Disclaimer: Not mines, anything mention by name isn't mines. Except the OCs.

The secretary at police station looked up from his book when he heard the doors open, resting it down on the desk as a amused grin spread on his face.

"Why Mr. Merrill, wasn't expecting to see you again so soon." He hid the snicker behind his hand.

"Well, what can I say? I needed a place to stay for the night and home wasn't looking too inviting right now." Ace drawled as two other police officers carried him in. He glance at the secretary as he leaned foward on his chair, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him, and the wider grin making him look like a cat. It made Ace rolled his eyes.

On the outside Ace tried to act cool, settling for giving him a glare that usually shut people up real quick. He didn't become leader of his own gang by knocking out every tom, dickwad, harry that would look at funny, after all. At least, not directly, he had his ways of getting back at people who crossed him.

But everytime the secretary would grinned at him like that -which is everytime Ace got hauled in here - he wanted to punch him, knock some sense into him, cut him down he wished he were the one being led in.

But soon Ace wouldn't have to deal with those stuck up bastards for much longer, though, because within ten minutes he was lying on the concrete slab of a bed in one of the small, dimly-lit cells. The only sounds he could hear were the quiet whispers of the inmates, about him no doubt. Whatever, let 'em talk. So long as none of them spoke up and bothered him, he be able to finally get a chance to get some sleep...

"What the hell are you doing back here?"

Well spoke too soon.

Only half opening his eyes, Ace turned his head and squinted at the about-to-be-very-sorry asshole who was disturbing him.

He looked pretty young, probably only a few years older than Lachance and his Little Rascals gang. His red-hair was cut in a odd way, like he was going for a straight look but it would keep curling up. His skin was pale and covered with a lot of freckles on the ridge of his nose and along his arms. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground by the cell door, staring at him with the darkest green eyes he'd ever seen. It may have just been the lighting, but they looked like black holes with a hint of green.

But, there was something familiar about him...

"Do I know you, Kid?" Ace demanded coldly, rolling over onto his side and giving the kid a hard stare. When he returned it Ace blinked, slowly and deliberately. Best let the kid know what he was getting into if he decided to strike up a conversation with him.

"Probably not," he told him, blinking back lazily, before glancing around himself, looking bored. Ace couldn't help but feel slightly offended. Did this twerp not realize he was talking to the Ace Merrill, leader of the Castle Rock Cobras?

I see," was all Ace decided to answer, closing his eyes. If there was one good thing about the cooler, it let you get a good night's sleep, away from gangs and idiot adults.

"So answer my question. You only got out last week, but now you're back. Why?" Okay, now Ace was getting ticked, and once he forced open his eyes he gave a full-out glared at the kid, who still looked unfazed, gazing at him through lazy eyes. Rolling his own eyes, Ace sat up. If he answered him, he might leave him alone and he could get some sleep.

"Got into a fight with a guy I was playing Blackjack with. Accused me of cheating." He shrugged, pretending that it didn't matter to him. It wouldn't if the bastard hadn't broken a chair leg and tried to hit him with it. Not Ace's fault the jackass sucks at playing cards.

The kid looked a little interested now, raising an eyebrow and shifting so that he was facing Ace full front. Ace smirked at this. Seems the kid was finally starting to get it. And then, he shrugged.

"That's retarded. Why fight over something so minor?" he asked, staring at him with his dark eyes. Narrowing his own eyes, Ace sat up straighter. This kid was really starting to push him.

"That ain't the only reason..." Ace trailed on.

"So what is it?" The kid asked.

"You really wanna know?" Ace hissed dangerously, stalking closer to the bars. The kid nodded.

"Yeah, I do," he replied, and Ace was starting to wish the cops hadn't confiscated his switchblade right now. What sort of kid mouths off to a gang leader, huh?

"The asshole bad mouthed my name," Ace growled, clenching his fists. The kid just kept looking at him.

"How'd he do that?" he asked, his stare unwavering. Any other occasion and Ace would have thought it was creepy, but by now he was too riled up to notice.

"He kept calling me John," Ace answered in a low voice, trying not to sound pathetic. I mean, who beats the tar out of someone for calling them by their full name? Well, Ace does, but he had a good reason.

"Ok, so why did you fight with him about that?" the kid asked, as Ace expected he would. Even if he were annoying, at least he was predictable. With a sigh, Ace leaned against the cell door. Why did his name bother him so much?

Well, that was a long story.

The first reason is that it was the name of his grandfather, a ripe old bastard who had to live him and his parents for a few months where he practically sponge off what little money they had to get by to buy his booze, who use to 'discipline' him whenever he acted out and his old man did nothing, and who made certain comments about his mother. So of course, whenever someone called him 'John' Ace immediately felt like a drunk, a creep, a deadbeat, and someone who uses and abuses their family. Let me tell you, it's not a great feeling.

The second reason was because, well, John was suck a boring name. Around town some of the other kids had cooler sounding names. Vince, Dennis, Charlie, stuff like that. 'John' is just so uninteresting in comparison. Especially when others decide to cutesy it up by making it Johnny. Ace hated being called Johnny, it was practically a death sentence now.

You think it wouldn't bother him so much if he hadn't once been a Johnny. It was hard to believe, and as said, those people who remember are sure to kept their traps shut, but when Ace was a kid – and I mean a kid – he was pretty meek. He was shy at school, didn't like fights, and actually cared about getting good grades.

So one day as he was leaving school, back when he was nine or ten, John had been jumped by some older boys. These boys, who had to be twelve or thirteen, had grabbed him as he was turning the corner and shoved him against a fence. One boy rummaging through his satchel bag.

"Hey get out of there!" John cried out but one of the boys grabbed him from behind, holding his arms behind his head restraining him. The boy going through his bag pulled out one of his assignment papers and read it.

"Eighty-Five out of Hundred, this is your best one yet Johnny." The boy sneered. "You must think you're a real ace in school huh?"

"Let me go, that's mines!" John yelled. Getting angry, John stomped the boy holding him's foot hard. When he let off of him, John dashed forward and gave the boy holding his bag a hard shove before snatching it out of his hands and turning back at them.

"Who dump manure on your balls kid?" The boy who's foot John stomped demanded as he hopped up and down.

"Looks like little Johnny got some fight in him. So let's give him one." One of the boys he assums to be the leader, said cracking his fists.

"The kid got a pussy name, so he's gotta be a pussy fighter." The boy who had taken his bag said.

Man, were they wrong.

Cuz as soon as John found a tree branch, he had made short work of them. Within 2 minutes they were all bleeding, and John walked up to their leader, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him up to his face and said, "It's Ace, Ace Merrill. Don't ever call me Johnny again if you know what's good for ya." From then on, that's who he became. He got tough, and people started respecting him. You think anybody in this town would have done that if he had kept going by Johnny Merrill?

"You gonna answer me?" Blinking back to reality, Ace glanced across at the kid, who was staring at him. Smirking, he stood back up.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked as he layed back down on the concrete cot.

"Jules. Jules Smithson," The kid told him, leaning back. Nodding, Ace closed my eyes.

"Night, Jules," Ace called quietly, and could already feel his mind starting to float away.

"Night, Johnny," was the last thing he heard, before he finally fell asleep.

Three weeks later, a sixteen year old boy named Jules Smithson was wheeled into the emergency room of the local hospital, bleeding heavily from his face. Bits of glass from the pop bottle he'd been hit with were still stuck in the cut. He would have that scar for the rest of his life.

As said, Ace had his ways.

The End.