.

.

.

Jayne aims and squeezes the trigger the same way he has for years, his body moving fluidly from instinct, and yet the shot goes high and right. It still hits the target, mind, but it doesn’t hit the center.

“Gorram it, Betsy!” He shakes the gun as if expecting something to rattle, to be obviously wrong. “What the rutting hell’s got into you?”

Because for Jayne Cobb, that’s too much of a miss. A miss like that could get a body killed, could mean the difference between shooting someone in the eye or only grazing the side of the head.

~~~

He storms back inside the cargo bay to strip Betsy apart on his workout bench, sighting down the barrel yet seeing no obstructions. Everything about it is smooth and oiled and metal perfection.

Just when he’s about to clean it again, even though he knows it doesn’t need it, River’s voice floats down from the catwalk. “The gun isn’t the problem.”

Jayne glares up at her. “What’d you mean, the gun ain’t the problem?”

“The gun isn’t your problem.”

“Wo de ma!” He quickly reassembles Betsy, grumbling, “Don’t need no crazy-girl talk from you.” Yet he won’t look at her.

~~~

“Not the gun, she says.” He taps his temple with the barrel and snorts as he walks. “Crazy. ‘Cause if it ain’t the gun, it’s …”

Shaking off the thought, Jayne stands before the target and aims carefully – more carefully than he has in long years.

Bang.

High and right – worse even than the last time. Another miss.

“Ta ma de!” He throws Betsy to the ground, stomps on it repeatedly with one large boot. “You piece of gou shi! Gorram piece of gou shi!” His breath aches in his chest – maybe because his heart pounds fury.

His eyes shut tightly.

~~~

They spring open almost immediately, because when closed, he sees them – the real crazies with their guns, their screaming, their knives, their hate …

River’s voice whispers: “Jayne isn’t a gun. Can’t be perfect all the time. Flesh, blood, bone, not metal. Messy and alive. Not