jackson

Her apartment is sluggishly warm. She doesn’t bother to turn on the AC and its incessant metallic death-rattle, opening a window instead to let in the night air. “Fuck, did you? What’s the Grand Canyon like? Seems overrated if you ask me. Just a bunch of dirt that’s a different height to some other dirt.” Jackson’s silent question is responded to with a nod accompanied by a shrug, indifferent to wear he decided to rest his head. Hana takes off her shoes and pads in still-damp socks to the kitchen, floor tiles cool underfoot. She yanks the fridge door open and plucks the two remaining bottles of water from the shelf, turning only to pause, taking in the sight of bare chest and tattoos. “Sounds like the start of a porno,” she muses with a smirk, tossing him a cold bottle, condensation dampening the plastic. “If you want to, sure. Doesn’t bother me but if you’ve got nothing better to do than live out your best repairman fantasies, go for it.” 

Disappearing again for a moment, she ventures into her room and picks up an assortment of items: an old blanket from the wardrobe that smells like chemical-sweet teenage body spray; a pair of baby pink Gucci sweatpants that would likely end at the top of his shin; a makeup wipe and a half-empty packet of aspirin. “Here.” She passes him the former two and sets the medicine down on the coffee table for him to take in the morning ( she’d be more than surprised if he got out of this hangover-free ). Dutifully taking off her makeup, liquid liner turning to black streaks, Hana hesitates before asking, “Did you really kill your dad?” He certainly wouldn’t be the first murderer she let into her home, nor, she doubted, would he be the last. 

The things he misses about Arizona are far and few between. Jackson wasn’t the sort of person that got hung up on a place, environments were ever-changing and nostalgia associated with them didn’t sit well in his stomach. It would only bore him, remaining fixated on one place and a particular moment in his life. Arizona makes him think of his childhood, a lot of confusion and miscommunications that issued him to run away as fast as he could the second he got his first car. “Yup,” he nods, sitting back up and stretching his arms, “It’s grand, I guess? Last time I went I fell into a fucking huge cactus and had to go to the hospital to the spines removed from my arm. I’ve always had two left feet.” Scowling at Hana, he grabs the nearest cushion in his reach and launches it at her face, “get your head out the gutter, I only talk about pornos with girls after the... like, the fifth date maybe.” The hunk of broken machinery hanging from her wall may not have bothered her, but for Jackson, it’s redundancy certainly troubled him. “Ok, well if it’s not bothering you then it won’t be good repayment to fix it,” by he was definitely still going to fix it, “I owe you a favour, just please nothing that involves dead bodies, I’m still a little traumatised from the last time.”

Hana pulls a face at the expected retort, adding an amused “fucking immortal mutant cat” under her breath, exhaling a light laugh that she hopes loses itself to the sea breeze. A lopsided smile lingers on her lips, its home made in the corner of her mouth.  Less sharp than usual. More comfortable. “Not sure I’m making it onto the Forbes Rich List but, yeah, I guess I’ve always wanted to make money. Shit’s not cheap and it’s nice to live comfortably, you know?” Shifting her weight, she stretches out her legs with a grimace at the uncomfortable feeling of her damp jeans sticking to her skin. “You owe me a story, Jacky-boy. It had better be a good one.” 

The edge of her mouth twitches upwards. Nice. Certainly not the sort of word she’s used to having stuck to her like a hello my name is… nametag. Predictable, perhaps, would be a better choice it seemed. Jackson was right; the majority of her actions stemmed from wanting a fresh stack of bills in her pocket or the digits in her bank account rounded up to the nearest thousand. Money meant security and security meant being able to rely on herself and do as she pleased. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hana responds, voice low in warning. Something close to concern flickers across her expression. Jackson’s carefree nonchalance was typically a source of entertainment but not on this occasion. “Take it from me, you have information. You think your band of merry mutants is the only gang in Miami? People would pay a fine price to figure out how to get to your boss.” The lapping of waves briefly follows her sentence until she cuts through the quiet with an unnecessary laugh as if to dismiss the seriousness of what she’d said. Pocketing her phone, she lets him haul her up onto her feet and responds to being called Hannah Montana with an electric shock to both his palms. 

The Uber she orders smells of someone else’s McDonald’s, the scent clinging to the air as the driver’s playlist shuffles between Billie Eilish and The Killers in a half-hearted attempt to please the two members of captured audience sat in the sticky leather backseats through appearance alone. Hana stifles a yawn as she watches the city lights dance past the window, a quick gracias uttered when the car comes to a stop. “The AC’s not working right,” she informs Jackson, climbing up the stairs to her apartment, keys jangling in her hand as she wriggles one in the lock until it succeeds, the familiar squeak of hinges welcoming her home, not needing to press the light switch for the lamp to turn on. 

Truthfully, Jackson didn’t know or would ever pretend to understand the fixation other people had with money. It was never an element of life he’d pandered to, happily donating any spare cent he had to mutant charities whilst he lived his life on the road and spent his nights sleeping on the reclined seat of his old car, “Not really,” he confesses, “I’ve never had a lot of money, and you can’t miss what you’ve never had. I favour freedom over comfort.” Though even he can’t deny a Mustang wouldn’t go a miss. “I have lots of good ones,” he speaks through a wide toothy grin, eyes lit with certain mischief that intoxication does well to ignite. “There’s the time I impersonated a mayor so I could incriminate him because he was a dick... the time I stole a flamingo from the zoo... the time I killed my dad- Nah! Just kidding, I never stole the flamingo, that would be crazy.” The latter part of his listings was entirely sarcastic, though his enthusiasm made it tricky to tell. 

“I know we’re not the only mutant gang in Miami,” words slip like melted butter before he could apprehend the gravity of his statement. But of course, he had information, valuable details about the other gangs who had joined in the move down south, the names of their bosses, even some of their members and their powers... he had a lot of information that would be worthy to the right person. Scrunching up his face and exhaling deeply, he fixes Hana with a look that begs her to move past his loose lips, “figuratively speaking... I mean I’m sure there’s a lot of mutant gangs everywhere... so, yeah. Hey, I’m a dumbass.” A dumbass who was unquestionably a stronger link in The Jem Family assemble. It’s the reason Damien had burdened him with the task to go and scout the person that would seemingly replace his best friend. The same person who Damien knew was a dangerous qualified interrogator. If it came down to it, he would trade his life to protect Damien’s and that ensured low risk towards the gang if things did turn sour. His whole body jolts in reciprocation of the shock, dampened palms causing it to sting a little more than normal, tasting the sharpness in his gums and the roots of his teeth, “ouuuuch, dude, you gotta stop doing that or I’m gonna figure out how to mimic it real quick.” 

TASK 2 / WORLDBUILDING || Golden Palms Motel 

She answers his question with a shrug, a smooth evasion away from the suggestion that she should share something with him. Being guarded is a natural instinct. Rarely does she plan to be more than a flesh wound; grazed skin that scabs quickly, an inconvenience, sure, but she doesn’t leave a mark. Solitude is safety where Hana is concerned – which is why she struggles to agree to join his gang and why she struggles, even more, to give in to Jackson’s tenacious attempts at getting to know her. “Isn’t there some sort of saying about curiosity and a cat with a bad ending?” she points out airily, the smirk pulling at one corner of her mouth fainter than its predecessors. She falls silent for a moment, thoughts accompanied by the sounds of the sea on the shore, giving in to the memories his prompts were coaxing out of slumber. “I used to make popsicles using the shitty knee-high freezer we had. Saved up the juice boxes from school, added water, used plastic straws as sticks. Sold ‘em to the kids at the pool in the summer. Happy?”

His surprise is unexpected. In her head, it had made sense to reward him with a kiss but as she eyes him semi-cautiously now she realises that Jackson might not have realised his kindness. “Payment,” she responds dismissively, nonchalant as she turns her attention towards the inky blackness of the ocean and ignores the weight of his gaze on her. “I owed you. Simple as that. Don’t get hung up on it.” Elbows resting on her knees, Hana exhales a laugh. “Your dog sounds like me.” The confession he shares lingers in the salt-breeze air and is met with a frown that sweeps across her brow, returning her line of sight to the messy-haired male beside her. She has to remind herself that he’s drunk, although that fact fails to succeed in persuading her that he doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Fuck. Why?” Considering their short history, there was very little there that she could imagine had painted her as even remotely trustworthy. With a snort, she pulls her phone from her back pocket and awaits his address, only to cast a blank stare in his direction. “Right. The one with the sign and the palms. That narrows it down to… just under a hundred?” Searching Miami motel, she reads through the list in the hope of jogging his memory, “Rodeway Inn? Miami Sun? Motel Blu? Econo Lodge?” When her efforts begin to seem futile, she stops scrolling and lets the screen fade to black. “Fine. If you can’t remember where you live because you’re a fucking idiot, you can crash at mine. But no funny business, this is not an invitation to a sleepover.”

In their brief encounters, he’d mastered one thing and made sure to memorise it well. Hana wasn’t an open book, nor would she ever be a person that would willingly reveal her true self with good intentions and his genuine interest. Getting to know her, properly, was going to take time and effort, but neither elements made Jackson want to shy away, if anything it only grew his original interest. “But satisfaction brought it back,” he retorts, smirk chorusing in his voice. It’s not what he had pictured when poised with the proposition of Hana in her childhood. He invents of a girl that had been secluded, a little melancholy and opinionated. Maybe the sort of kid that stole your pokemon cards when you weren’t looking rather than building an empire from juice cartons. And yet, it obviously makes a lot more sense than his own presumptions, and for that reason, he’s very glad she’d shared it with him, “so you’ve always been a businesswoman. I’m very happy, thank you. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll give you another story of my run-ins with the law on our way home.”

The edge of her mouth flicks upwards. It’s brief amusement. Fleeting. She doesn’t blink, not immediately, squaring her gaze with Jackson’s as if trying to figure out what’s happening inside his head. Sometimes she envies telepaths and their all-too-easy way of understanding what people mean. “You’re acting like you know me,” Hana tells him, uncertain if his assumption was alcohol-infused or a little more heart-formed. Admittedly, he’s not wrong. She likes money. Money is material. Money can be counted. Money relies on a simple transaction, one party to another, no room for misinterpretation or misunderstanding. She’s not sure how to feel at the news that he’s been fighting her corner, requesting she receives what she’s asked Damien for, and before she can let her feelings settle in place, he meets her bragging with agreement. 

It’s confusing. But, at the same time, it isn’t.

Hana doesn’t let herself think too hard. The decision to respond to his kindness with one of the few signs of affection she knows is swift. Stretching onto her toes, fingers pressing against his shoulders, she kisses him. Just once. Not enough to give him time to react but she didn’t need that; he didn’t need that, either. This was a one-way transaction. More confusing than money, sure, but that was her reward of choice. Jackson, clearly, was a man caught up in matters of the heart. “Your dog will like me,” she responds, delayed, with certainty, heels lowering to the sand, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand before sitting down.

“Wow.” The single syllable sound is dragged out to the length of three, picking at a loose thread on the inside of her seawater-heavy sneaker, not needing to look at Jackson to tell that he has a crescent-moon-shaped grin plastered on his face. She can hear it in his voice, warm and full. In the short amount of time he’s spent bothering her, she’s learned a reasonable amount about him. “You almost definitely should not have told someone who interrogates people for a living that shellfish disagrees with you. Dummy.” Dark lashes narrow as he sits up, the temptation of allowing the chaos to unfold almost impossible to say no to – but Hana shakes her head, dismissive. “The only place you need to find is your fucking bed, you mess. Where do you live? The giraffe enclosure at the zoo? I’ll order you an Uber.”

“Sorry, I study people a lot, it’s a habit,” Jackson failed every time to acknowledge when he was in the act of picking someone apart, categorising the characteristics of their appearance, their personality traits, the way they talk, their movement when they walk. It’s just as natural to him as breathing, absorbing what it was that constructed other peoples identities in the psychical concept. Maybe it’s why he felt he had somewhat of an insight into understanding others from their own unique perspectives. Still, he wasn’t so naive to think that his own perceptions of a person were law, there’s almost always more than what met the eye. Memories and secrets that lurked deep within the inner clockworks that made someone who they were, such things that Jackson would never be able to obtain to replicate that belonged solely to that person. “Why don’t you tell me something I wouldn’t know about you?” the suggestion is voiced with intrigue, brown eyes locked on her own, “anything, your favourite movie, a hobby you used to do as a kid, I’m curious.” 

This time Hana’s touch doesn’t shock, but freezes him. Perfectly unmoved and still from the second gentle lips left his own and force his mind to wonder if her actions that befell so suddenly were reality or fiction. It was arduous to tell when the sheer amount of alcohol consumed presented his thoughts to sink away into the void of his subconscious as if his brain had transformed into a bucket of quicksand. “What was that for?” his index finger brushes across his bottom lip to test if the sticky residue of cherry lipgloss was actually there or a figment of his own imagination. It quietly validates him that the lacquer-like substance transfers to his fingertips, a fleeting grin washed away with the continuation of their conversation as he’s learned not to dwell with her, “I dunno,” he rallies, no longer bewildered or perplexed by his perceptions implying he was in some unfathomable daydream, “it depends on how many treats you’re gonna bring when you first meet her.” 

Penelope listened. For a moment, she just forgot she was at the beach, under the stars. All she could imagine was how it would be like to live in Chicago. How powerless, how controlled, how unfree they must’ve all felt — it was like Penelope could feel all of that, even without having experienced it, just by imagining. And she hated it. “All powers are threatening in one way or another if you think about it. Maybe not, like… In a destructive kind of way. But if someone knows how to really use their powers, they’re threatening.” Penelope shrugged at her own words — although she did believe what she said, she was speaking from a place where she didn’t know what it was like to live the way Jackson had described. “Or maybe I’m just talking shit because I never lived in Chicago as a mutant.” And Penelope had to let her mind wander and wonder what her life would be like if Avery and she had been born in Chicago. “No wonder you wanted to leave.” And yet, there was something in the back of her mind that kept telling her that there had to be a reason why so many people moved from one place to another at the same time, what they had brought with them — and what it meant for Miami.

“That’s good to know.” Penelope smiled at him, a playful (perhaps flirty) tone lacing her words. Maybe she was being too careless, allowing herself to not think of how much she didn’t trust other people even if only for a little bit — but she enjoyed talking to the other mutant. Yeah, I do. I mean, just imagining what I would do if I had your power… I’d turn into any famous person and get free stuff. You can literally change your face if you ever get tired of it or are just not feeling it that day,” Penelope spoke casually before she quickly realized how her words could come out, “well — not that you have a reason to.” She let out a nervous chuckle, mentally slapping herself. Nice save, Penelope. “I can imagine. Are you speaking from experience?” Her eyebrow quirked up, a curious and devious look in her eyes as she waited to hear all about that story. “I’d be easy?” The woman repeated his words, letting out a laugh. “I’ll try and take that as a compliment.”

He continues to comb his fingers through the sand whilst listening to her speak, soft and gentle voice complimented by the crash of waves which almost drag his attention from the topic and onto something more sincere and admirable. Penelope was the type of person who seemed genuine, a gravitational pull that could make other’s orbit around her with little effort or consideration. It’s natural, he’d realised, no tricks or fakery like himself and his own powers. “So... do you know how to really use your powers? And what is it anyway, like just meteor summoning or something?” The question was voiced by a legitimate interest, he’d been around a lot of mutants in his time. In cities, small towns, even in the prison blocks, but he’d met no one with a power that was centred outside of Earth. “I don’t think you’re talking shit,” he protested politely, nodding his head agreeing in recognition of Penelope’s hypotheses. “I never really wanted to stay there, or anywhere,” he laughed, nose crinkling at the image of his younger self who would undoubtedly judge him harshly for his later life choices of settling and acting like a normal member of society, “I got stuck there, it’s nice to be in a new place again.” 

Light colour flushes his cheeks, face then stained with a pink tint his eyes dart back to the waves where at least he could hide sudden embarrassment or flattery or whatever the hell her flirtation made him feel. “Eh, well you’ve got to be careful with the famous people because you don’t want to cause a scene, y’know? Like if someone catches Kim Kardashian getting free drinks at a bar in Miami that’s gonna be a little off- especially if she’s posting Instagram stories of herself in LA,” he’s definitely speaking from experience, not so much that he’d impersonated a Kardashian but more so that he’s been pushing the limitations of his powers since he was a young teen and has learned the risks the hard way. Jackson looks back to her, lips pursed pensively, “Hmm, well I don’t think you would have much of a reason to either. There’s nothing wrong with you face.” That was as good as Jackson’s flirting got, at least without any alcohol to boost his ego past the point of caring what someone might think of his cheesy pickup lines and awkward demeanour. “Absolutely, I used to do a lot of weird things for money in my early twenties,” he’d leave it there, sticking to his unspoken rule of one embarrassing story from his past per conversation. “Uh huh, probably couldn’t pull off the meteor throwing thing though, that would take a fuck load of practice. Everything else though? Easy.” 

It was character building. Penelope couldn’t help but be overwhelmingly curious about what had happened to Jackson at the hands of normal people. The woman knew that, as she was growing up, if it weren’t for Avery, then she wouldn’t have known what not being afraid of being her felt like. And now, with Tatiana… Her parents might have shown her the bad parts about someone but, in a way, it did build characters, she supposed — it told her that she didn’t need either of them in her life and that being kicked out was the best thing that could have happened to both her and Avery. Jackson’s next words, however, caught Penelope’s attention more than his vague description of what the humans had done to him. “There was a curfew back in Chicago?” Those words left her lips almost as a whisper, disbelief lacing every syllable. “Was it for everyone or just… people like us?” Penelope couldn’t tell if she was more curious or more shocked about the whole thing. 

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Penelope mused, giving him a small smile and purposedly leaving her words vague. Maybe it was because she had standards, but it wasn’t the only reason why it was so hard for her to let anyone —- she just didn’t trust people easily. When the two people that were biologically programmed to love her and her brother had been so quick to turn their backs on them, wash their hands off of having to look after them, what kept someone from having little to no connection from doing the same? After he admitted his power, Penelope just kept her eyes on him, looking at every little bit of his face, trying to look for something that gave him away. “Is this the real you or are you… someone else right now?” Her question was half a joke and half a real, curiosity laced one. “So, you can turn into any animal or person? That’s so fucking awesome,” Penelope began, letting out a small chuckle and shaking her head. At that moment, to her, the whole meteor shenanigan had already disappeared to the back of her mind, “you can just be… anyone. Anything. Does it come with the voice or do you have to train for that?” 

Penelope let her next words settle in her mind before she actually spoke them but not really leaving any time between them and her previous ones “Can you turn into me?” She wondered out loud, keeping her eyes on him.

Curfews, ranking systems, the little freedom a mutant had lived in Chicago still knocks him sick. Yet he was one of the lucky ones, a level three at least could leave their home after 8PM, they still had access to locations that level four or fives absolutely did not. It’s almost trivial to him that mutants in other places in the states had no idea of the neglect happening in other places, it’s probably why he felt this burning desire to join Damien and the Jem Family who believed so truly in Mutant liberation, it gives him a light to avenge his former self, locked away in a cage and poked at by scientists all day. “Only for mutants, if you were considered low risk and your powers are ‘non-threatening’ then the restrictions were minimal. If they were scared of you then you couldn’t do shit,” he explained, tilting his head in the curiosity of what Penelope would make of it all. “It was like being treated as a child.. or a ticking time bomb. But, rules were made to be broken.” 

“Yeah, this is me. No creative license going on here,” he confirms with a laugh, only because it would be exhausting to stay in a shift for so long based solely on vanity. It’s not a trait Jackson possesses, to obsess over his appearance like her were a show pony to impress those around him, he’d rather be himself and be accepted for that, tacky clothing choices and all. “You think?” he certainly didn’t. Not when he was sat next to the woman that had dragged an actual meteor out of the sky and thrown it back up again with what seemed to be little to any effort. It’s times like these that Jackson couldn’t help but feel he was plagued with one of the most stereotypically mundane powers in the books, or perhaps he’s just lived with it for so long that anything else starts to sound more interesting. “Personally I had to practise on the voice and mannerisms, but sure, I can do voices too. I’m a tough one to beat and an impersonation contest,” which he has absolutely competed in in the past to make some quick cash. “Usually people ask for Bowie or something first,” he laughed, nose crinkled, “sure, you’d be easy.” 

He evades giving a proper answer in the same way she would have if posed with the same question, except he perhaps does so with a little more delicacy. Hana settles Jackson with a stony, unimpressed stare that wavers like the air over tarmac on a hot day: you could watch it shift if you knew where to look. All this time spent hounding her, she had wrongly assumed he would pick the latter. Pleasing Damien seemed important to him. Apparently there were some things that were more important. “Oh,” she responds, momentarily ruffled, attempting to regain some sort of sense of self by adding, “that’s a dumb answer, you might have persuaded me to join your rejected mutant tribute act if you’d chosen the other one.” A faint smile toys across her lips despite the criticism, crossing her arms over her chest ( a defensive stance, certainly, but from what she wouldn’t dare to utter aloud: receiving unexpected affection makes her uncomfortable ). “I’m a fucking delight,” she says decisively. “Of course you like spending time with me.” Dark eyes flash with temptation at the opportunity to rip into the name of his ex-lover but Hana performs an uncharacteristic act of restraint, adhering to his request. “Okay.”

Her revenge does little to placate her when she realises she’s sacrificed her stack of bills for the sake of pushing Jackson. The ocean around them is dark, unable to tell whether the money was still tucked somewhere beneath his water-logged clothes or rapidly sinking into the waves. “Fuck,” she drawls out slowly, unable to be truly mad when a drunk man was giggling beside her. Dragging heavy feet through unstable sand, Hana matches Jackson’s grin in celebration of her victory and snatches a handful of his t-shirt as he struggles to stand up straight. “Yeah?” she tries not to sound too pleased that her attempt to cheer him up had been successful, scoffing as the tail end of his sentence. “Baby, I’m flattered, but not even I’m powerful enough to electrify the entire ocean.” Pulling on the fabric clasped in her fist, she attempts to guide him to the safety of the top of the beach and sits down heavily with an exhausted sigh. “You owe me two grand, Jacky-boy.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t, you’ll only say yes if there’s money,” the words fall naturally in response to Hana’s own proposition, the sort of answer that didn’t require time for consideration. Jackson had liked to have thought he’d analysed that aspect of her well enough by now, it’s what her world seems to revolve around, digits that can offer greater security than loyalty and family. “Don’t worry,” he begins with a shrug, drunken mind speaking a sober heart in terms of crumbling down any sense of a barrier between his integrity and true opinions, “I keep telling Damien if he’s serious then he’s going to have to put the money where his mouth is. It’s only fair, if someone is making you an offer then you want to it be better than your current situation, that’s not rocket science.” Spoken like a real gambler, he sets his serious talk to one side as fast as it arose and replaces it with a light favourable confirmation, “Mhm, you’re pretty cool.” Tilting his head, his stare turns rational, sizing her up before delivering an uncertain sigh, “the real test is if Bella likes you, and I dunno, you’ve got cat person vibes so that would decrease your coolness by like, 10 points.” 

“Aw, baby, you want me to say yes,” Hana mocks, but it isn’t an answer. She wonders how much of this he’s going to remember in the morning. Whether he’ll wake up with little more than a pounding headache and the alcohol-scented stain on his t-shirt. It doesn’t matter much to her – or, at least, that’s what she tells herself. Jackson’s tenacity has rubbed off on her, though, like fake silver coating on cheap jewellery, a green mark against her skin. “Just like you want me to say yes to joining you.” A devious smirk makes its home in one corner of her mouth, settling there for a moment before moving on. “If I could only give you the answer you want for one of those two things, which would you rather have? Me thinking you’re cute or me agreeing to be a part of your weird mutant family?” She laughs, just once, at his attempt to make his intentions clearer, the sound uncurling itself from the back of her mouth, flattered yet also a little offended. “Oh, I’m absolutely that dumb. But look at you, Romeo. We both know you’re not going to be satisfied with having sex with anyone except your darling N.”

He’s not sad and the night isn’t dark and the ocean isn’t made of water and Miami isn’t in Florida. The conversation risks teetering into being slightly too heavy for Hana’s liking, her habit one of avoiding the cold, steel-jaw trap of discussing emotions. She’s grateful for his swerve into ridiculousness but less so for the man-handling. “Hey!” She tries to struggle, entertained at first until she remembers the wad of cash in her pocket, panic washing over her like the waves would no doubt endeavour to do should he drop her. “Jackson, fucking put me down. I’m not playing, I have, like, two grand in my pocket.” Attempting to fish it out of her jeans, she adds a strained, “this isn’t funny” but knows, over the sound of his own amusement, her protesting is a lost cause. At the same time he throws her, she attempts to shove her earnings down the front of his shirt and lets out a shriek, closing her eyes as water and brine fill her senses; cold, dark, wet. “Fuck you,” she shouts again, trying to stand with a splutter. She can feel her hair sticking to her face, clothes heavy, sneakers sinking into the water-logged sand beneath her feet. The splash he sends in her direction is retaliated with a shove, palms forced against his chest in the hope she can unbalance him. “Fucking fuck you.”

“Yeah, I want it,” he plays along with her mocking, lips pouted and eyes wide. Jackson’s pleading expression melts to one of curiosity once The Jem Family’s offer is brought back into their conversation, in all honestly, it wasn’t something that had crossed his mind that evening. It was in his head somewhere, bouncing around with all the other things he misremembers, the location of his car keys, people’s names, things you intended to buy at the store rather than double stuff oreos. It’s almost as if Hana was becoming something more meaningful than another task he can mark off his to-do list, even if that would be a very satisfying job to cross out. “Interesting,” impulse jumps straight to the first option, after all, that was what he’d coveted and not some guidance bestowed to him by his employer. “I wouldn’t prefer any, not if you don’t actually want to do either of them,” it’s exactly like him to find the neutral ground, the place where he can passively exist with absolute indifference that would keep him out of trouble. “If I had to pick, it’d be the first option. Hiring you isn’t my idea so I don’t really care if you say yes or no to Damien. I just enjoy spending time with you.” He overlooks the last part, it had devoured enough of his night already without requiring more time in the spotlight “Let’s not talk about Neve anymore.” 

The possibilities that came attached to Jackson’s invitation were enough to make Penelope’s lips turn into an excited smile. “Thanks. I’ll definitely hold that against you.” Sure, she didn’t really know him — not that well, anyway, which was enough to always have her be just hesitant enough — but what could really happen if she decided to take him up on his invitation to hang out with Bella? Nothing that she couldn’t handle was the answer. 

Penelope’s expression softened after she heard Jackson say normal people were not his cup of tea, a small frown appearing on her lips. “I’m sorry to hear that.” There was a mixture of understanding and a flashback of her own feelings towards the two normal people that had been such a normal part of her life — even if one of them wasn’t exactly normal, they both sure acted like it — and with each second, those feelings grew stronger and stronger until her chest felt like it was exploding. Penelope let out a long sigh before she spoke, trying not to feel too much. It was like she could still hear her mother’s voice telling her to stop. “I guess it’s hard to find someone without powers that’s not scared of what they can’t understand, huh?” 

Nothing she did with her powers felt… unnatural. So, when she sent the meteor back, she didn’t even think of how she ought to do it or that someone else was watching and undoubtedly thinking about it. For a few heartbeats, she just looked up at the night sky and it was like she could feel everything that was going on up there; maybe that’s why she always felt so much — it was her own emotions mixed with everything that went on in the void of space. Penelope let out a chuckle at Jackson’s nudge and comment. “I’ve been told I’m stubborn. But coffee does make it easier. So, good luck,” she teased. Penelope listened to Jackson’s answer and even if there was a one in a million chance she’d get it right, she still felt like she had lost a bet as he told her she hadn’t gotten it. “Hmmmm,” Penelope looked at the other mutant in thought. “You can go through walls — phasing or whatever it’s called.”

Not all of them were bad, that was an essential fact he’d have to remind himself in order to get through a day without paranoia. It’s like a mantra, endlessly recited to keep the demons at bay. Of course, his experiences of mistreatment at the hands of humans were arguably self-inflicted. Jackson had known the risk he was taking in his early twenties when his life was consumed by gambling, identity theft and endless counts of fraud. He’d have been an idiot to think his power would dismiss him from the law if caught, and understandably when they had captured him they threw him in the place most convicted mutants went, research facilities, locked away to become another lab rat for the medicinal industry. “That’s alright, I guess it was character building,” he laughed it off, because that was the simple thing to do. “Hmm, it’s a lot better in Florida than it is Illinois though, as far as equality goes. At least I can leave the house after 10PM,” not that he followed the rule anyway, he has a talent of finding a way around things. 

Brown hues cast over her face, an inquisitive observation in his eye as he pulls apart her appearance out of habit. It’s harder to see the details of another person when the only light source was the moon casting reflections on the dancing body of water before them. But he had it now, her features downloaded in the back of his mind if he’d like to use it or not. “Maybe it’s not stubborn, maybe you just have standards. I could always take you for ice cream instead.” It’s fascinating to hear the powers she thinks he might possess based on looks alone. “Metamorphosis,” Jackson admits with a shrug, still a little disappointed that he can’t say something more memorable like time travel or telepathy. “I’m basically just a big copy cat... I don’t like doing animals though, it makes my skin feel itchy.” Hands leave the sand to rub over his arms, happiest to be in their natural form than spread out or confined into a form that didn’t belong to him, “You know when you get a dead leg and your muscles go like jelly and it’s all fuzzy? It’s like that but my whole body and it doesn’t go away for like 40 minutes, it’s so gross. Other people isn’t so bad.” 

For the longest time, the one thing she always wanted at home was a puppy, someone that would share the same level of energy she and Avery always had. Not to mention, Penelope had always heard that dogs love their owners unconditionally — and that would be something that she always wanted to put to the test. “I like them too much to be scared,” Penelope shared, shrugging nonchalantly, “and I’ve always wanted one but never really had one. So I usually live vicariously through dog owners,” she added with a playful tone. “And Bella was too cute to get mad with, of course.” Did that make her a bit stupid, to ignore a big dog coming right at her, and see it as playful and good? And that’s good right? You just have to make sure to never forget about dog treats on the grocery list.” 

Penelope tilted her head. I’ve met a few. “In… Chicago? That’s where you said you moved from, right?” He and so many others, it seemed. Something had to have happened for so many people to move away, all at once and all together — all the while keeping the reason why either vague or completely unknown. Penelope didn’t like it. Not when an influx of other mutants meant that whatever happened before, could happen now but in her home instead. She didn’t like expecting the worst and preparing for it, too — it was exhausting. 

The mutant pressed her lips together into a smile after hearing Jackson’s words, shaking her head ever so slightly before looking away. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “I won’t say no to coffee. You’ll have to convince me into trusting you enough with my secrets, though,” Penelope teased, half-joking and half meaning it. It was hard for Penelope to trust anyone but it wasn’t impossible. “How obviously shocked and surprised you were when you saw a meteor in front of me.” Penelope’s voice was laced with a playful tone of sarcasm, her attention fully on the meteor as she raised her hands and with it, the meteor came along. Then, with a swift and quick motion upwards, she sent the meteor back up, keeping her arms steady, waiting to feel when the meteor was back where it belonged. “You can… fly. Or you’re like Captain America. Minus the serum.” After she was done, she let her arms fall to her side before sitting down next to Jackson. “How far am I from the truth?”

It makes him feel a little better, knowing that Penelope genuinely hadn’t minded the circumstances of their first meeting. The guilt and embarrassment whisked away from his expression and replaced with a grateful smile, “well, you’re more than welcome to live through me whenever you like,” the more people he could engage with Bella the better, or at least that’s what the Cesar Millan dog training book had said. 

“Yup, that’s right,” he confirmed with a nod, though he wasn’t sure if he should be opening up about the reason he’d left Chicago. Mutant gang rivalries, a dead boss and laws becoming stricter because of their actions seemed like something you should bring up on the 6th, maybe 7th date, when you felt you knew the person just enough that they wouldn’t go speaking about gang activity which could endanger their lives in Miami. “I don’t really... like, normal people.” He settles with a more personal explanation “they’ve never done me a whole lot of good.”

Penelope made it look simple, one natural motion of her arms sending a lump of rock that was undoubtedly heavier than him, back up into the air and breaking back into the atmosphere where it had belonged. It was times like these that Jackson feels envious that the power he was dealt with was one of such normality. But he’s got to wonder if his shapeshifting were really that boring or if other’s powers intrigued him that much more because they were things he couldn’t do. Still, meteor control or whatever the hell Penelope could do was extremely impressive. “Oh, I can be very persuasive,” he nudges her gently with his elbow as she takes a seat next to him. “Unfortunately not, I’m gonna age and get all grey like everyone else,” well, unless he keeps shifting to a younger version of himself, but that's a loophole to do with vanity and nothing to do with preserving his health. “Neither of those. I give you one last guess, that's only fair.” 

“Hey, don’t doubt my abilities. I can repress the fuck out of shit.” He says, not caring if he makes any sense. Jackson always gets it. Their brains are on the same dumbass wavelength like that. “Interesting of you to bring up our last cuddle, though. I thought we weren’t talking about that one.” He arches an eyebrow, and says in a too-high voice, nothing like Jackson’s, “Ohhhh, my hands got lost looking for my phooone, Derek, like I haven’t heard that one before, Jackson ‘wandering hands’ Raemers.”

Derek’s always viewed Jackson’s heterosexuality like the universe’s biggest practical joke. Sure, he believes it’s there, but its existence still catches him off-guard sometimes. ‘Sometimes’ especially being when it’s 4AM and Jackson’s drunk hand is on his ass just a bit too long.

Derek looks out the window to hide his eyeroll when Jackson mutters something about Neve abandoning him at the altar. He asked for it, bringing her up, but Jackson was the one to make it sound so melodramatic. That, and the fact that being exasperated at Jackson’s angsting over Neve, teasing him about it all, makes it much easier to forget how utterly shit the whole situation had been. That breakup hadn’t been an easy thing to watch happen to his best friend, to see how low Jackson could truly get. Being able to roll his eyes at him now, joke about it all, feels like being able to breathe again. 

“I don’t know about fucking Gerard, dude, he’s probably into kinkier shit than you could handle. Like, cutting off your dick or something. Should’ve picked me– I know you need a gentle lover.” He takes the moment of distraction to steal the dice from Jackson’s hands, twisting in his seat to wag the dice in front of Bella’s face. In a moment, they’re snatched up. Success. Derek was not going to spend the rest of the trip with those bouncing around in his eyeline, and any chance to bond with one future roommate while getting a leg up on the other is a success in his books. Jackson has the advantage on the wooing-Bella front, anyway, he’s the one who feeds her everyday.

 “Kill Jack, Marry Isabel, and– well, shit. I don’t trust Isaac any more than Gerard. The kid probably bleeds Mountain Dew. But I’d take one for the team.” Derek finally finds a knife under the seat. It’s dull, but better than nothing. He looks for something to carve, then eyes the plastic of the car door with a gleam of inspiration. “Benjamin, Tierney, your own clone– go.”

Of course, Jackson remembers the night well. Head dazed by one too many vodka sodas and a heavy heart from yet another failed conversation with his ex. It was times like that he was glad to have a friend like Derek, he was someone he could speak to without fear of judgement, even when his rantings were beginning to make him sound like a teenager. “You know what?” Jackson challenged, if the topic were now open for discussion he may as well get it off his chest, “Did I touch your ass? Sure. Was it an accident? Absolutely. Did I leave it there a little longer than I should have, possibly? I didn’t know it was a crime, ok, for a straight dude to tell him best pal that he’s got a nice ass.”

Admittedly, it was nice that Neve’s name could be spoken without opening up a therapy session which would both emotionally exhaust him and the poor person who had to listen. It’s not something you want to unpack again when you’re confined in an old chevy on a 20-hour drive down to Miami. Perhaps that’s where all the negativity should stay, up in Chicago and finally lay to rest. That used to be the beauty of moving around state to state in his early twenties, so many fresh starts that he hardly ever felt begrudged with his past. 

“Maybe I would have chosen you if you hadn’t been so quick to say you’d kill me,” the retaliation was stated as a matter of fact. If it really came down to it, and he absolutely had to pick to sleep with any male, the probability of that person being Derek was far more likely than Gerard, Jackson just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

Jackson screws up his face at the idea of sleeping with Isaac, “I mean... all that sugar in his system, the kid’s stamina has gotta be off the charts.” Jackson signals to pull off the road and onto another, finally, the fields of infinite corn had come to an end, replaced with blue skies and fluffy clouds. “Kill Benjamin,” because if you’re going to kill anyone it may as well be the guy that caused your break up, “Marry Teirney and fuck myself. I don’t think I could marry me, I’m really messy and annoying and I’m definitely a blanket hog.” He clears his throat, cracking open the window a little so that Bella would hopefully stop excitedly panting as she chews on his lucky dice, “Alright, last one, Alma, Damien and Benjamin,” 

One corner of her mouth pulls up into a smirk at Jackson’s question, shaking her head mock-incredulously as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing ( she could – he was drunk enough that he could say anything, nothing would surprise her ). “Wow, is this you coming onto me, trying to ask if I’ll be the person dumb enough to give you pity sex? That’s real cute.” She skillfully evades giving him an honest answer: she’s into people who stay. It’s a simple truth, but not one she’s willing to share. The tequila is needed in the wake of their exchange, unscrewing the cap as she watches Jackson’s silhouette begin to merge with the dark expanse of ocean stretching out ahead of them. She takes a swig, grimacing as it burns the back of her throat, almost choking on the liquid as the deep-voiced Twilight-themed grievance being yelled catches on the breeze and meets her ears. “Fucking weirdo,” Hana murmurs to herself, gaze fixed on the gangly drunkard.

An undeniable splash makes her frown, the identity of whatever he’d thrown into the waves lost behind his tall frame. She moves closer to see if she can make out what the item had been on the off chance it had managed to float, regretting her curiosity when Jackson turns the sea-shouting-spotlight on her. “I’m not the one wallowing in their own sadness,” she points out, raising the bottle to her lips. Another mouthful of spirit is swallowed. Another grimace is worn. The chance that she’d dissuade him and the hopeful expression on his face slim, Hana concedes and takes a step, and then another, and then another, until the surf bubbles up around her sneakers, glinting liquid and alive in the light of the moon. She takes a deep breath. “Fuck Jackson for making me yell at the ocean when I have nothing to yell about!” The sentence is punctuated with a smug grin, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Happy?”

Lips spiralled into a smirk, entertained but mostly satisfied with Hana’s answer being something that allowed him to rally with her. “So you think that i’m cute?” Jackson carries the same boyish tone as before, slightly slurred and dripping with amusement. He understands that there’s something more profound concealed in Hana than the initial bewilderment of dangerous powers and considerably lethal entrepreneurial skills. More than meets the eye of what Damien deemed worthy of an invite to their family. It’s the element of the unknown that draws him back to her each time, risk and mystery that naturally captures the attention of an ex-con. “I’m not asking you for pity sex,” he states, precisely this time to be clear on the fact. He’s far exceeded the stage in his break up where sleeping around to heal his dignity seemed like a good idea. “And I never said I thought you’d be that dumb either.” 

“I like messy, sure,” Hana responds, grin still etched cleanly onto her face like a crescent moon, bright in the dark of the club, far too entertained by this– unravelled– version of Jackson. “Seeing you drunk is just, well, a bit like when I was younger and saw my Geography teacher walk into a sex toy shop. Unexpected but, you know, I get it.” She wonders whether this is a common occurrence for the man in front of her, his eyes glassy and words strung together in a way that’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Another laugh is emitted at his expense, warmer and richer than the watered-down alcohol with too much ice being clasped in clammy hands around them. For a moment she almost forgets that he’s been spending the better half of a month trying to get her to join a criminal gang. “Quit it.” Hana considers zapping him with an electric shock, unhappy with the notion of being called boring, be it in teasing or otherwise, but settles instead with kicking him in the shin under the table. Before she can protest the point of meeting him outside, she’s abandoned to make her way alone through sweaty bodies and cherish the cool coastal breeze that greets her as she steps out the door of the club.

He isn’t there and then, suddenly, in a manner that seems surprising for someone so tall and drunk, he is. His grip on her wrist is tight, unable to understand the pace he’s forcing her to half-walk-half-jog at until he flashes the stolen bottle of alcohol nestled against his still-damp t-shirt. “Nice,” Hana chirps approvingly, unable to say more than that while being pulled along like a toddler who refused to keep up. She stops and digs her heels into the sidewalk when Jackson threatens to get carried away and lead them blindly, steering him instead towards swaying palms and sprinkler-green lawns. When grass gives way to silver sand, she slows. “Here we are.” A hand motions at the lapping water a little way off. It’s a little too still for her liking, preferring the churning of stormy sea-green waves. Moving around him, Hana splays her palms against Jackson’s back and pushes him towards the ocean. “Shout at it.” 

“How about guys over six foot with dark hair and brown eyes, are you into that?” he sets the query in a flirtatious tone, brows raised more out of the curiosity of what she might reply than fishing for a compliment regarding his appearance. As the motion shifts from his guidance to Hana’s, he's content in giving her his submission to let her lead the way, he never was good with directions. Once feet hit the sand and the low light of the beach means for no wandering eyes, he takes the tequila out from under his jacket, passing it to Hana, “here, just don’t overdo it, I’m not carrying you home.” 

The mutant shook her head when she heard Jackson apologize again. “Don’t worry about it, really.” When Penelope thought back to the day she met the man, she didn’t think about how embarrassing the whole encounter had been or how red her shoulders were from having Bella’s paws on it; she thought about how she had met the cutest — and biggest — puppy and how the whole thing ended with her enjoying a free coffee. “Oh yeah? How’s the progress so far?” It was funny to think about a gigantic man teaching a gigantic puppy how to properly say hello — it was an amusing image to have in one’s head. 

Penelope shrugged her shoulders lightly and casually. “I could,” the mutant began, “it wasn’t about it, like, being during the day because it was… y’know, daytime. But making a meteor crash on a public beach could raise some eyebrows and injure some people. I don’t think that would be appreciated. Not when I’m just experimenting.” Penelope let out a small chuckle at her own words, imagining the chaos that it would cause — and how much fun it would be to just clear the beach out that way. Penelope made a mental note, telling herself that it was a possibility for a plan when boredom was far too overwhelming. “Does that mean you’ve met a lot of people with powers?”

“Exactly. I’m glad you agree. Power talk is way too heavy for the first date.” Penelope kept the joke going, shaking her head in amusement. She crossed her arms over her chest, mulling over his question. “Well…” the mutant began, tapping her index finger on her lips, being overly dramatic for playfulness sake, “third date is either first row for power demonstration or the time we share our deepest, darkest secret. Whichever comes first.” Penelope let a small smirk curl her lips before curiosity overtook her expression. “Are you a mutant, too?” She asked him, looking down at him.

The idea of him getting a dog was entirely impulsive, little thought or preparations made before he was walking out of some guys home in Chicago with a puppy cradled in his arms. It was a choice born from the grief of a breakup and the need for something or someone that he could install all of his attention towards. A high energy doberman seemed to be a healthier option than spending more time in his local bar or trying to chat up another girl that he didn’t even like in the attempt of icing over a broken heart. At least a dog wasn’t going to leave, Bella depended on him and demanded his affection and for Jackson that was exactly what he’d needed. “I’m just grateful you’re not scared of dogs,” he confesses, “not too bad, she’s food motivated so as long as I have treats she’s willing to do almost anything.” 

Could, that’s fair, he muses to himself. There’s a lot of things mutants could do without exercising it. Jackson could shift into anybody on the planet with some study time on their appearance and voice, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be walking into the white house anytime soon. “Mmm, I’ve met a few,” a few is a large understatement for the man that only really socialises with other mutants. in fact, it was rarer of Jackson to have a relationship with someone that hadn’t had a mutation, the normal people that head formed their prejudices against him and as such scared the life out of him. Years of mistreatment in a mutant prison would do that to you. 

“Deepest darkest secrets? Alright, you might just get another coffee out of me yet.” Jackson smiled towards her, a hint of flirtation in his tone before eyes cast back towards the shore. “Aw man, what gave me away?” not that he were being that discrete anyway, but he’s pretty good at reading people and Penelope seemed like the kind of person you could trust. She’d not been mad at him about his dog after all and hardly hesitated in explaining her own abilities to him. “what do you think I can do?”

“You’re such a mess,” Hana muses with no small amount of delight, Jackson’s attempt to recall the string of events that had led him to a sticky club booth with a drink half-split down his shirt and a decidedly dishevelled drunk look batted away with the flick of her hand. “I didn’t have you down as the sort to drown his sorrows like a dejected cowboy, drinking alone ‘til you– what? Pass out? End up in someone else’s bed?” She raises her brow, unable to keep the entertained smile from her lips. Sure, she’d had Jackson down as a little absent-minded. Easily distracted and twice as easily manipulated. Naive, even. But the pity party for one that he was throwing himself was– unexpected. “I don’t think you could find your way to the restroom, let alone to whatever hole your boss hides in.” 

He earns himself a sharp eye roll and a swiftly spat “fuck you” for calling her boring, unable to keep from bragging about her bounty. Carefully, she pulls the wad of cash from her back pocket and fans herself with the stack of green notes. “I have precious cargo that I want to keep on me and not end up in someone else’s grubby little hands.” Satisfied with her dramatics, Hana tucks her payment away again and attempts to figure out whether the heartbreak-shaped wound Jackson was sporting is with rubbing salt in. “Yeah, sure seems like it’s stopped mattering to you,” she drawls sarcastically, unconvinced. She’s not sure she’s a fan of his unhappy puppy-dog look; sadness has always made her feel uncomfortable. “I’ll have a shot of tequila if you promise to come to the beach with me after so that you can yell at the ocean.” Hana presents her offer with an extended hand, deals between the pair of them becoming increasingly common, adding, “Surefire way to make you feel better. Works for me every time.”

“I thought you liked messy?” As far as his drunken nights go, this was pretty tame. Though that was more likely to do with the fact that he was new to the surroundings than actually striving to behave. Usually, by now he’d of at least stolen some guys wallet, or car keys, maybe pack of cigarettes just for sport. “Cowboys are cool,” he disputes in defence of his alcohol intake, “there is no aim, I just see where the night takes me and hopefully it’s a better place I would have been,” in Chicago it habitually ended with him on Neve’s front step, throwing pebbles at her window in a desperate display for attention. “Hmm, I know where the bathroom is, it’s over there,” he points in a vague direction to the other side of the club, even though it’s directly behind them with large lit signs to match. If asked, he’d tell her that he was doing this all intended as a joke. 

Jackson’s body slouches comically, eyes flickering shut and an artificial snore to accompany his accusation of her dull attitude. He keeps it up whilst she’s flaunting her cash, long enough so when he opens his eyes again she’s folding it back up to hide away from snooping eyes in the club. “Oops, sorry, I fell asleep because you were being so boring.” But of course, she was here for business and not play, it’s becoming more and more apparent that Hana’s whole life revolved around a numbers game, just as his once had. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” he seizes his phone back, shoving into his front pocket with little consideration. “Sure, meet me outside,” he takes her hand in his own to close the deal before making his way to the bar. Tone placed carefully so that she wouldn’t question his request.