Fear None - A Jackieboy-Man origin story.Ā
All in all, college wasnāt terrible. People talk it up to be an impossible challenge, like school but ten times worse. Tyrannical professors and projects that made you want to rip out your hair. A swirling sea of stress and ramen.
Peter Jackson had always been smart. It wasnāt his major in computer science that bothered him. He didnāt give two shits about his professors eitherāthey were boring and lazy. In the end, it was the loneliness that was the worst.
And it was the loneliness that ate him up as Peter lay in bed, staring up at the yellowed ceiling of his apartment. An apartment that was ridiculously expensive, despite the cramped slanted walls and lingering mold smell. He had gotten used to the weird water taste and insects, but being by himself was something he never thought he would be able to stand.
Plus it was too hot, and his whining wire fan was doing little to nothing to lower the temperature of his resident shithole.
Peter let out a long sigh, rolling over onto his side to check his phone. The only app he had notifications turned on for was the News. The ridiculously-high crime rate in New York was only interesting when your dad was a cop. It meant front row seats to every grisly low-life mugging, and maybe even a ticket past the yellow tape once and awhile. Everyone knew Mr. Jackson as a friendly guy. The good cop. No one knew how much of a pushover he was. It didnāt take much for Peter to convince him to pay rent.
Sometimes, when Peter thought a little too hard, he would remember how much he hated himself. It was easy to think about that type of thing when youāre being baked alive alone in your apartment.
He sighed again, wiping his hands down his face and closing his eyes tight. He needed to get out more. How pathetic was it that the News was his only source of entertainment?
His phone buzzed and he sat up. His stiff body crackled a little at the movement and he stretched, letting out a long sigh. Leaning his chin on one hand he opened up his phone, scrolling through the notifications. His thumb froze as he noticed some kind of robbery on his dadās beatāa couple blocks of strip clubs and pizza places. Welcome to New York.
He stood up, sticking his phone in his jacket as he walked to the mirror where his backpack was sitting. For a moment his gaze lingered on the tired, stringy guy in the reflection. His eyes were red and baggy. He had terrible skin. Probably from all the fast food he ate. Peter reached up, pushing long, curly bangs away from his face. It didnāt do much to help. He sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand before he grabbed his backpack and stepped out the door.
What did normal college kids do on Saturdays? Go out to bars? Maybe just hang out with friends. They probably didnāt go to crime scenes.
Peter walked down the steps of his apartment complex, squinting as he stepped out into the sunlight. His street always smelled like cigarettes, and there was a dog always barking, but in way it felt like home. It was his street. He blended right ināhe looked identical to every other pale, sickly tweaker that hung around his building. Some of them would even wave hello, as if they knew each other. It was all just another way to fit in.
Officer Jacksonās beat wasnāt far from Peterās apartment. It was about a ten minute walk on a good day, and it gave Peter a chance to observe the two sides of New York as they blended together. The further he walked, the nicer the buildings. More and more tourists would dot the sidewalks, and the smell of weed would morph into the aroma of pizza or street food. The sun even seemed to shine brighter, not obscured by hovering, dilapidated buildings. He liked the brighter, sunnier side of New Yorkāthe business of it all was almost comforting. The people that walked by you didnāt linger, or stare at you. They didnāt care about you. All the cared about were the lights, and the attractions.
Peter stopped at a crosswalk, squinting as he looked down the road. If he turned right and kept going he would eventually hit the Broadway theaters, one of the nicer parts of the city. Sometime he would go down there and stand by the stage doors, watching people get excited about people he knew nothing about. It made him feel like he was a part of something almost. Like he was connected.
The walking signal turned green and he crossed the street, his hands digging deep into his hoodie pockets. He could already the yellow tape of the crime scene in the distance. A couple people had already stopped at the police barricades, a few of them videoing with their phones. The building that was robbed appeared to be a normal office building, but Peter couldnāt tell yet.
He finally approached, pushing gently through the crowd until he reached the wooden barricade. There were officers everywhere and a few important-looking people in suits, but Peter couldnāt see his dad anywhere. Maybe he hadnāt responded to this one. Still, it looked like a pretty big deal. A couple paramedics walked by with an empty stretcher.
Clearing his throat, Peter pulled out his phone and dialed his dad before lifting it to his ear. It rung for a few moments. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited, looking around the scene. Apart from the black van that had just pulled up and another set of paramedics approaching the building, it didnāt seem to be that interesting of a crime scene.
Great. No one was answering.
He considered trying again but ended up putting his phone back in his pocket. His eyes lifted again to the crime scene, flickering around at the several cops roaming the area. It didnāt seem like any of them were paying very close attention. He considered sneaking past them. He usually had good luck with things like that.
His pulse jumped a little as he glanced around one more time before he ducked under the tape, keeping his head down as he walked up the steps to the front of the building. There were several large glass doors and he slipped through the furthest one, his heartrate accelerating as he heard the door close behind him. There were lots of people talking inside, most of them in uniform. Every voice and footsteps echoed in the cavernous lobby. At first all the only thing he could see was the yellow numbers and tape the covered the scene, but didnāt take Peter very long to notice the amount of blood that was on the tiled floor.
Peterās heart jumped into his throat. He shouldnāt be here.
He made a move to duck through the nearest door to him but someone grabbed his shoulder and he tensed, every muscle freezing. He turned to see an angry-looking police officer staring back at him.
āHey, Iām, Iām sorry,ā Peter started but the officer gave him a small shove and he realized it was probably best to stop talking.
āWhat the hell are you doing in here? This is a crime scene, are you an idiot?ā the officer demanded.
āMy dad is Officer David Jacksāā
āI donāt care who your dad is, kid. Get out of here or Iāll get the FBI on your ass,ā the officer snapped.
Peterās eyes widened as he straightened his backpack straps. āThe FBI are here?ā
āIām not telling you anything, alright? You donāt have any right to be here.ā The officer made a move to grab his arm again but Peter moved away, his eyebrows narrowing.
āLook, I just need to see my dad. I know heās here,ā Peter said, lowering his voice. āHe lets me on his crime scenes sometimes, itās not a huge deal.ā
āUsually? Your dad a shit cop then.ā the officer said, his expression turning cold. āLet me guess, youāre Jacksonās kid.ā
āFigures. You got his crazy eyes.ā The officer shook his head, grabbing the sleeve of Peterās jacket and shoving him toward the door. āGet out of here, kid. Youāre going to miss your 2 oāclock chain-smoking session.ā
āYeah, yeah, Iām a comedian. Get out of here, one of the officers will be happy to kick your ass if you stick around.ā
Peter curled his lip in annoyance as he walked back toward the glass doors. Part of him was kicking himself for coming in without a plan, but to be honest part of the reason he did this in the first place was for the thrill of being caught. Hey, at least he wasnāt doing cocaine.
A sudden, screaming pain in his head caused his knees to buckle and he nearly collapsed on the tile.
His hands immediately shot to his temple, his palms digging into the skin as the migraine tore apart his skull. He bit back a groan, doubling over and clenching his eyes tight. It felt like claws, ripping at his brain. For a moment all he could hear was ringing, until he opened his eyes long enough to run to a nearby stairwell and slip inside.
Almost immediately he collapsed again the brick wall, his breathing becoming short and staggered. He pain was beginning to feel like screaming, like someone was shrieking straight into his ear, penetrating his mind. Images, sharp and blinding, flashed behind his eyes like a broken tape. Some sort of white room, someone laying on the floor...
A short yell slipped through his teeth before the pain suddenly subsided and he slid down the wall, breathing hard. For a moment he could only sit there, blinking. Almost unaware of his actions, he reached up to feel his ear. He pulled his fingers awayāno blood.
It was hard to breathe when it felt like your lungs were going to explode.
He blinked hard, looking around the small stairwell. This feelingā¦ like dread, it poured over him without warning. His spine prickled. It felt like he was still suffocating.
Shakily, he stood up, his eyes moving up the stairs. He felt compelled to follow them, as if the source of his panic was somewhere at the top. And he couldnāt forget the sound of that screaming. Like some sort of unearthly monster, calling to him.
This was idiotic. He should just leave, before the feds caught him and sent him to some shit holding cell. Then heād probably have to stay with his dad.
The image of that person laying in that white room returned to his mind and he grimaced, rubbing his eyes hard with his hands. Maybe drugs would be a healthier alternative to visiting crime scenes for fun.
He took one last look at the stairs. Then he just slapped his face before clearing his throat and walking out of the stairwell, pulling his hood over his head. Not today. Not now. The time wasnāt right.
He really did need a new hobby.
