favor for a favor I suppose, the experience points were more than enough of a reward. But Robert House would not sell his services cheaply, Mr. Donovan would soon learn that.
"Boss," Victor drawled through the earpiece, his tone low and steady like boots on dry dirt, "looks like we just found ourselves a loose board in the fence. There was a sixth hand sittin' in on your hearin'. Dean himself. He recorded the whole damn thing. I've already got my spurs in the recorder and the line it was whisperin' to. I'll keep ridin' the trail and holler if I turn up anything else worth shootin'."
Victor, being the most advance AI the world would never know about, operated like a virus, the smallest contact with any electronic device was more than enough for the AI to get a proper foothold within any network. The main issue was getting in without alerting anyone, Victor could work his way through and around the defenses placed for threats that companies like ADI could imagine. Yet, Robert House had more imagination in his pinky toe than the entire R&D department of ADI. The Dean, a worthy foe, had blundered, House would not interrupt the unknown entity that had stuck his head out to observe him. No, House would do the same, to figure out what exactly he was dealing with, and if need be, chop off the head of a threat not only to himself, but to the entirety of the future commonwealth… and also steal as much data and information as he could realistically get away with.