Tales from the Jackson's - No Good Deed

May 2066. Vincent Jackson can't remember anything about his life before being experimented on. Who was he, before being turned into Mystery Johnson? Jenn pays him a visit to tell him the answer, tell him who the past Vincent Jackson was... and what he did, before becoming the Man with the Hat.

(Proofread and edited by Kaleb O'Halloran)

“You shouldn't do that, you know.”

A thick cloud of smoke permeated the air, a gray whisper emerging from between a pair of thin lips. The crimson lipstick hugged the acrid vapour, accompanying it through its journey out of the lungs.

“I know.”

Jackson shook his head, his finger pointed at a very conspicuous sign.

“I don't stick these to the walls for fun.”

“And here I thought you were just really into late nineties “don't smoke” posters. How foolish of me, huh?”

The woman pulled the cigarette away from her mouth, putting it out on the counter near a half-empty glass of martini. Jackson shook his head again, then looked at her, at those merciless eyes that were as blue as the summer sky, that magnetic purple hair that seemed so out of place, yet so fitting, the small beauty mark on her right cheek. Much could have been said about Jenn Husler, but not that she wasn't gorgeous or stunningly beautiful. She was perfectly aware of that, and the way she dressed was carefully constructed to emphasize her body and delicate features as a result. Someone who were to see her sitting at the counter, talking so casually with a man dressed like a colorblind dandy while haphazardly smoking a cigarette, could have easily asked themselves what led such a woman to a backwater place like Jackson's. The same someone would have been extremely surprised to find out the enigmatic owner of the place was, in fact, on speaking terms with her. And they also, probably, would have stuck around just to try to find out how the faceless proprietor got acquainted with such a marvel of nature. That someone, though, was certainly not the sharkman who was soundly sleeping on a couch near a small aquarium, after having thrown up his guts for the third time that evening. He couldn’t care less about Jenn, the cigarette smoke, or mysterious men in yellow suits.

Jackson quietly wiped away the ashes with a dustpan before sitting down on a stool, staring at the woman. Jenn smiled, her index finger caressing the rim of her half-empty glass in a circular motion.

“When Sambiong told me you opened up a cafe in New Langdon, I just couldn't believe it. I had to ask him twice if we were talking about the same person. But yet, here you are, running a perfectly successful business. You’ve got plenty of happy customers, many people who just come asking for life advice between a couple of cocktails… and hell, even kids begging you to tell them stories about that certain doomed emperor. You surely have to know their mom pretty well by now, right?”

Jackson tipped his yellow fedora, brushing off Jenn's insinuation. But in some regard, she was correct; Kia Takara and her two children were recurring customers of his small venue. He often offered himself to babysit the little troublemakers while their mother was out working. After all, a single mother with such rowdy kids could always use some help and company. Not the kind of company Jenn was thinking about, though. Well… not yet, at least.

“You ain't come here just to spout random gossip, I hope.”

“I'd love to say why, yes I did!, Vince... but that wouldn't be the truth. No more lies, remember? I genuinely wanted to have a word with you. About your... name of choice, if you understand what I mean.”

He nodded. When the two of them first entered St. Patrick SHIELD, after having crossed the Dead Zone, he had to choose a fake name to obtain a new ID. He instinctively went for Vincent Jackson, without even thinking. He didn't know why, at the time, but that name sounded at least somewhat familiar. He never questioned his choice, he had no reason to... until that man, that other faceless man, called him Vince, without even being told what his name was. That couldn't be a coincidence. Maybe that wasn't just some random name he came up with on the spot. Maybe, that really was his original name, before he was experimented on. Before becoming a nameless, faceless enigma, the living mystery who called himself “Johnson”. He could have looked into it, gathered any information he could about individuals with that rather unremarkable name, after everything returned to normality.

“Did you ever find out anything, Vince? About who you could have been, I mean?”

“Not willingly.”

For a long while, he resisted the urge to look into the matter, ignoring it as well as he could. But he knew he couldn't escape it forever. What if there really was a Vincent Jackson that disappeared ten years ago? What if that Vincent Jackson was a scumbag, or a criminal, or an amoral monster who committed unspeakable atrocities? The very thought made him shiver. Every night, on the screen of his phone, the search engine was open, that name typed out into the search bar, one tap away from all the information he deeply craved for. Yet, he was never brave enough. He couldn't push the button to start the search, and would just drift off to sleep after downing a glass of absinthe. That was, until…

“Serendipity is a nasty piece of work, Jenn. I tried to leave the world alone, but it didn't give me the same courtesy.”

Jenn chuckled.

“Seems we do have something in common, after all.”

Jackson crossed his arms, his elbows resting on the counter.

“It happened two weeks ago. The TV was switched on, I was trying to find the channel for one of those wrestling broadcasts. The Takara kids wanted to watch the rerun of the latest match starring Mr. Claws, or whatever that huge, dumb lobster is calling himself now. Frankly, they annoyed me so much that I was considering leaving them to Shaz's care... but then I would have been reported for child abuse, probably.”

Jenn brushed her hair with a swift gesture.

“You have my sympathy; I hate kids. Whatever happens, I don't want to get knocked up like Amy. I'd never play unprotected, if there is even one, single chance in a million of risking nine months of pain and a lifetime of arguing with a little shit, who maybe just so happens to look like me. But please, go on, don't get sidetracked by my absolute hatred for those petulant human puppies.”

Jenn quickly gulped down the rest of her Martini and stared into the blank eyes of the faceless man sitting in front of her, studying his reactions. Even without any details being visible, even within that black, featureless void, she could still feel something was amiss. She fell silent, waiting for him to continue. Jackson cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.

“While looking for the correct channel, I stumbled on an episode of Deep Blue. They were talking about Encorp. About a huge scandal that happened back in 2055, involving a man...”

Jackson paused for a long second, to catch his breath. His voice growing weaker, almost like a whisper.

“...with my same name.”

Jenn tilted her head to rest her cheek on her closed hand.

“...Yes, I remember that one. Vincent Jackson, former CTO of Encorp. The guy was caught red-handed greenlighting Medusa, a project meant to turn orphans into bioweapons. A shame he didn't succeed, from a certain point of view.”

Jackson took out a bottle of whiskey from the shelves, poured it into a glass for himself, took a small sip. Jenn reached out for the bottle, filling her empty glass too. Jackson looked to her, a mix of anger and resignation in his empty eyes.

“You knew it all along, didn't you?”

“Myself, Ange, Elena, Cyphr... Honestly, it’d be easier to count the people who didn't know about the Jackson Scandal. I'm surprised you went so long without stumbling upon it. And before you ask, it was you who begged us not to tell you anything about your past, even if we might have known or suspected something, since you apparently wanted to find out about it on your own. We just did what you told us to do. So stop with that inquisitive gaze, Vince. The only one you have to blame is yourself. I suppose this is what happens when ostriches keep their heads under the sand for too long: they get their butts burned, then blame the sun instead of their own stupidity.”

Jackson was too deep in shock to even be upset by Jenn’s backhandedness. He took another sip of whiskey, his voice trembled.

“This person... Vincent Jackson. They said he disappeared in 2055, ten years ago. Right after the scandal broke out, that is. Never to be found again. Ten years. A missing person with my same name. And with Encorp being a partner of the Schwarzer Blitz project... I...”

He went for the glass once more, but a hand stopped him. Jenn's hand.

“Look, Vince. First, there’s always a chance you aren't that Jackson. It could just be one big coincidence, even if the chances are pretty slim. Second, even if you were that Jackson… well, now you are this Jackson. You can't be held accountable for what you did in the past if you’re not even sure if you did that in the past at all. That said, if I were you, I would be proud of having been that person.”

She kept his hand among her fingers, her piercing gaze meeting his motionless eyes. Her voice became a whisper, shielded by the noises of the countless customers still strolling around the cafe.

“That’s why I came here today: because Ange and I finally found out more about him. About that Jackson, I mean. Do you want to hear the story, Vince?”

**

This time, they had to listen to him. He was the CTO, goddammit! No way, no way they'd greenlight something like that without consulting with him first. And yet…

“Oh, oh, oh! Look at who's here! Going somewhere, Vince?”

Jackson squinted his eyes, he gritted his teeth. The unmistakable thick French accent of Antoine François-Marie LeJarme, the head of the technical division. An idiot, like all of his kin, a parasite who crossed the British Channel to find fortune outside of his filthy, corrupted country. Long, greasy black hair, square glasses, an irritating smile that made you want to punch him. Jackson couldn't stand him. If it were up to him, LeJarme would have been chained to a block of concrete and thrown into the sea a long time ago. But, as he apparently was very acquainted with the daughter of the CEO, he was almost untouchable. Almost.

“LeJarme. Do me a favor and go fuck yourself. I don't have time for this, I need to talk with Mr. Ramanujan.”

“I'm afraid the CEO has no time for your little issues, Vince. He's too busy dealing with your... lack of cooperation.”

“Lack of cooperation?”

Jackson pulled LeJarme up by the collar of his suit, shoving him against the wall. The Frenchman shrieked.

“You made me approve the Medusa project with my own signature by omitting the key detail that we were going to perform experiments on orphaned children! ORPHANED! FUCKING! CHILDREN! For Christ's sake, LeJarme, how did any of you stupid techies think this was a good idea?!”

“They... they aren't even your children, Vince! I don't understand why you are so frustrated and...”

“MY SIGNATURE is on the goddamn approval papers, dumbass! If anything gets out of this place, I'll be the one thrown under the bus! And my wife! And my sons, dammit! We'll be ruined! But you know what? I won't let that happen. I'm going to expose your sorry ass to Mr. Ramanujan and the rest of the administrative board. I want to see you crawl like the worm you are, LeJarme.”

LeJarme smirked.

“Except, telling it to the CEO won't change anything. Who do you think approved my course of action, Vince? Come on, it's not THAT hard, even you can connect the dots, non?”

Jackson put him down, his fists clenched tight. LeJarme smiled again, adjusting his clothing.

“Good. Now–”

A powerful blow struck his cheek, his face deformed in a grimace of pain. LeJarme's body tilted unnaturally for a couple seconds, before twisting against the floor with a solemn thud, his glasses falling a moment later. Jackson breathed heavily, towered over him with tranquil fury. Then, stomped on the fallen glasses, shattering the frames with his heel.

A shriek, LeJarme shouted with an annoyingly high-pitched voice. Jackson didn't change his expression as he cracked his fists.

“You can go to HR, LeJarme. You can go and tell them what I did. But that won't stop me from thrashing you. Or your goddamn Medusa project.”

Having said that, he walked back, seemingly as calm as could be — seemingly being the keyword. If he couldn't convince the CEO, he had just one chance left. Not a pleasant one, sure, but when you’ve grown up among criminals, stealing food to make ends meet, you come to learn a thing or two about what is and what isn't morally acceptable.

**

“Soooo, lemme get this straight, Jacko...”

“Jackson.”

“Jacko.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. The man sitting in front of him was the farthest thing from an educated gentleman. In the first few minutes of their conversation, he had probably broken the world record for offensive expletives uttered in a single sentence. Yet, despite that, he was one of them. A member of Crossbones. They were a pretty young organization, founded less than one year earlier, but that was for the best. It meant that they were relatively unknown, flying under the radar. And the man who came to meet him was the scummiest scumbag one could have asked for. That man had green, dull eyes, scruffy reddish hair which gave him his moniker, and wore a long, ripped, brown trench coat, topped by a rusty peace medallion, like those which were common as Woodstock memorabilia. That man was Jerediah “Red” Horowitz. Former Mossad agent, court-martialed two times by the Israeli army, known for having little to no moral qualms… and for being exceptionally good at not leaving any trace. Overall, probably not the best choice for the job, but he needed someone expendable. Someone like him.

“You want me to sneak into your company’s experimental facility and sneak out a whole bunch of children?”

“Yes, precisely. Possibly killing that French pig LeJarme in the process. There's a bonus for that. Since he's my most valuable employee — on paper, that is — the company has a life insurance policy on him. That money is all yours, if you manage to make it look like an accident. I'll arrange everything.”

Red crossed his legs, his dirty boots messily hovering on the desk, arms held up behind his unruly fawn hair.

“That extra money is tempting, but I ain't gonna shoot some random French guy during this kind’a operation. It’ll already be hard to get all those kids out alive, y’know? Let me just handle that, I hate complications. Complications are bad for your health.”

He pulled out a self-rolled joint from his jacket, promptly lighting it up. The staunch smell of weed permeated the office, prompting Jackson to second guess his choices.

“Alright, Horowitz. Deal. You get those children out while I try to shut down the project in a proper way. If worst comes to worst, at least the children are safe... and there will be no evidence that Medusa ever involved them.”

“Payment in advance, ya know it, right?”

“Already on your bank account.”

Red exhaled a cloud of smoke, smiling absentmindedly.

“I like you, Jacko. I really like you. No nonsense, no bullshit, ready to get your hands dirty and pay everything up-front. If only all customers were like you...”

He stood up, joint between his lips, hands in his coat pockets.

“I'll act this evenin’. Quick and quiet. Be sure to turn off the surveillance cameras, or I can’t guarantee it’ll go without corpses. The security guards, I mean, not the kids.”

Jackson nodded.

“See you later, alligator! And don't forget to send me some extra grass at my address, if you’re happy with my work! That would be much appreciated, Jacko.”

After one last greeting, Red crossed the door and left the office, leaving a trail of smoke and an unpleasant smell behind. Jackson joined his hands, looking silently at a picture on his desk. A woman, two children. His family. He made a deal with a devil to save them, and he would do as many more as was needed, if that proved not enough. He closed his eyes and sunk into his chair. Everything was now in the hands of Horowitz.

**

“So in other words, while Ange and I were scouring through the archives of Crossbones for an unrelated matter, we found a tape, a tape recorded by none other than Red. That misfit hillbilly had captured his conversation with that Vincent Jackson, probably as insurance in case he denied his involvement in the operation. We learned that he was framed by Encorp once Medusa became public knowledge... some time after Red successfully rescued at least fifteen orphans who were being transported to their underground lab.”

“So, that means…”

Jenn nodded.

“That’s right. Vincent Jackson hired Red specifically to sabotage project Medusa. Whether he did it for the sake of saving innocent lives, or just to try and protect his own family, we don’t know… but in any case, it certainly seems like he wasn’t a monster.”

“Jackson, though, did disappear, correct?”

Jenn nodded again. Vince's eyes were filled with a strange sense of anticipation.

“Correct. He didn't manage to clear his name... and Encorp, of course, threw him under the bus. We found out that his wife and children changed their surnames and moved to another city. We could still track them, if we really wanted to. But at the very least, they are safe, this much is clear.”

The faceless man stood in silence, his fedora covering his face, his arms crossed. Jenn gulped down her whiskey, cracking a smile.

“So, then. Do you still feel bad about the chance of being that Jackson?”

Jackson paused to think for a moment.

“...How old was he, just for context?”

“Around fifty.”

Jackson's eyes widened.

“Fifty?! Come on, I can’t be that old! I'm thirty-five at most!”

Jenn tipped up his hat to reveal his bare scalp.

“Sure, thirty-five and completely bald?”

Jackson forcefully pushed his hat back down, growling like a beast.

“Hands. Off. My hat.”

She raised her glass with a sly expression, poured some more whiskey into it.

“That's the Vincent I know.”

He shrugged, grabbing his own drink. The two toasted, then gulped down the alcohol to the last drop. Jenn stood up, stretched her arms.

“So, what are you going to do now, Vince? Wanna learn more about that Jackson? Maybe go meet his wife? Make up for the lost time with a bit of horizontal tango after a sweet family reunion?”

“No.”

“Hm?”

Jackson sat up on the counter, looked at the ceiling and around the venue. There were still many people inside the bar, minding their own business or telling each other stories, the jukebox playing some melancholic jazz in the background. Teens, adults, men, women, singles, couples, and a snoring sharkman. At one table, he caught a glimpse of Kia Takara and her two children, happily playing with some toys while she was enjoying dinner. At another one, a shoiga casually chatting it up with two human girls. At yet another, two customers loudly discussing AI and robot rights.

A microcosm of thriving life, of human warmth. Every day, Jackson found something new to appreciate about this humble little place of his.

He cleared his voice, motioning to the crowd.

“You see this, Jenn? You see all of this? This is my world now. This is who I am.”

He tipped his hat, took a deep breath.

“While what you said helped me — truly helped me — the fact remains that I have no memories of my time before becoming Johnson. Like you said, I can’t be sure that that Jackson and I are the same person. I'll never be sure of it. Thus, it doesn't make sense to abandon what I have here to go out and stalk people who might have been connected to my previous self. They couldn't recognize me, and I wouldn't recognize them. I would create false hopes in them... and that wouldn't be me. It's better that that Jackson remains dead. And that this Jackson starts leaving his past behind.”

Jenn glanced at him, closed her eyes.

“You men are always so complicated, you know. One minute you want to know everything about your past, the next minute you want to leave it behind. And you lot still dare to say women are the obnoxious ones! But fine, have it your way...”

She opened her eyes again, blinked at him.

“... I prefer to see you smiling proudly than brooding like a rebellious, emo teenager.”

“You cannot see me smiling. Nobody can see my mouth.”

“Sure, but I can feel your smile, Vince. You can't hide it from those who care about you.”

On that final note, Jenn walked away, out the door and into the night. Jackson watched her as she stepped away, pondering the meaning of her words. But thanks to her, for the first time in months, in the comfort of his cozy, lively cafe, he was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was time he put the past to rest. His new journey had only just begun.