Streaks of crimson and dark maroon crossed the slate gray door. Whether it was dried blood or paint meant to dissuade the casual drinker, the boy couldn't tell. He stood in the dark alley, staring up at the door with a mixture of fear and determination that most would find odd on a boy that young. But something in his stance said he wouldn't be turned back, that he'd come too far to be turned on his heel at this, his final destination. He swallowed, running a hand over the face that had yet to meet a shaver's razor, and puffed out his chest.

He pulled the door open and was hit with a wave, a smell that was a mixture of urine and cigar smoke and decay. The lights were low and the smoke heavy so he never saw the face of the man he ran into. A pair of bony hands closed around his shirt, lifting him off his feet and carting him back like a stray dog that had dared poke his head into the people's dining room.

When the hands released him, he stumbled. His thin legs caught each other up and he fell onto his ass, forcing himself to his feet as quickly as possible lest anyone see a sign of weakness. Laughter roared from the quickly-closing door, everyone in the bar entertained by his immediate disposal. Humiliation caused him to hesitate, staring at the again-shut door and balling his hands into tight fists.

Huffing, he took a step towards the bar door for another go.

"You won't wanna be doing that."

The boy stopped in his tracks, turning and taking three steps back until he located the speaker's location. He kept his teeth gritted and tried for a strong voice when he demanded, "Who are you?" Instead, his too-wide eyes gave away his fear and his voice sounded more like a croak.

The man was leaning against the brick wall, lighting a stogie with a book of matches. He tossed them aside and said, "Kid like you'd get chewed up, spit out in a place like that. They'd skin ya just for fun... or if someone puked on the carpet the night b'fore. You best go running home to your momma."

"Man's in there," the kid said. "Man's got money that belongs to me and my ma."

"Used-ta belong to you folk. Now it belongs to that man. Anyone got the strength to take your money deserves it. Don'cha think?"

"Ain't right, mister."

"Ain't a right universe, kid," the shadowy cigar man said. "What you reckon? You go runnin' in there and put your ugly mug in the face of the man what wronged you? What do you 'spect'll happen? He'll lookit you and say, 'Gosh, ya got me fair'n square. Here's your money back and it'll never happen again.' Now, you ain't light. I'll give ya that. What, you work a farm?"

The kid sniffled and puffed himself up. "Since pa died a few years back. Ma can't do the work herself. Maddie ain't more than a whelp..."

The shadow man nodded. "So you're the man of the house."

"I am," the kid said.

"You ain't never ventured outta your family's land."

The kid took a defiant step forward. "I made it clear to Bornland, din't I?"

"Bornland," the stranger scoffed. "I crossed the street before, too. Ain't nothing to brag about. Callin' your kid sis a whelp when you ain't too long out of trainers yourself. Listen, kid, you walk into that bar and your family's gonna have a helluva lot worse to mourn than the loss of a few damn credits. They'll have to get together enough scratch for a funeral."

"They'll respect me if I have the guts to go in myself."

"Yeah. And then they'll display them guts on the wall." He blew out a lungful of smoke and shook his head. "Kid, you don't know nothing. You better head on back to your farm and work double-time to make up what you lost."

"The crop's dry. The field's dead. Ain't nothing workable."

"Then the money?"

"Gonna grab a shuttle. Get to Per-see-phone and look for a job."

Enough light was on the stranger's face that the boy saw him raise an eyebrow. "Really? You're going to Persephone," he said, pronouncing the name correctly. "Kind of rugged, but there's them that like that sort of thing."

"Rugged...?"

The man nodded. "Well, hell, boy... only work someone like you's gonna find in Persephone is as a whore. Gotta tell you, though, the sort of man who'd pay for you would want some damned distasteful things for their money. You prepared for that?"

"Ain't gonna be no man's whore," the kid said, his voice shaking.

The man flicked his cigar into the gutter and reached into his pocket. "You're tough. Said that before. But how tough are ya?" He withdrew two cigars, extending one to the boy. The kid took it with trembling fingers and placed it between his lips. The man sighed. "You got a lot to learn, whelp. But muscles like you got, definitely got a head start on any of the other men-for-hire 'round this ass-backwards dumpwater. Whaddaya say? Wanna join my crew? Earn enough scratch to live like a king, send your ma-and-dem back more than they usually see in a year."

The boy looked at the man, eyes cutting down to the man's belt.

"Oh, fer the... I ain't one-a them, ya idjit. Get that through your head right now. I ain't asking ya to grip nothing but a couple of pistols until I trust you with my very favorites. I'll train ya. By the time you leave me, boy howdy, there'll be people standing outside of your bar telling little brats to stay away. You'll be feared. Kinda man they write songs about."

"You'll teach me?"

"I'll show you what I know. Ain't go no kid... Kinda like my legacy to go on. Now, c'mon, I ain't got all day."

The kid nodded. "Okay."

The man pushed off the wall. "Well, all right then, well all right. Just tell me, what name will you be makin' history behind?"

"Jayne Cobb," the boy said.

The man sneered and clapped Jayne on the back. "Jayne Cobb. It'll need to be changed. Jayne is a woman's name."

"Jayne is *my* name," the boy snapped. "Cobb is my Daddy's."

The man laughed and chomped down on his new cigar. "Gimme a year, boy. And people will actually start believin' ya when you spout go se like that."