Shark of Spades

What Has Changed

When we decided that we were really going to basically tour the underworld together, the first problem we'd come across was rooming. Naturally, I wanted everyone to be separated, but Ace wanted to stay with me and Joker wanted us all to be together (probably because if he just wanted to stay with me as we'd done before, Ace would kill him).  Normally, I was the deciding factor on arguments between the two of them (which occurred approximately every ten minutes), but this time, each was adamant that I wouldn't be allowed to stay by myself.

***

"Hey, I'm not a chick," I argued. "I'm probably better with one gun that the two of you combined, and I've got two of them. My odds are better alone."

"That may be logically true, but I don't feel safe leaving you by yourself,"  Ace declined firmly. "And since I'm related to you, I should be the one  staying with you. No telling what he might try."

"Hey," Joker  protested lightly, grinning as always. "When have I ever done something  weird like that? Besides, I kept Card safe in the time period that you were allegedly dead. What about that?"

"That may be true, but-"

"Speaking of which, why did you take so long to come back? If you really cared, then you wouldn't have left Card alone in the first place. Then you  wouldn't have to deal with me on matters like this."

They continued arguing back and forth until I held up a hand. "Fine. We'll rotate. Satisfied?"

"No," Evan said while Jack replied, "Certainly."

They glared at each other, and before another debate started, I casually pulled out my gun and clicked off the safety as though noticing it for the first time. "Good."

***

So that's why, on the way back, Ace split off from us and took a different route to a separate place while we continued on together.

"A fine night for a stroll, is it not?" Joker asked, gesturing at the air as though about to wax philosophy.

"I guess," I said, shrugging and gripping the briefcase a little tighter.

"My, oh, my, Card. In the years that we've known each other, you haven't changed a bit," he commented lightly. "At least, not on the outside. Dying your hair, the contacts...I must concede that you have changed  a little bit." He was referring to my disguise; to play the role of  Card, I'd dyed my hair white and had bought red eyes contacts. Yeah, obviously it made me stand out. I knew that; that was half the point. It  was much too bothersome to have to regrow levels of recognition in the underworld (because face it, trust doesn't exist for any of us), so I'd  decided to coin my own look. Now, the people who know of me know who I am at a glance. That gets rid of annoyingly incompetent opponents and  usually culls the herd to a few seasoned gamblers. Much more my style, if I do say. Of course, I always win. For them, it's a bit of an entertaining challenge to try their hand.

All of this meant that I had to add a plain black baseball cap to my tinted sunglasses and gloves to conceal myself from authorities. Not bullet-proof, not by a long run, but I was never tangible enough for the cops to even touch on my  scent. I was here, and then I was gone. The cops only caught whispers, if anyone dared to tell of my appearance. Not many have, especially not  since I took care of the last one.

The first rat just got a shot to  the head, and that was the end of it. But a few weeks ago, some guy let it slip. I knew that if I just let him off easy, more and more people would begin to treat me as a game. So this time, I beat him up (with my  gun - why soil my own hands) pretty good. He's alive, but probably wishing the opposite. With that many gunshots, who wouldn't?

Other than that, I've stayed away from violence, as it attracts too much attention and leaves too much unwanted evidence. The only times I shoot are when games take a bad turn and I've got no other choice, or when I hear of a Card impersonator.  Sometimes, guys run around stealing my image and claiming they're Card. That, needless to say, is very bad for reputation. I've killed a few of them in the past few years, and there haven't been any case in six months.

By now, you're probably thinking I'm evil, or terrible, or a conscience-robbed psychopath. You're wondering how strong my will to survive is. But that's just the thing. It's not. I don't have some strong will to survive, or some idea that my life is worth the sum  off all that I've killed. To me, this is all a game, and anyone who sends me to Game Over before I'm ready is just a piece that needs to be removed.