Beyond Jackson's - Eight Ball Call

April 2068. Vince and a bunch of other fathers meet for a quiet(?) billiard night at his cafe, talking about the challenges of being and becoming a parent.

Jackson aimed straight at the black ball. That eight was calling him, telling him to strike and close the match. It was easy, it had to be easy. A clean path to the goal, bereft of obstacles. Just strike white and send into the corner hole. Easy. Too easy. So, why were his hands sweating? Was it because of being observed?

Yes. Yes, of course.

All those gazes focused on him, waiting for him to fail like a wake of vultures foretasting a bite. Vultures, yes, all of them. Carrion eaters, even. All because of a bet, one he couldn’t lose. He breathed, adjusted the stick. The difference between having everyone’s tab on the house or emptying their pockets. If his guests’ pockets ever had any money tucked in, that is. Well, some of them had, of course—the same pockets which paid him for a while, years ago. Crossbones pockets. Deep, stuffed with cash with a dubious origin.

“Don’t worry, we always issue a regular receipt. Our lawyers say it’s all fine,” said Ange once when pressured. Sure, an itemized list of property protected, property destroyed, and human casualties. That was what Crossbones members meant as receipt, even when Jackson worked for them. If anything, all he did was gather intel and perform some non-lethal takedowns for a reasonable pay. Killing was not something he would have done lightly, not even for a bunch more money. He left that part to Chai and Ange, who were more than happy to make heads explode, might the need arise.

His hand stiffened.

Killing.

Did he really have no responsibility in the pile of corpses that stood by Crossbones’ feet?

Didn’t he help Rainer murder Saìl Takara?

Yes.

Yes, he did.

Not directly, no, but he did take active part in his ultimate demise. And Donner? Didn’t he kill a Donner too? Or was that ‘vanishing’ just a parlor trick? Jackson didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Ignorance, as they used to say, was bliss.

His grip on the stick relaxed, his aim steadied. Corner shot, an easy bounce with the cue ball, match over. He knew he could do it. He had done it so many times before, so many times he lost count, since he opened his cafe. Still, the gazes. The vultures. Those carrion guzzlers. Their hungry eyes, feasting on his uncertainty. All for a free drink or two. Or twenty. How could a neko down so much alcohol without becoming even a little bit tipsy? And how come his daughter went full drunk-and-pouncing-on-a-guy with just one cocktail? Yeah, no. She must have faked her tipsiness to get in Renzo’s pants and ravage him. That was her true nature, alright. French people couldn’t be trusted.

Nevertheless, her father was there, sitting in the same room, chewing a defused catnip joint in silence. That, of course, despite the clear, pristine, highlighted no smoking sign. Jackson had almost ripped it off his lips—almost—only for the neko in question to promise he wouldn’t light it. A compromise, one that sounded good enough on paper. Jackson glanced at him again, at that Reno Gattonero that was rumored to have spawned a regiment worth of children. Forty-seven years old, they said. Where? Where was that guy forty-seven? He packed abs like an olympic athlete, didn’t have a single gram of extra fat, sported a physique that would have made a Greek god cry. Yes, he had some wrinkles around his eyes and eye bags the size of shopping carts, but that was it. That shameless neko was resting shirtless on a chair, chomping his cigarette while everyone else was staring at the pool table.

“Come on, old man. Take your shot. I can’t stay the whole night, yes?”

And, of course, annoying Jackson to no end. Old man. Jackson’s nails almost sunk into the handle of the stick. Old man his ass. He was thirty-seven. Forty at most. Of course. Definitely. Certainly not fifty plus years old like that other Vincent Jackson that might or might not have been him. Sure. Definitely. Positively. He wasn’t fifty, not at all. So, the true old man was that obnoxious stripperiffic black-haired neko man, wagging his tail as if he owned the place. Another voice, younger (definitely not older than twenty-five), burst through the almost deserted cafe.

“Let him play, boss. You took five minutes for your last shot and still missed it.”

“Shut up, Renzo. You’re my daughter’s fuckboy, you should tell me I’m right! You owe me that much after you made me a gramps!”

Renzo. Reno. So similar, so different. Not just in name, no. Birds of a feather, after all. Renzo Rubecca, that dumb Italo kid that used to drink with Shaz, was now all dolled up—wearing an abysmal crop-top and jeans combo that bared his abs and arms. Husband material, Shaz had commented, so bloody hot, Vince! You can’t get it, you can’t! Bloody moonfish—if he didn’t come there with such a cutie neko, I would have su…

A headbutt had closed that discussion before it even started. A well placed headbutt was indeed Vince’s standard conversation ender, when he had to deal with Shaz’s antics. Still, on one thing his gay shark best friend was right: Renzo had turned from a scrawny music nerd to a sex appeal powerhouse that would have reaped girls wherever he walked. He was also a father of two.

A father of two.

Renzo.

A father.

Of two neko children.

The stick almost slipped away from Jackson’s hand.

No, that still felt wrong. It was as if the universe itself laughed at him. Renzo. A father. Renzo. Father. What were the chances of those two nouns being one and the same? Terrifically low. As low as winning the lottery without buying a ticket. As low as the chances of surviving a nuke by hiding into a washing machine. Yet, Renzo did indeed procreate. Before Jackson, even.

That felt.

Wrong.

Somehow.

Renzo. A father. Son in law of a chainsmoking neko. Who spread children like a kid would splash water. How many, now? Fifty? Fifty-one? Was the son of the Queen of England already born or not?

“Vince, can’t you just, you know, hit the ball? Putain, it’s taking you ages.”

Another voice, grating his nerves even more. French. Never trust the French. Ange “Skeleton” Skallen was no exception—if anything, he was the reason why Vince didn’t trust French people in the first place. Even without his frankly kitschy suit of armor, even without his skull mask, he was still behaving like he owned the place. To hell with him, thought Vince. After all, that annoying ‘friend’ of his had no say in the matter and he should have stayed silent. Jackson groaned. Yeah, he invited him out of courtesy, not because he really wanted to—or so he said to himself. Contrary to all the people assembled in that room, Ange was a father in name only. He had earned the right to take part in that dad-only-bonding-night, but not because of trying. On paper, he had to take care of Cyphr. In practice, Cyphr took care of him. Still, Jackson found amazingly disturbing how their strained relationship had turned into an almost parental one, an almost normal family. Ange’s blockheaded tomboyish adoptive daughter suddenly developed an emotional bond with him, against all the odds. All it took was for Ange to burn one of the guys who killed her real father to a crisp. Easy there, right? Everyone could do it. Parenting 101.

“Give him time, Ange, will you? You’re stressing him too much.”

“I don’t talk with furries, Sambiong.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

“…I know what I said.”

In that moment, in that precise moment, Vincent Jackson snapped.

“Enough!”

He felt the urge to throw the stick as a makeshift spear and pierce Ange right in one eye. He abruptly turned to face him, the French idiot that just drunk too much and was falling back into his old racist patterns. Jackson pointed his fingers at him, his voice turned up by several decibels.

“Talk to Sambiong like that once again and Cyphr will need to book an undertaker for you. I have a discount voucher, courtesy of Yard. Don’t make me want to use it, okay?”

Ange grumbled something under his breath, shook his head, went back to sitting. Yeah, no, it was the alcohol talking for him—as usual. Ange was such a moron. During his worst drunken moments, Shaz performed his signature penicopter in front of a bunch of scared patrons—nothing that the vice squad couldn’t deal with. But Ange? All of his flaws were amplified one hundredfold, to the point of making Vince wishhe just had to deal with a rapidly spinning shark dick. Sure, not the best mental image, but mostly harmless, most of the time. Heck, some people might even have enjoyed that sight—he wasn’t judging. But a grumpy French guy spouting old-timey racist stereotypes about mutants? No, that’s where he drew the line. Jackson turned back to the pool table. Better hit that cue ball and end that suffering, alright. He gripped the stick, slowly aimed again, pulled back, pushed forward, then back again, then…

He stopped.

Yeah, no. Ange? Drinking that much? There had to be something behind. Sure, he was a moron, but not of the liver-threatening kind. If Ange drank till the point of spouting nonsense, something was the matter. That would normally have been a job for a good psychologist—not for the owner of a cafe. However, if something annoyed Ange to that point, it would have had an effect on Cyphr, which would have had an effect on Lejl, and, therefore, on his commercial activity. So, against his better judgment, he decided to turn around and ask.

“…okay, Ange, what did your daughter do, this time?”

Ange clicked his tongue, shook his head, groaned.

“Nah, nothing. My Cyphr didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just, you know, worrying a little.”

“As usual.”

“She’s an artist, Vince. She had a good job at Delta Team but threw everything away instead. How can she live like that?”

Jackson steadied his aim. Alright. Worrywart Ange. Nothing serious. He could definitely ignore him and go on with his match. Or at least he would have, if Ange didn’t keep talking and breaking his focus.

“How can she make a living, Vince? You aren’t paying that gremlin stripper of her girlfriend enough to be the breadwinner in the family! So, how?”

Jackson considered throwing one of the billiard balls at him, striking right onto the forehead. He paid decent salaries, all things considered, so that remark came way out of left field. It was almost insulting. Almost. But, again, drunken Ange. So, ignore and go on it was.

“How?”

Jackson gritted the teeth that nobody could see, that lie under the black blur that was his face. He breathed. Once. Twice.

“How?”

“Easy…”

Alright, that was enough. Time to drop the bomb and silence that annoying voice.

“…by painting graphic robophiliac porn for stuff like ‘Metal/on/Metal’ and ‘Grinding Gears’, and then—why not?—full nude portraits of neko celebrities. They fetch a good money, you know? People got tired of computer-synthesized crap, so artists like her are in high request. Trust me, Ange, she’s not starving. If anything, she might be making more than me and you combined.”

“…the life of an artist… isn’t that unstable, Vince? There is no safety. No security. What if she’s not trendy anymore? Who will pay her bills?”

Jackson groaned once more. Yeah, okay, sure. Art is ephemeral and career artists even more so. But that? That was a terrifying overreaction to a situation that was, all in all, still quite good. Last Jackson heard, Cyphr had landed a comfortable contract with the publisher of the ‘Metal/on/Metal’ magazine for thirty-six issues—three years worth of commissions. All thanks to that work of hers, In his cold embrace, going viral. That painting portrayed a young woman with very long hair tenderly hugging a machine, while having sex with it in a state of otherworldly bliss. In short, the perfect picture to kickstart the de-facto manifesto of robotfuckers. No, Cyphr had found a goldmine and was digging it full time, while also extending her services to other similarly aligned publications. A Lone Cub exclusive picture was worth enough that it made Jackson reconsider his life choices. If he learned to draw girls railed by multi-armed tentacle machines as masterfully as Cyphr did, he would have solved all of his financial woes for decades to come. That, though, didn’t seem to be quite enough to comfort Ange.

“I tell you Vince, art is good and all, but she should find a better, more stable job. Put together lunch and dinner reliably, no starving artist bullcrap. If only she kept working for Delta…”

“Okay, stop, Ange. Stop. She’s an adult, right? An adult. Let her deal with it. She’s not alone, right? Just.. let her live her life, mistakes and all. Let her try. Worse case scenario… she still has you, right?”

Empty words, maybe. Nevertheless, the words Ange needed to hear. Jackson didn’t think Cyphr’s career was a mistake at all, but Ange was like that—old fashioned, hard-working. Finding the right way to pierce to his thick skull was a challenge for the ages, especially because—against all the odds—he truly did care for that absolute blockhead of a tomboy he almost adopted. At Jackson’s retort, though, he fell into an uncomfortable silence, hunched forward on his knees.

“Look, Vince… you aren’t a dad yet. We’ll talk when your daughter’s born.”

“Jake and Hiro are my children too.”

“Yes, but with a daughter… it’s not the same thing as two boys. Say, what will you do the moment your li’l Ann starts sleeping around like my Cyphr did?”

Jackson would have liked to answer that moment won’t come, but he knew that it couldn’t be the case. Humans were humans. A teen daughter was a teen daughter. Curious. Craving for new experiences. Yeah, it was going to happen, alright. The best he could do was prepare his premium crowbar and, maybe, start getting in touch with the fishface mafia. Of course, only in case he had to hide a corpse. Yeah, that was it. Not that bad of an option, no. If only all problems had such easy solutions, the world would have been a better place.

“Speaking of Jake…”

Sambiong’s voice. Jackson lost his focus again, turned slightly towards that obnoxious, slit-eyed, muscular, humanoid feline.

“Yes?”

“…he keeps asking about Jill. About what she’ll look like when she’s older.”

Jackson’s nails almost scratched the handle once again, a shiver ran down his spine. Jill. Tiger’s baby girl. One and a half years old. Yeah, his little six-years-old Jake was fascinated by her, even too much. Jackson’s wife, the kid’s mother, didn’t see anything wrong with it, but he did. Jill Sambiong was going to become a one-of-a-kind creature that didn’t exist before, a full-furred catgirl with mixed human traits. Jackson’s gut feeling told him something, something about a future that could not be avoided, a future that caused his found family to mingle with that of his tiger-shaped long time friend. That, if possible, made him shiver more. An catnip-burned, abrasive voice, though, forced him to snap out of those destructive thoughts.

“Guys, you should stop worrying. A parent can’t control his kids, alright? If I could, do you think I would have let my Claire get knocked up by this idiot here?”

A groan. Renzo barked loudly, squinted his eyes at the sprawled neko that just insulted him.

“This idiot here can hear you, boss.”

“As it should be. It was on purpose, idiot.”

Typical Reno Gattonero style. He rushed into the conversation with a reckless tackle, causing Jackson to almost snap his stick in half. Almost. Before he could, though, that middle-aged neko decided that his previous torpedo wasn’t enough to seal the deal and doubled down.

“Look, Vince… After your third kid, you stop caring about who they’ll fuck when they get older. What’s important is that you teach them how to use a rubber or the pill. Even if you do, theywon’t listen anyway. And pounce on the first semi-hot boy that happens to be around.”

Vitriol. Jackson frowned. Pure, unadulterated vitriol. There was no other way to describe, to fathom the depths of Gattonero’s resentment—one that must have been amplified by the place, that same cafe where his daughter jumped on Renzo, thus conceiving their two children. All thanks to Shaz, that absolute shark-shaped environmental hazard.

“Little missy wanted to feast on that Renzo-bonanza, that was cleeeaar as heck, Vince! I just gave her a chance, yes? Hook, line, sinker, and score!”

And child support, with added concrete risk of being shot dead by an angry neko dad. Well done, Shaz. Well done. If Reno Gattonero ever heard the full story, he would have probably sued both of them—with the power of the Queen of England on his side. In hindsight, the stunt Shaz pulled was a potentially catastrophic, career-ending blunder. If Queen Vivi… if she ever decided that taking revenge for Claire and Renzo hooking up was in her cat-DILF lover’s best interest…

Jackson pushed his hat against his head, trying to stop the vertigo. Absolute death. They were done for. Dead and buried in debt. Forevermore. He would have become a beggar on the streets, together with Shaz, trying to make ends meet and living off charity. The prospect of his life being razed by a lawsuit brought by the crown of England was terrifying. In his heart, he secretly hoped that Renzo wasn’t such an absolute moron and that he wouldn’t spill the beans in front of his royal almost-mother-in-law (who was also younger than him ,but that was inconsequential). Otherwise, Jackson’s happy life, the life he fought tooth and nail to achieve, would have be destroyed faster than he could say ‘bloody moonfish’.

“It becomes easier after a little while.”

Renzo. Barging in, with the same grace as his shameless father in law. At that point, Jackson had given up on hitting the cueball. If anything, the stick he held among his hands could have doubled as a very useful baseball bat, one just long enough to smash it on the face of that young moron. Still, since he himself was the one who invited all of them to his cafe (what even possessed him to do that?), maybe, just maybe, he could have at least listened. Renzo sat on the border of the billiard table, adjusted his spiky hair with a wide, scenic gesture—one that outlined his chiseled body even more.

Shaz would have salivated and dripped droplets on the floor at that sight. Dumb gay shark, always down for some perky human abs.

“After Claire came home with Liam and Myrike… well, I had some bad nights. No sleep, much crying, Claire swearing in French in my ears... hell, Vince. Hell. But now? I can’t think about not having them around. They’re still small, and changing their diapers is icky, but I love them, my kittens. We love them. Heck, even Reno here does.”

“They’re my kid’s kids, of course I love them—even if you’re the dad.”

Jackson nodded, pushed his hat back on his head.

“Congratulations, and so? What’s the deal?”

He felt warmth. Renzo’s hand. Patting his wrist.

“Stop worrying too much, Vince. You’ll find the solution when you have the problem. Worrying beforehand… well, it ain’t worth it.”

Jackson sighed, focused on the cue ball again. Life advice from Renzo. Sound life advice. The world was turning upside down, right? That had to be it. He sighed again. Renzo. Tiger. Ange. Heck, even Reno Gattonero. They all went through it, they all were going through it. All of them without a guide, without someone that told them what was right or wrong. All of them survived. Their kids too. And he had Kia at his side. His Kia. That ring on his finger was reminding him of that every day.

He smiled.

Nobody could notice it under the pitch dark mess of his face, but he did smile. Alright, yeah. All of them there (except one) had been parents for less than three years. All of them (again, except one) where basically swimming in the dark and still finding a light to guide their path. All of them there (this time, all all) knew how hard it was. Despite that, they went on and laughed together, drunk together, joked together as if they weren’t working the hardest job in the world.

Jackson slowly aimed his stick, let it slide between his fingers. It was finally time to call the pocket and shoot the eight-ball.

“Ball in the top right pocket.”

He flicked the stick, hit the white.

Whatever the result, it would have been worth the wait.