DISCLAIMER: The gods in this story are characters in a fictional universe I have created. If you dislike a portrayal of a god, I apologize; this work is in no way intended to offend anyone's beliefs.

HADES

"We've found her, my lord," Hecate says, bowing low.

I jump out of my throne, nearly falling when my bad leg gives out from underneath me. I manage to balance myself in time though, and calmly sit back down. Well, as calmly as I can, anyway. Four thousand years , and we've finally found her. Four thousand years of loneliness, of desperate waiting, of giving up hope only find resolve once again, and we have finally found her. Finally.

"…Where?" I ask, and my voice comes out raspy and raw. Persephone.

"In America, my lord. Brooklyn, New York." I'll see you again.

"What is her name, Hecate? Tell me what her name is."

"She was born as Cora Wells. She is 31 years old, currently attending a university. Demeter has made getting close to her and learning any new information very, very difficult-"

"I will leave immediately," I say, my heart pumping with excitement.

"I wouldn't advise that, my lord." I turn to look at Hecate, my steadfast friend and adviser. "And why not?" I ask her, genuinely puzzled.

"You do not know the culture, my lord – and you need to be inconspicuous while looking for her, else Demeter will learn of your presence and bring your whole plan crashing down."

"So what are you suggesting I do?"

She bows her head. "Become accustomed to the culture, my lord; learn the language and style of dress. You have waited this long; you can stand to wait a little longer to do this right."

I frown. "I suppose you are right." I want to see her again, to hold her . . . but my waiting will all be for naught if I do this incorrectly. I nod and puff out my chest. Yes, I will learn the language and dress of this country, as my brothers have already done in their lascivious ways, partying and drinking in this realm of North America.

"There's one more thing, sire," Hecate says. Her tone doesn't sound pleased.

"What is it?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"She has a son."

And that's it: my world is crashing down around me. Again.

One Year Later

JIM

"Happy birthday, bud. Today is the day you become an official Black Bullet member, kiddo. Today, yer going to kill someone. Are ya ready, Jim? When yer done, me and the boys will take you to our favorite place and get you some pussy. Maybe if you do it real fast, we'll get you some ice, too. A nice little bag of blue, like in Breaking Bad."

"I'm ready," I say. Really, I am. I take a drag from my cigarette, and the familiar burning sensation in my throat calms my nerves. I've been preparing for this day for months. I know how to shoot a gun, and I know that I can beat the living hell out of someone without much effort. That's why Alex decided to take me under his wing. The guys in the gang all call me "Little Slugger." That works, I guess. Alex found me in juvie a couple of years back when I ran away from home . . . and stole my mom's car to do it. The cops found me, though, after I tried to steal a couple of Twinkies from a convenience store in Queens a few days later. Long story short, the judge made me go to juvie for a couple of months, plus house arrest for six more months when I got home. The system is screwed up, let me tell you. They send you in for making a stupid mistake, and you come out a hardened criminal. I've just learned to stop giving a shit altogether.

So anyways, one day this kid comes up to me with a shiv he made out of a plastic spoon. I guess he figured that guys in prison do it, so why shouldn't he? And this kid was big, too. Looked like he weighed around 300 pounds and he was like six foot three. I heard that he was in for almost killing his dad in a fist fight. I kind of . . . liked him for that. Anyways, he comes up to me, tries to stick the thing in my belly, and I just punch the guy once, just once, right in the face, and he just fucking collapses in front of me. The guards told me later that I dislocated his jaw, and that the kid got a huge concussion. My hand didn't hurt after I hit him. But I've always been strong like that; stronger than my classmates, faster than them too. Hell, teachers even told me that my high school entrance test scores were higher than everybody else's. Imagine their disappointment when they found out that I was lazier than everybody else, too. So when Alex, 17-year-old Alex, high ranking member of the Black Bullet gang, asked me to come join, I figured, fuck it – it's not like my dad ever gave enough of a shit about me to stick around, so why should I give a shit in return? Alex, he's different. He's like a brother to me. He taught me how to fight, how to shoot, how to pick locks. He became my mentor, and after a while the other guys in the Black Bullet gang became my family.

Today's the day I become a man and officially join that family. I'm ready, I'm ready. I can do this.

"C'mon, Jim – you ain't a chicken, right?" My heart's pumping hard against my chest. Shut up, I'm not a chicken. You'd be scared too if you were about to kill someone. Alex slaps a hard hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. I look at my watch: 6:00 pm. The city is starting to get dark, and the grimy alleyway we're in is making the reality of the situation settle low in my gut. I'm going to kill someone today. I can do this.

Alex smiles at me. "I know ya can do it, Little Slugger. I'll pick out an easy target." I almost feel better when he says that. "Just don't pick out a little old lady," I tell him. I'm not totally heartless.

He grins. "Don't worry. Next guy who comes into our turf, you do it. He's probably a Second Son. We'll all be here if things get out of hand."

I nod, and we start to walk through the alleyways that make up our turf. Most people know not to walk around here at night. This is our neighborhood. A couple of hours pass, and I palm the gun in my jacket pocket. The safety is still on. Shut up.

I check my watch again: 11:00 pm. It's getting late, and I feel my head start to loll back against the grimy alleyway wall when Alex shakes me. "It's time," he says. His voice sounds giddy and my palms start to sweat. One kill, just one kill and I'll have my family. I can do this.

He leads me around to the opening of the alleyway and points to a guy walking with a cane. It's dark, and the guy is wearing black, so I can barely make him out when he walks out of the light of the streetlamps, but he's definitely got a cane. He's fucking limping too. Shit.

"Take him out, Little Slugger."

"You want me to kill a fucking cripple?" Maybe I can't do this.

"You want to be a Black Bullet, don't you? I told you it would be the next guy who came onto our turf."

"But he's a cripple-"

Alex squeezes my shoulder, hard and whispers into my ear. "Do it, Jim. Today is the day you become a man." He's right – today is the day I become a man. I can do this. "Besides," he says, clasping my shoulder, "If he gives you any trouble, you can always do that plant thing." Oh yeah, that. I guess I forgot to mention that. Ever since I can remember, I've been able to control plants and trees. I never told anyone, except for Alex. Not even my mom. He laughed when I told him, looked at me like I was fucking crazy, but then I had tree roots grow out of the ground around his feet, and he stopped laughing. The other guys in the gang don't know. Just Alex. He smiles at me, squeezes my shoulder again.

"Go get him, Little Slugger."

I nod. I can do this. Kill a cripple, piece of cake. I can do this, I can do this. I'm not a chicken. The guy with the cane stops walking and pulls out a map. He looks lost. He's about 50 feet away. There's nobody else on the street. This is my chance.

He hasn't turned around yet, so I quietly walk up behind him. I'm about five feet away from him when he finally does look back at me. The first things I notice are his eyes – pale, blue, and piercing. This guy's eyes are ice. The second thing I notice is his scar – a jagged, ugly thing that runs from the corner of his forehead between his eyebrows and down to his jaw. That thing must have fucking hurt when he got it. And, even though the guy has a cane, there's somethin' about him that emanates power. It's controlled, but it's like I can feel it brewing just below the surface. It's old and strong – unbelievably strong, and I'm scared. Shut up. Get him, Little Slugger. I palm the gun in my jacket pocket. My hands are clammy. I said shut up, dammit! I'm lucky the guy can't get away from me very fast. My heartbeat is rushing loud and fast in my ears. I'm breathing hard. The guy says something and I miss it.

"What?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"I asked you what you were planning on doing with that gun." The guy cocks his head to the side, scratching the short beard on his face. He looks like he could be in his late thirties or early forties. I look down at my hands and realize that I'm holding the gun. It gives me a confidence boost and I smile. I put on my best taunting voice. "What does it look like I'm gonna do, you stupid fucking cripple? I'm gonna blow your fucking brains out!"

The guy just smirks at me. "I doubt that," he says, leaning on his cane. It has a silver skull for a handle. Must be expensive. He's holding a Red Sox cap in his other hand. So this guy has to be a Red Sox fan in New York City on top of everything else. He looks like he's about to put it on, too. Fucking cripple asshole.

"Oh yeah? Why is that?" I ask him, my confidence leaving me. My hands on the gun are starting to shake.

He just keeps smiling at me, the bastard. "Well, first of all, the safety is still on," he says, nodding towards the gun, and putting on his cap. I look at my gun. Shit, he's right. How could I be so stupid? Well, that can be easily fixed. I turn off the safety and look back up, and he's fucking gone. What the hell? I feel a hard smack on my head from behind and I fall forward. How the hell did this bastard get behind me? I regain my balance and turn around, and I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look over to my left, and he's gone again. How is this guy so fast?

"Psst, over here," I hear him say to my right, and when I look over I see the heavy silver skull handle of the cane heading right towards my face. I try to duck, but the guy still gets me, and the blow sends me flying across the street and into a wall. Holy hell, this guy is fucking strong. I try to get up, but my head spins and instead I just end up lying there, with my head on the dirty sidewalk. I see the guy limping towards me, and when he finally reaches me he nudges me onto my back with his cane. I groan, shutting my eyes as the world spins around me.

"Still alive, I see. How very interesting." He sits down beside me with some difficulty and grabs my jaw between his thumb and forefinger, causing spikes of pain to shoot through my temples. He turns my head, almost like he's inspecting me. The whole time, I'm wondering why my gang hasn't rushed up and beat the shit out of this guy . . . and then he tells me this: "Your friends aren't going to help you-" The hell they aren't. I know I can't get much leverage from this position to throw a good punch, but I know I'm not gonna let this cripple take away my dignity, so I take a swing at him, as hard as I can. As soon as the punch hits, I know that my hand is going to break. It's like hitting a wall made of solid steel. I scream and hold my hand, and the guy gets back up onto his legs and rubs his jaw.

"That's quite a hook you got there," he says.

"Fuck you!" I scream. Holy shit, this hurts. "Alex!" I yell. "Alex, help me!"

The guy looks down at me and shakes his head. "I told you that your friends weren't going to come."

"Screw you, asshole!" I scream. I think the bones in my hand have been pulverized. The guy pulls out his map, and his brow furrows. The world starts to spin around me again and my stomach feels like it's going to empty itself of all its contents. I make a groaning sound in the back of my throat and roll over onto my belly.

"Problem?" I hear the guy ask.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," I say, not bothering to curse at him. "I think you broke my hand." I can't see him, but I'm pretty sure that he shrugs. I feel my eyes start to close, but the guy nudges me awake with his cane. "You need to stay awake," he says. "You're concussed." But sleep feels so good right now . . .

He nudges me awake again. "Do you have a cell phone?" he asks. My mom can only afford one. I tell him, "No." At least I think I do; probably it comes out more like "prrhnoooo." He curses in some weird language. I think it may be Greek, but I'm not sure with my concussion and all. I start to fall asleep again, and the guy freaking slaps me. "Sthaaaaaaaap it," I say, my words coming out garbled against the concrete. I feel him rifling through my pockets and think he pulls out my wallet. He puts it back, though, which is weird. Probably because I don't have any money in it . . . He kind of has a pissed expression on his face now when he looks at me again; like he wants to turn me into ash and dance on top of my ashes. "You need to stay awake," he says again. "I'm quite sure your mother would be upset if you died." His expression softens a little bit, but he still looks really pissed.

"Yeeah, yeah, I know – just let me sleep."

"You're a terrible kid," he grunts, and I feel him start to lift me underneath my arms. The next thing I know, a grown man with a lame leg is giving me a piggy back ride.

"Where is the nearest hospital?" he asks. Where is the nearest hospital? I can't remember…Oh yeah, Woodhull. "Woodhull...the address is," my mind goes fuzzy as I try to think of the street name. C'mon, c'mon...oh yeah! Got it. "760 Broadway," I tell him. We're actually not that close to it, but it is the "closest." After some walking – hobbling, really (which is actually making me pretty sick to my stomach) – the guy says, "Your friends are idiots." I kind of laugh at that, my head lolling onto his shoulder. "You're one too, James Wells."

"It's Jim, and if you keep hobbling like this, I just might throw up on you, man."

The guy laughs, and it's rough and deep and rolling. "Throw up on me, and I might just kill you, Jimbo." Something about the way he says it tells me that he isn't joking, either.

"Hey, wassyername?" I ask. It comes out slurred, but I figure, hey what the hell – he knows my name. He laughs again. "You can call me Hank," he says, but there's a note of hesitation in his voice as he says it, like he was gonna say somethin' else but changed his mind at the last possible second he could.

"Thasss not yer real name." It's not a question.

He shakes his head and probably smiles, but I can't tell from this angle. "You can't know my real name."

"Why not?" I feel like I'm starting to fall asleep again, but he slaps my cheek and wakes me.

"Because my real name holds power."

And then, a miracle happens: the dude gets a cab. "760 Broadway – we need to get the hospital." Somewhere between getting into the cab and reaching the hospital, I fall asleep, and I don't wake up again for days. At least, that's what it feels like.

The doctors tell me that a guy with dark hair and a cane dropped me off at the hospital – said that my injuries were gang related. They say that I was conscious for all of it, but I don't remember a damn thing, I tell them. That's fine, they say; it's just a result of the concussion. I don't even remember my mom visiting me, but they tell me that she came in only an hour after I was admitted to the hospital, stayed and talked with me the whole night. Also, I'm apparently I'm grounded. For life.

They tell me all this, and I nod and nod. I really can't remember anything except Alex and the guys telling me to get this one guy . . . I can't remember who, though. It's all blank, all of it. I keep expecting them to visit, but they don't. I get antsy, thinking that they may have visited, that I might have missed it, so I ask the pretty nurse who comes to check on me. "Excuse me, miss," I say, all suave and cool-like. Shut up – I'm smooth, you'll see, "Has a guy by the name of Alex Jacobs come in to visit? A Lucas Ruiz too, by any chance?" She smiles prettily at me for a moment, and I almost forget what I asked her. "No, sorry, hun – no Alex or Lucas." I frown and thank her. I can't hide my disappointment. Why wouldn't the guys come and visit me? What the hell happened that night? I want to cry, I want to cry so fucking bad. I lost my chance at being a part of a family. I know my mom never came in to visit – the doctors lied to me, I know it. She would never come to visit me because I'm a disappointment - never ever. Dad left her because of me. There's no way in hell she would come and visit me . . . but the guys would. I know they would. Right? So then why aren't they here now . . .

I turn on the TV to get my mind on different things, and as I flip through the channels, I see Alex, his face plastered on the news in an ugly mug shot. What the . . . I turn up the volume:

"In other news, small time drug dealer and Black Bullet gang leader, Alex Jacobs - age 19 - along with four other members of the gang have been arrested for the murder of two young boys in a gang fight with the Second Sons. . . "No fucking way. This can't be happening. My brothers. My family…

"Police are saying that the five could face up to forty years in prison . . ."

And that's it: my world is crashing down around me. Again.