"I am who I am and I have the need to be."

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Business.

Introduction: Legend

[Montana, Earthrealm - 2053]

...

He sat by the desk as his relentless eyes kept on staring at the clock ticking away its ancient tune. Time was the most capricious of substances, stretching itself inside one's mind as if refusing to venture into the glimmering windows of the future. The kid tapped his fingers on the wooden surface of the old, battered desk, all crates and boxes carefully displayed in the room, the inventory already checked and nearly learnt by heart by his struggling impulses.

He was barely fourteen yet he knew they only considered him a mere pet, a disposable pawn – someone they wouldn't miss in case things were to go south. Yet he knew better; the candor showing inside the elders' eyes was subtly speaking about a potential that could certainly be unleashed, in time. He was a diamond in the rough, he knew, his pride causing him to cock his head slightly to his right, a reassuring grin curling up his upper lip.

Placing his hat on top of one of the crates, the young Jesse McCree wandered the room with the impatience of someone who knows that is entirely alone, probably about to face the most challenging moment of his incipient life: he had been assigned for a task no other member of the infamous Deadlock gang was willing to accept. They had closed a deal, the transaction supposed the usual exchange of weaponry for money – weapons they'd deliver, and money they would gladly collect in return for their deadly services.

Yet no one wanted to be there to welcome the legend they were selling to this time. The man had a bad reputation, they all said. Some rather menacing lines had even been tossed around, the same lines they kept repeating over and over, trying to scare him off. Yet the boy took a deep breath and raised his hand – he would go, meet the stranger. Even for such dangerous criminals as the members of the Deadlock gang it seemed someone was scary enough to make them all run for cover. Not him, though.

Maybe it was because he was young and reckless. His impulses and pulsations taking control of his thoughts. Maybe he had something to prove, something to show.

Maybe he was better than the rest.

The usual background check had been skipped this time – the man in question was a legend, there was no need to confirm that he was who he claimed to be. Yet one thing was to face him briefly, acknowledging his requests and arranging the payment, and another completely different thing was to be the one in charge of giving him the weapons he had purchased and extending one's arm to accept his money.

Many men had been there.

Only a few had returned.

The man was special, they would say, trying to justify their cowardice. Survival instinct, they would name it.

He had heard many things about this buyer: it was not the first time that he had chosen the Deadlock gang to associate his criminal needs with. Yet not many had lived to tell the story; the man had a temper. Some would even say that he was the incarnation of the devil itself, present and constant in the world generation after generation, corrupting everything and everyone standing in his way.

It would have been much easier to turn down his offer, the kid concluded bitterly as he counted the boxes one more time, but this man had always paid good money for their equipment, possibly better money than the rest of their clients could ever afford to trade. Liquidity was not a problem for this client, or so it seemed. Plus he had a reputation: not every day you get the chance to see such a legendary outlaw walking right through your door and ask for your supplies.

Despite the mouthful of words that would be propelled from their mouths every time someone would bring up his name all that could be said about him were mere empty statements, no real information was known about this man, where he was from, where did he live, nothing. Many years ago, when the man had first approached their organization they decided to investigate him, to see if he was trustworthy: with nothing but a name they begin a fruitless search that ultimately left them with more doubts than answers.

Erron Black.

There had been an Erron Black once, they figured as they did their homework, tracking down records and even performing a genealogical research during their futile attempts to learn more from this strange new buyer. Some old soldier who had fought for the confederacy during the American Civil War was also named Erron Black. The name was peculiar indeed, yet it couldn't be more than a coincidence, a capricious irony embedded in the tricks and aces that time always has under its sleeve.

Maybe he was a descendant.

Maybe he was a long-lost anima that had successfully fooled the time-space continuum.

Maybe.

Jesse searched his pocket for a pack of smokes – he lit up the cigar, the puff of dense, grey smoke quickly enveloping his face, then decided to separate the items for this particular buyer and take them upstairs, to what used to be the main hall of that abandoned restaurant. Surely he didn't like the idea of facing this so-called legend in a secluded basement with little room for the boy to maneuver in case he needed to – the hall was an open space, there were still plenty of tables and chairs that he could use, the boy anticipated.

He unfolded the piece of paper that was resting on the desk and took all of the items that were written on that list: 50 handgun magazines, 12 boxes of low-caliber munitions, each box containing one hundred bullets, 30 grenades – though just the empty bodies, not the entire devices – and finally, 4 boxes of gunshot shells, each one containing 24 cartridges. Once he had carefully selected all the requested items he carried each box upstairs, his arms struggling to maintain the fragile balance not to let anything fall down to the ground. He placed the items on one of the tables of the restaurant and inspected the list yet another time, trying to make sure he had grabbed everything that the buyer was willing to pay for.

"Tell your boss I'm here, son. Quick, don't have time to waste." A baritone voice surprised him, making him turn around to meet the stranger walking inside the restaurant. "Door was unlocked," he simply said, his flamboyant arms wide opened, as if excusing himself.

"They sent me." The kid replied, hiding his nervousness under a false stance of bravery. The man standing right in front of him was indeed a walking illustration, probably torn out from the pages of a history book. Yet there was something peculiar about him, this classic cowboy – as Jesse recognized immediately – seemed to had properly adapted himself to the coming and goings of time. "What's with the mask?" The fourteen-year-old asked, though involuntarily – that figure was indeed mesmerizing for his senses yet the leather mask that was covering the lower half of his face seemed rather odd according to the established cannons for western folklore.

"What's with the spurs?" The buyer retorted in a matter of seconds, his disdainful cobalt eyes inspecting the kid as if trying to deconstruct him with his irises. A half grin was molding the leather, contorting it rather mockingly. "Are those my boxes?" He demanded immediately.

The boy nodded, as he offered the man the list he had been carrying.

"I know what I ordered." Black replied, bluntly, causing the kid to put the piece of paper back in his pocket.

The legendary outlaw took a few steps back then, nearly retreating to the entrance of the restaurant. Waiting by the door he grabbed a large black bag and threw it on the table. The kid got the message quickly, he opened the bag almost instinctively: his surprised eyes encountered more money than he could have possibly imagined.

"Count 'em." The mercenary commanded, willing to close the deal as soon as possible. The kid sat back down and obeyed, carefully going through each bundle. As the boy busied himself with the money, the mercenary took each of the boxes he had ordered and shook them slightly, the sounds carried out by each slight movement inside the containers being perfectly inspected by the inventory he was running inside his head.

After a while Jesse smiled, satisfied. "This is it," the boy said, "pleasure doing business with you."

But Black wasn't as amused as the kid. The cowboy mercenary took one of the boxes of gunshot shells and placed it on the table. "This one has only 22 cartridges." He demanded, the cold stare in his eyes was shredding the boy to pieces.

"There's no way you can tell how many cartridges are in that box just by shaking the damn thing."

"Why don't you count 'em yourself?" Black suggested then, as he pushed the box forward for the kid to reach for it. He produced one of his pistols and aimed for the boy's head, visibly annoyed by his impertinence. Jesse narrowed his eyes and slowly opened the box: two empty spaces were visibly showing, there was no need to count the items, the man was right.

"I can fix this." He said, afraid yet determined to do the right thing. The boy quickly made his way to the basement and took two cartridges from another box then went back upstairs, opening his palm for the mercenary to take them.

"Pleasure doing business with you, son." Black said, placing each box inside the bag in which the money had traveled.

The kid stood still, absorbed and bewildered by the man's obvious experience, the million questions that were running wildly through his mind could be clearly seen reflected all over his face.

"What can I say?" Black began, rather self-indulgently, raising an eyebrow, "I'm older than I look."

The revelation was jaw-dropping for the young cowboy, now fully encompassed by the amazing being about to leave the restaurant. It couldn't be, it simply could not be possible.

"Two more things, kid," Black said, his hand already reaching for the doorknob. "Get yourself a good, decent poncho, cowboy – and in case you are really willing to lead this kind of life, forgive your enemies every once in a while."

"Why?" The kid asked, stupor pinning him down to the ground, making it impossible for him to move.

"It messes up their heads."

After that he was gone. The kid reached for the harmonica he'd always carry in his back pocket, the very last souvenir from his dearly missed father, and allowed his lips to kill the distance separating them from the artifact. It would take several years for the boy and the stranger to cross paths again yet the doubt would persist, it would only grow stronger with time. Yet it could not be, he knew this for a fact, it could not be; it was impossible.

Wasn't it?