True to her elevator pitch, Clarke's a quick enough study. She watches his hands carefully once again, fumbles with placing her fingers in the exact same spots along the cards backings as Max does, and in the end eventually manages a decent shuffle. No cards go flying across the table at least, and it's nothing fancy but those cards are heckin' shuffled and Clarke will begin slowly, purposefully dealing them out.

Two up for him, one up and one down for her. It's an almost instantaneous realization that she'd much rather be the dealer in this situation, and she's rubbing a finger across the remaining cards in her hand like she would the safety of a gun.

"I said most, not most expensive."

There's no concept of money in her world. Not really, at least. Resources are either a basic human right, or something paid for with a blood price. No in-between. Social status was earned through the luck of the draw for parents, the color of your blood and the amount of deaths weighing on your conscious. Clarke can't picture what a Lamborghini looks like, but doesn't buy his grief over that loss.

Cards dealt, and noting her own face up is a 2 of spades, her gaze finally returns to Max's face and watches for... who really knows. Micro-expressions on a metal face? A shift in his focus? Where slight of hand failed, slight of tongue could make up for with miles to spare — she's always been better at talking, and palpating peoples worst insecurities and most painful emotional wounds than she's been at playing games.