[center][big]Daniel Bowyer[/big][/center]
[center][img=154216]Daniel2[/img][/center]
[center][big]Holder of the Ten of Spades[/big][/center]

[justify][quote]There are whispers. Half truths and tall tales. To be honest no man knows where the Cards came from. No mortal man, kennit? All that is agreed upon is one day they started to appear, and the world changed.

To hear it told, there are only fifty four true Guns in the world. Guns with a capital G. Sure you can find the odd shooting iron, crafted by some smith of supreme skill. Maybe even purchase a genuine Smythe, not the mass produced crap, but one the old man made himself. More common a slugthrower, those bastard children of inspiration that many a would be 'slinger claims is a weapon true. The real deal, blessed steel, they are the only ones worthy of being called true Guns. They are the Cards, and they are the weapons of the Gunslingers. To wield a Card is to be blessed and cursed. To carry one is to be a God on Earth, and a demon of the cruelest nature. The stories hint that those who carry the Cards don't truly wield them, but are instead used by them. There are tales of Gunslingers, who with their last breath thank their murderers for freeing them from the curse in one breath, and bemoan their damned souls in the next.

Many a man will argue on the nature of the Cards. Whether they were the work of one man or many. Some even speculate that ol' scratch himself made them. What no man will argue is their power. Fifty four Guns, thirteen of each Suit and the two Wilds. Deuce to Ace, that's how their power is reckoned. Such thinking is for the jaw waggers and the boilbacks. Any man who has seen a Gunslinger will tell you, the strength of the Gun will only get you so far, the rest is the man who the Card rides.[/quote][/justify]

[collapse=The Ten of Spades]
Daniel couldn't breathe. His heart was pounding in his chest, and there was no room for anything but panic in his lungs. His blood pumped to his head like cold, iron slugs hitting a rock. With his vision blurred, the young boy had little hope of escaping. This was it. Here in the heart of Atlanta, in a dirty alleyway was where Daniel would meet his end. The two men closed in, their pinstripe suits starched stiff and creased perfectly.

"End of the line, kid. Nothin' personal, just can't have afford to have any loose ends in our line of work," one said, his voice carrying a tone of mirth. He didn't enjoy this. He relished it. This was what that thug lived for, and his partner didn't seem to be too far off with that sickening, crooked grin. They were tall. Strong. Daniel couldn't stop his mind from dredging up the image of the place he'd just left behind. That old man on the ground, pleading for mercy. The swift and powerful blow struck by a bloody knuckleduster, and the loud crack as a boot struck the geezer's ribs. Daniel wondered if his own ribs would make that same noise. He cowered with his hat in hand, and with a whimper he turned away when he saw the first fist about to fall upon him. He recoiled in expectation. Then suddenly... nothing.

Silence. It filled the air and choked Daniel's world away from him. When he opened his eyes, he felt a hard wooden chair beneath him, and a swinging lantern hung from nothingness above. Across the table he was now seated at, there was a strange little man -- his hat covering his eyes. His vest was silken, that much was certain. A young tailor's apprentice could see that from a mile away, and the small flower in his pocket was likely made from the same material. He held in wrinkled, bandaged, worn hands an equally worn deck of cards. He was shuffling them, hindu style, as he spoke.

"Hello, young man," the mysterious stranger said, his voice scruffy and torn. It sounded like he had stones hiding in the back of his mouth, rumbling about as he spoke. "I see you're in a bit of a sticky situation. But you're in luck! If you're up to play a little game, you might just find yourself with a way out."

Daniel couldn't understand what was going on, but something about this place made him feel uneasy. Even still he nodded, silently acknowledging his situation and willingness to play along.

"Good! Good..." the man said, coughing... hacking hard as he continued to shuffle. He hadn't covered his mouth. When he finished, that wicked smile came back to his face -- yellow and brown teeth on display as he held the deck to Daniel. "Pick a card, young man."

Daniel gulped hard. This felt like a trick. Any moment now, he was expecting someone to laugh. A crowd to "ooh" and "ah" as a bit of sleight of hand was performed. Nothing of the sort happened when Daniel picked out his card. The Ten of Spades. It was nicked on the side, and frayed at the corners but the art on the front was beautifully drawn; or was it painted? It was hard to tell.

"Ah, a good choice for a man like you," the man with the cards said, his laugh once again filling the air between them. "I suppose I should wish you luck now, young man. But with that weapon, something tells me you won't need much of it."

Daniel couldn't help but wonder what he meant. Weapon? In his hand Daniel suddenly felt something heavy. Something that fit into his hand a little too well as he adjusted his grip. A gun. A large revolver. Ten shots. Automatic hammer. Carved on the wooden handle accent was a large number "10", just below it the symbol of the spade. Not just a gun. A Gun. A real Gun. Daniel wanted to speak out. Wanted to protest. But before he even realized what was happening, the man across the table was gone. His laughter echoed around Daniel as the light above flickered and died.

Daniel felt a throbbing pain on his cheek. He was on the floor, his lovely green suit dirtied by the garbage he was resting in. The alleyway. Two men. In his hand, buried underneath the garbage he was resting in, he felt it. A Gun. His body felt heavy, and his cheek bone felt like it had been shattered beneath that knuckleduster, but that wasn't what hurt. No. The pain was [u]inside[/u] his head. His brain was throbbing, and his lungs wouldn't draw breath. His arm lifted the Gun. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and Daniel pulled the trigger without even bothering to aim. The bullet was off by a mile. It struck a brick wall and bounced, hitting one of the large thugs on the hand where a ring caused it to ricochet once again. This time, it struck flesh. Up from beneath the chin of the second thug, driving into his face and causing him to drop instantly. Dead. Blood coursed onto the ground. Daniel could feel the throbbing in his head diminish. It felt good to kill that man. Suddenly, he was on his feet... aiming his Gun at the second thug. As that large man in the starchy, fashionable suit rushed forward in anger, Daniel pulled the trigger again. A bullet hole appeared directly between his eyes and he too fell with a satisfying thud.

Daniel felt his whole body shake in pleasure. He took a deep breath. Was this adrenaline? No. His heart was calm, beating slowly as he stared down at two bodies. Men he'd killed. A mild mannered tailor's apprentice had no business with that sort of thing. He couldn't understand why, but his whole body felt alive in that moment. Like he was finally seeing clear for the first time in his life, the relief from being free of that throbbing in his head so exceptionally beautiful that it stole his senses for that brief moment of clarity.

There was a crowd to bear witness as Daniel walked out of that alleyway, clutching his Gun tight. He didn't speak. Nobody asked him to. By the time the police arrived, Daniel had made his way home to clean himself off. With that beautiful high finally wearing off, Daniel felt his hands shaking in his bath. Something was wrong. There was a fear in his heart, and he couldn't give it a name. Killing those thugs. It made sense, right? It was something he'd walked in on before. The old man begging for his life, the blood on their hands. He should've done something. He should've been there to help. But instead, he ran. He ran to that alleyway, and now there were two dead thugs. But what scared him wasn't the thugs. It was the revolver he'd set upon his ruined suit. Sitting there, as if taunting him. Telling him that there was more work to do. More scum in the world to cleanse. Daniel was sure that this Gun was meant for someone more courageous. More powerful. More capable. But at the very least, he had a name for this fear in his heart. A name for the piece of steel that was more partner than tool. He spoke the name, barely a whisper on his lips.

"Justice."
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