Second Chance

"Jackson, have you left this room at all in the past three weeks?"
       Landers wrinkled his perfectly straight nose at the sour sweat and overcooked cheese smells thickly permeating the small space.
       "Why should I?" Jackson, ex-tracker, ex-psi, ex-fucking everything that had made his life worthwhile, snapped petulantly at his former partner.
      "Because it's not healthy sitting here in your own shit." Landers countered good-naturedly.
       "You're too fucking much, y'know that?" the gaunt younger man glowered.
       "Look, Jackson, either get over this and get on with your life or put yourself out of your misery."
      "I wouldn't be in this misery if it wasn't for her." Jackson mumbled, staring fixedly at a spot on the threadbare carpet, a twisted sort of lustre sheening his eyes.
      "Forget her," Landers said sharply, "She's probably dead anyway, I can't find a trace."
       "You've been looking?" the sick glitter in the younger man's eyes made Lander's skin crawl.
       "Yes, sometimes, when I can." he replied cautiously.
       "Why?" Jackson spat, prosthetic fingers digging into the filthy arms of the battered armchair. "Why do you care, Landers? We're not friends."
       "No, we're not," the athletic tracker didn't flinch, "but we were partners and that counts for something."
      Jackson dropped his eyes to the carpet again and was silent. Landers sighed.
       "Anyway, I can't stay long," he waited for the customary, snarled 'good' from his ex-partner, shrugging minutely when it wasn't forthcoming, "I came to give you this." He dug into the back pocket of his clean, comfortable looking jeans, pulling out a scrappy piece of paper which he dropped in Jackson's lap. The disheveled man made no move to touch it.
       "It's a phone number for a guy in Europe," Landers went on, "He's looking for employees with particular skills –"
       "No point giving it to me then," Jackson was bitter, "I'm no fucking use to anyone anymore."
       "Oh for... Stop wallowing in self-pity for a change!" Landers growled, the unusual display of bad temper making Jackson dart a startled glance at him, "There's more to you than your psionic ability or have you forgotten those bloody weeks and weeks of having the other stuff hammered into you?"
       Jackson lapsed into sullen silence, unwilling to admit that Landers might just have a point.
       "Look, whatever," the blonde turned his back on the ex-tracker, "use the number or not, I don't give a shit anymore." He stalked the few paces to the door, jerking it open to stand at the threshold, staring out into the grimy hallway. "I won't come and see you again, Jackson," Landers spoke to the empty corridor, "I'm not so thick I can't eventually take a hint." He stepped out of the squalid room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
       Jackson stared at the closed door for a few seconds then fumbled in his lap for the piece of paper, gazing at it without really seeing it for a long time.

The ex-tracker still had nightmares about what Hoss and his freaks had done to him, though the drugs he'd been prescribed helped him get enough sleep to stay sane. Jackson had been offered counseling as part of his treatment, particularly psionic counseling which involved a 'path going into his head to dampen the memories of the attack. But he didn't want to forget, didn't want to feel any less bad about what had happened. The blind hatred, the disgust he felt kept his anger honed and he wanted to be sharp when he finally caught up with the little cunt who'd caused him all this grief.
       Jackson stared at his hands, watching with sick fascination as the realistic looking fingers smoothly flexed open and closed, open and closed. Only they weren't real, they were clever facsimiles, machines, and having them attached to his body was unnatural... wrong... alien... They stopped him being a psi...
      Jackson licked dry lips and tore his eyes away from the abomination his hands had become. He slumped back in the chair, resting his filthy, unwashed hair against the equally malodorous upholstery, closing his eyes and feeling his pulse thudding slowly, heavily in his head and neck.
      She wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead, it was unthinkable – how could he have his revenge on her if she was already dead?

Jimmy Jackson - to his knowledge he'd only ever been called Jackson - had spent practically all of his formative years in care as a ward of the state, ensconced in an orphanage until a time when it was deemed to be more beneficial for a youngster's emotional development to be reared in a 'family' atmosphere. This involved Social Services placing small numbers of children in the care of paid individuals or couples to live with them in their homes. Then they were left to get on with it; the underesourced government department rarely checked back on the new families and then only if there'd been complaints registered. Jackson's 'family', who he joined when he was six years old, consisted of four older boys and their carer, a weak-willed pathetic man who was more concerned with staying on his charges' good side than exerting any sort of discipline. The boys ran wild, doing what they liked, when they liked, growing up believing any sort of authority outside their own hierarchy was a joke. They were careful, however, not to do anything that could bring the attention of the police or social services to bear. The eldest boy and nominal leader, Bryce, possessed enough devious rat-cunning to understand that the intervention of the despised authorities would bring an end to their freedom and none of the 'brothers' wanted that.
      Sex didn't have any importance to Jackson until he was fifteen. Sure, he'd known about it for years, the older boys were always going out and 'picking up slags' and he'd seen them fucking plenty of times, it just didn't seem to have any relevance to him. The others teased him about his lack of interest, at first, until he'd broken Bill's nose for suggesting that maybe he wasn't hot for the bitches because he was queer. Jackson knew what 'queer' was; one of the teachers at the school they infrequently attended was rumoured to be a faggot who liked young boys. Jackson had listened wide-eyed, credulous and horrified to the stories of what Mr. Parks, a gaunt, greasy-skinned, thoroughly unattractive man, did to the hapless children that fell into his unnatural clutches. The stories were all nonsense of course, Jerry Parks was in actuality a decent, caring human being with no more interest in little boys than most people had in dog shit but the idea that 'queer' was disgusting readily took hold in Jackson's impressionable mind, filling him with a profound fear and loathing of homosexuality.
      Jackson liked girls, liked to watch the pretty ones at least, but he didn't make the connection between girls and sex until one night when, as a bit of a lark, the other four ganged up on a lone, attractive young woman, dragged her into an overgrown, neglected bit of parkland and raped her. Dry mouthed, flushed and trembling with dark excitement, Jackson watched the girl crying and begging them to stop as his mates took turns with her, smacking her into moaning incoherency between times - it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.
      "Wanna turn?" Bryce's invitation almost had Jackson creaming his pants then and there, but he held on to his control, walking stiff-legged towards the whimpering girl curled in on herself on the muddy ground.
      "Hold her flat." he roughly ordered his friends who smirkingly complied, each of them grabbing a limb and stretching her out for Jackson's rapt perusal. Her clothing was in tatters, her firm young breasts - now discoloured with bites and bruises - were exposed to the chill night air, as was her battered cunt which oozed blood and semen. But most alluring of all was the terror and pain shining out of her eyes, calling to something baneful in Jackson. Cheered on by his mates, he'd fucked her viciously, coming quickly with an intensity that felt like it was blowing the back of his skull out.
      Jackson slept well that night.

The next day, following an impulse he didn't understand, Jackson returned to the spot where they'd left the girl semi-conscious and bleeding. She wasn't there unfortunately and strangely disappointed, he'd turned to leave only to find himself walking in a completely different direction to what he'd intended. There was a weird sort of tingling in his head that intensified unpleasantly when he tried to follow his original course, and so, never being one to willingly cause himself discomfort, Jackson followed the bizarre prompt through a couple of kilometres of run-down suburban streets to end up standing across the road from a dilapidated semi-detached house. The tingling had almost stopped and he was debating whether to go home when he saw the young woman they'd raped last night come creeping out of the front door. Jackson ducked behind a scraggly hedge, his cock pressing hard against the constriction of his jeans as he took in her bruised face and limping gait, the way her gaze darted about like she was some hunted, frightened animal. He licked his lips as he watched her quickly check the mail box before scuttling back inside, shutting and locking the door firmly behind her. Jackson grinned - that was one scared little bitch.
      He made his way home, bouncing with a euphoria every bit as weird as the tingling. Bryce had been sceptical about how he'd tracked down the girl but liked Jackson's idea of paying her another visit. But not that night - Bryce chuckled at his youngest 'brother's disappointment - give her a few days to settle down then they'd go calling.
      Jackson could hardly wait and spent the intervening time fantasizing so hard about what he was going to do to her it seemed he constantly had his hands down his trousers to give himself some relief.

The look of stark horror on the girl's face in the split-second she realised who'd forced her door got Jackson instantly hard. Bill back-handed her, sending her whimpering to the floor then Bryce, leering, kicked her hard between the legs. The elder boy was in the process of unzipping his jeans when Jackson intervened; he'd found her, he argued, it was only fair he get first crack at her. Bryce hesitated, sensing a challenge to his authority, then shrugged in a show of magnanimous nonchalance and stepped back. Breathing hard with agitated arousal, Jackson freed his cock then reached down, grabbed the girl by the hair and dragged her to kneel terrified in front of him.
      It didn't get any further than that. For the second time that evening the girl's front door was kicked open but this time it was the police who burst in and arrested the five young males.
      Jackson was stunned and dismayed.
      Not right now! Couldn’t they have waited half an hour?
      Each of them was cuffed and led outside to the waiting police van, all except Jackson, who found himself in the woman's kitchen with one of the cops, and a squat, strong-looking man with spooky eyes. The man murmured something to the cop and reached into his jacket pocket. He passed something to the policeman, who nodded, flashed an odd look at Jackson then left them alone.
      "You've got a choice, kid," the man said, "you can come with me or go with the police."
      "Are you a faggot?" Jackson was suspicious. The short man barked a laugh.
      "No."
      "Then why - ?"
      "Because you've got a special talent that needs nurturing."
      "I don't understand." Jackson snapped, irritated.
      "You're psionic, you little idiot," the man sneered, "come with me and you'll make a fortune, go with the cops and you'll probably get nullified."
      Psionic? What - ?
      Jackson's mouth dropped open as realisation hit: that tingling in his head when he'd tracked the girl…
      "Oh bravo," the man rolled his eyes, "the penny drops."
      The boy decided then and there he didn’t like this man at all, but, being the smartest person he knew, Jackson could see worlds of possibilities opening up in front of him.
      "What about the cops?"
      The mysterious man leered.
      "They'll forget they ever saw you."
      Jackson nodded, not willing for the moment to ask how that was going to happen.
      "And my mates?"
      "Don't worry, they'll be looked after."
      "They won't… forget me?" He chewed his lip, Bryce and the boys were the only family he knew, he hated the idea he could fade from their memories.
      "No, they won't," the stranger's eyes gleamed. "Choose. Quickly."
      Jackson straightened up, pulling his shoulders back and looking the man in the eye.
      "I'll come with you, but - " he glared, " - you fucking call me an idiot again and you're dead before you hit the ground."
      The man laughed good-naturedly.
      "Whatever you say, kid, whatever you say."

Jackson blinked, finally focusing on the paper Landers had given him.
       Now what? He shoved a hand through his hair grimacing at the stickiness he could feel even through the slightly reduced tactile perceptions of the cybernetic hand. How genuine was this offer? For that matter, what did it entail? There was only one way to find out...
       It took the ex-tracker several minutes to find his phone. He'd made no calls since the attack and no-one other than Landers had bothered to call him since he'd been discharged from hospital. Jackson eventually found the phone – under the scratched, lone kitchen cupboard where he'd kicked it in a fit of pique after deliberately not answering another call from Landers.
      The phone number took him to a professional sounding woman who after a moment put him straight through to Mr. Pugino, the name accompanying the number scribbled on the paper.
       Jackson cleared his throat.
      "Mr. Pugino?"
      "Yes. Who is this?" The voice sounded like it belonged to an old, fat Italian man - Jackson fancied he could see Pugino's jowls wobbling as he spoke. The image made him smile and he carried on with more confidence.
      "My name is Jackson, I've been given this number by a friend who says you're looking for employees…"

Thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his neatly-pressed slacks, Jackson swaggered out of the elevator and through the classy hotel's foyer, past the snobby, faggot concierge who watched him guardedly. Was there more respect in the queer's face now than when Jackson had first presented himself at the front desk asking to see Mr. Pugino? There should be, the former-tracker smirked unpleasantly, he was on his way up again and soon he'd be someone to be reckoned with. He bounded down the marble steps and out into the heavy London evening feeling like laughing; his interview with Mr. Pugino had gone well, very well indeed.
      The Italian capitalist - middle-aged with a moderate paunch - was in London for a few days when Jackson had called and he'd arranged to see the young man in his hotel suite the next afternoon. Being full of nervous energy, Jackson had slept fitfully but he'd climbed out of bed that morning feeling calmer than he had for a long, long time. He spent the time before his interview showering and shaving carefully, trimming his nails and hair and digging out some presentable clothes. Jackson smiled at the image of the focused, ambitious young man in the mirror and strode out of his bedsit feeling sharp, in control.
      Pugino was ostentatiously wealthy, and a hedonist going by the amount of fine food and drink, and beautiful women, scattered around his suite. Jackson felt at ease in his company - this was a man he could deal with. The older man appeared to take to him straight away as well and they'd spent a pleasant hour chatting. Pugino asked Jackson about his skills, his work, his hopes for himself and the tracker had answered more or less truthfully. The only worrying element had been the beautiful, half-dressed nymphet lounging at the Italian's side. Jackson had lost his tracker abilities but he hadn't lost the capability to sense other psis. The girl - she couldn't have been more than fifteen, though it was a ripe, sexually-primed fifteen - watched him with dark eyes, lazily like a cat and her proximity crawled over Jackson's skin. She was scanning him, he was sure, but he deliberately relaxed, refusing to give the ebony-haired little whore an impression of anything other than total confidence.
      At the end of the hour Mr. Pugino had shook Jackson's hand and offered him an as yet unspecified place in his retinue. The ex-tracker had been happy to accept.

Jackson climbed into a waiting cab, curtly giving the wop driver his address. After half a mile he changed his mind and ordered a different destination. The young man slouched back in the leather seat and smirked; Mr. Pugino was going to send a car around for him tomorrow night, there was plenty of time for him to… let off some steam before he began his new job.
      "Jackson, you bastard!" Bryce, now a hard-faced, brawny man, greeted his youngest 'brother' when he ambled into the pharmacist's discretely guarded town-house, "where the fuck have you been?!"
      "Long story, Bry," Jackson grunted, "how's business?"
      True to his word, Norder, the seeker who'd recruited Jackson, had made sure the boy's 'family' had been taken care of. Tim and Dennis, not being legally adults at the time they'd raped the girl, had more or less gotten off scott-free, but were given places in a 'rehabilitation facility' run by Norder's boss. There they blossomed, honing their thuggish skills and eventually working their way up the organisation's ladder to their current, exalted places as Bryce's bodyguards. Bryce and Bill hadn't been quite so lucky. The older boys, legally men, had gone to trial and been sentenced to a paltry six-months each. The sentence would've been longer but someone with influence had quietly put a word in on their behalf. Within a month Bill, always aggressive, had gotten into a fight and died in the prison's mess-hall, his blood fountaining out of a roughly severed artery to spray across several inmates' meals. Bryce however, had been a model prisoner and was released six weeks early. An associate of Norder's had met the young man at the prison gates and escorted him to the same 'rehabilitation facility' Tim and Dennis were attending. The three youths were kept together, their bond of 'brotherhood' subtly fostered through 'pathic manipulation, and an unswerving loyalty to their benefactor implanted. Bryce was found to have an aptitude for chemistry and within two years of being released from prison he was a rising star in the firm's drug development and marketing sector.
      Bryce was now a very wealthy man, but more importantly he loved his work. It was a satisfying challenge devising new and better narcotics…

"Business is brilliant," Bryce grinned at Jackson, "what brings you here?"
      "I'm going to Europe tomorrow - promotional opportunity - " the young man shrugged as if it was no big deal, "and I want to have some fun with my old mates before I go."
      "Well funny you should mention that," Tim, who'd escorted Jackson onto the premises, slapped him on the back and smirked.
      "What have you got?" Jackson's flat grey eyes gleamed darkly.
      Dennis stepped aside from the armchair he'd been standing in front of, which Jackson now saw held a fifth person, a fine-boned, olive-skinned woman.
      "Fresh off the ferry from the continent," Tim leered, "don't speak no English."
      "That's fucking rude, coming to a country and not knowing how to speak the language!" Jackson stood over her. "What's she on?" he grabbed a fistful of shining black hair and wrenched the woman's head back. Her eyes were open but glazed, and she blinked slowly at him.
      "Bit of this, bit of that."
      Jackson grinned happily as Bryce listed the drugs they'd coerced her into taking. Something to heighten her sensitivity to pain but keep her from falling unconscious - a good combination, one of his favourites. Jackson hit her across the face, hard, splitting a lip and forcing a strangled sob from her.
      "Hey, hey, easy, mate," Bryce scolded, "Don't mess her up too much, I've got a buyer."
      Jackson's grin was gleeful.
      "Don't worry," he was acutely aware of the hefty pay advance Mr. Pugino had given him, "I'll make up any loss in your expected profit…"

© 2003 July 11^th Lutra

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Darkside



© 2003 Wordwrights