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It's a Saturday, a good Saturday for profits, for roping in marks. For padding out his collection, if it pleases him. In the middle of July, the Louisiana sun becomes overbearing - the locals won't come to the bars Daniel buys out, he makes sure of it, but the tourists will. People making stops in the middle of roadtrips, college kids dropping by for cheap drinks with fake IDs, maybe a homeless man who's just popped in for shelter. People who either won't be missed, or whose disappearance won't put him in the spotlight.
He isn't like Terence, flighty and impulsive, taking souls because it pleases him. Terence, who sits at home while Daniel makes their money, because Terence flies off the handle too much to hold a job, because he doesn't care about anything except whatever game or person holds his attention the longest. Daniel is a gentleman - he knows when to wait, when to play his cards. His collection is a matter of pride in his unrivaled skill as a gambler, not some fetishistic thing he indulges in recklessly. If he takes someone home tonight, tucked neatly inside a clay chip to sleep forever, it will be because it was a good gamble.
No one has caught his eye tonight. They rarely do, when he and Terence come back home every once in a while. Some part of him doesn't want to own chips from home. Reminds him too much of being poor and cold, not having enough food to get by even with the stamps. He's crawled through the mud and dirt too long to go back, and he reflexively despises anything that reminds him of the roaches that infested the old house. It doesn't bother him much, though. If a good gamble will come his way, it will - no sense mulling over it. He's made a good amount of money tonight off the small fry anyways, so leaving without new chips in his collection is hardly a loss. Between games with the marks and kids, he plays the regulars, or old friends, keeping himself in shape while soothing the nerves of any schmuck that's been too nervous to approach before a couple shots of whiskey and watching Daniel "lose."
Eventually, the relentless summer sun begins to slip under the horizon, bathing everything in the dingy bar purple. He's almost about to start cleaning up and counting his winnings when he walks through the door.
The man is a newcomer. Daniel knows, because he would have remembered him if he wasn't.
He doesn't quite look like he belongs amongst everyone else, and not the least because of his strange manner of dress. He's tall, huge, even, so much so that he has to bend and twist to get through the doorway. He's nearly as wide as it, too, this behemoth of a man walking with all the grace of waitresses spinning around diners. He moves like he doesn't weigh anything, even though he must be at least 250 pounds. His hair is golden and catches the light in a fantastical way, and his eyes are strikingly green, piercing, like he sees straight through everyone in the room. There are three moles dotted along his ear, perfectly aligned, like they were placed there on purpose. He doesn't register as human to Daniel, but something else. Like a statue or a painting come to life. Their eyes meet, and the man's lips curl into a smile that sends a shiver down Daniel's spine, some foreign emotion washing over him as he's sized up. It isn't fear, nor is it the anticipation of a good game. It's not attraction or awe. It's something else entirely.
For the first time, he is struck with the feeling he suspects Terence might when he finds a soul to shove in a doll. This man could be a fifteen-second game for Daniel, yet no matter what, he wants to take him home in a beautiful clay chip, tucked in-between the leather covers of his collection. It wells up inside his stomach, making him feel antsy in a way he never is.
The man walks right over to him, sitting down and folding one leg over the other without ever letting his eyes off Daniel. His elbows come to rest on the table as he puts his chin on his hands, tilting his head to the side. Up close, under the leather collar he wears, Daniel thinks he can see the top of a scar across his throat.
"You must be D'arby," the man purrs, his voice deep and rich. He has a strange, untraceable accent - he sounds like he could be a Brit, maybe, from some little town Daniel has never heard of.
Daniel smiles easily, and reaches his hand out to shake the man's, his heartbeat already winding itself down as he slips into the mindset of a game. A good game, he hopes.
"Please," he drawls, shaking his hand firmly but cordially, "Call me Daniel. Everyone 'round here does."
"Daniel," the man repeats back, tilting his head to the side again, as if to examine Daniel further. His gaze is catlike, Daniel thinks - that of a predator. He may very well be a gambler after all, or perhaps some estranged family member come to collect dues on behalf of one of Daniel's chips.
"I hear you're an excellent gambler," the man continues on, leaning ever closer, "the best, even. I've been on the hunt for a good game, you see." He traces a finger along the edge of Daniel's whiskey glass, his long nail scraping across the material unpleasantly. "Entertain me?"
Daniel can't help but break out into a smile, leaning forward on his elbows to match the man's casual air. He knows something he shouldn't, assuredly, but Daniel feels a little thrill in his stomach at the thought. The gambles have been dry and predictable tonight - for many nights, honestly - and the addict in him itches for a hit of the adrenaline from a good opponent. If the man is any good, it'll make it all the more sweeter when he's put in a chip and placed in Daniel's collection.
"Of course, of course, I'd never deny a good game," he chuckles back, leaning to grab his cards from where he had tucked them away for the night, "But what are the stakes, friend?"
"Dio," he offers, eyeing Daniel's shuffling knowingly, "And as for the stakes . . . I had a bit of a job that I think would be perfect for a man of your talents."
Daniel is just about to scoff and brush off the offer, about to tell Dio that he's more than fine enough solo before Dio leans closer, smiling wide.
"I have one too, you know," he says, whispering like Daniel doesn't have ears everywhere, "A power like yours. A Stand."
Daniel feels a little cold suddenly, his smile freezing on his face. He stops shuffling the cards, some of them fluttering onto the table.
"Though I must say, your brother has a much more intriguing taste when it comes to using such a thing."
His smile drops, which only makes Dio smile even wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's malicious, not a single bit of warmth to be found in it. Daniel does feel fear, then, swallowing thickly as he tries to shuffle the cards again, following the familiar motion in an effort to calm down. He thinks that this'll be it. He won't be coming home tonight, or if he does, it'll be to the body of his brother, his brother that he doesn't even like but still wants to shelter uselessly. He thinks that it's been a long time coming and that it's only natural. That he and Terence will finally be too slow and they'll both end up with bullet holes by the end of the night, because one of them wasn't careful enough, and someone saw, someone heard, and now they're both dead in the ground with nothing to show for it.
Dio must be able to sense it on him, that congealing despair, because he leans back and his smile becomes small. When he speaks, it's louder again.
"Tell me to leave, Daniel, and you'll never hear from me again, I promise," Dio says, putting his head in one hand, casual and suave, "But you'll think about it until the day you die. Wondering what it is I could have offered you. How I knew who you were. The money you could have made working for me."
He waits until Daniel meets his eyes again, huffing a small laugh.
"But if you do come working for me, Daniel . . . I can offer you anything. Money, of course, but more than that. Should you aid me, you will find yourself in the good graces of a man that is soon to rule the world."
Dio takes Daniel's whiskey glass (when did he fill it up? Daniel certainly didn't, and Dio's been sitting there the whole time, and the waiter didn't come by, and) and takes a sip, face wrinkling at the taste. It would be disarming if Daniel wasn't wound so tight, ready to bolt or shoot whatever it was that was in front of him, because it wasn't a man. He goes to shuffle his cards again nervously, only to find his hands empty. He blinks dazedly, sweat building on his brow before he sees the deck in Dio's hand, the Joker twirled between his fingers. The bar is full of Daniel's men, people he's bought, bribed, threatened, beat, and yet he feels alone, corned in an open space by Dio. Dio leans in close again, so close that Daniel notices his chest doesn't rise or fall, he doesn't feel any breath come from Dio's lips. So close that he can see that the scar under Dio's collar runs all the way across his neck. That the skin below doesn't match the skin above.
"It's very, very simple. I just need you to win a game."