Prologue
The simmering of cooking animal scraps created a greasy, sticky smell. It filled the air along the street and seeped into the clothing of the loose crowd of people meandering about the thoroughfare.
The knotted intersection, unaffectionately referred to as Six Points by its many frequenters, served firstly as an eclectic, makeshift market place and secondly as a buffer between the fresh, civilized city and the grungy, unrefined docks. To an inexperienced eye, the daily clamor of hawkers, barters, and shopkeeps reflected the sights and sounds that one would expect from reputable commerce. To the less naive, though, this borough, and the docks it was fed from, was a known haven for black marketers, smugglers, thieves, and general outlaws. Still, the environment was tolerated. The city folk were tacitly grateful that the more dangerous rogues seemed to get stuck in the dirty quarter and not venture further into the city proper.
No one place among the bustling shops reflected the underbelly of Six Points better than The Long Tom. The tired, dingy pub sat on the corner of one lane nearest the middle of the open-air bazaar. It's location, as well as its tendency to never close its doors, attracted the most unsavory of characters which arrived daily through the docks on Persephone. If there was ever any trouble or commotion in Six Points, it usually shot out from inside The Long Tom...
The noise from the bar was encroaching more and more over the sounds of the street, until finally, three men pushed through the double hung, swinging doors, into the midday air. The larger of the three men made the least noise but was clearly the more annoyed. He had a firm grip on the throat of one dirty rival while fending off a second disputant with his free hand. Losing his patience, the large slugger finally flattened his two attackers - ending both assailants' thrashing with one solid punch and a full body drop.
With his foes now lying dazed on the ground, the winner hovered above his first bloodied victim.
"The next time I tell you somethin', consider who you're talkin' to. Just for bein' un-polite, I'm making an execute-ive decision." He picked the concussed casualty up just enough to look him in the eye. "I'm takin' it all. My cut. Your cut. His cut. All of it's mine now. I consider it a tax for working with amateurs." The brute dropped the beaten man back to the ground and, without looking, shot a single bullet into the body of his second victim. He did not care where the bullet landed so long as it kept his second assailant on the ground. Then, the mercenary robbed both men of their money and aimed his steps back toward the heart of the city.
The fragile voice of a young girl stopped him. "Is this yours?" The beast stared cautiously around his shoulder at a youngster. She was slight and smeared with the dirt of living on the streets. "I think you dropped this." In her hands, she held a dusty, orange knitted cap. She extended her find to the brawler, timid with fear.
"Thanks," said the man, snatching the cap from her hands. Lazily, he swat the hat against his leg to get the dust off before donning it back atop his head. With his attention now diverted from his original path, the man's keen, tracking eyes were drawn skyward, to the familiar sight of a ship falling through the clouds above, and dropping into Persephone's Eavesdown Docks. It's a ship he recognizes on sight. Firefly class. The man grinned, hungry for something other than food, and started walking away from the city, towards the docks.