The cigar smoke filled the air, the baby coughed a small bit as the female shooed the man with the cigar away, the child looked around the room in confusion, obviously new to this world. The child looked to the father opening his mouth and speaking gibberish, the same as the mother. Obviously, the female was happy as the father seemed very disappointed, the white lights from earlier and the strange new surroundings confused the child. Suddenly, the child noticed the male making contact with the female, the male moved his hand at her face, making an act of obvious violence. The child burst into tears as both started to yell gibberish. Wind brushed against the child as the mother grabbed him from the cradle, the child calmed itself, obviously rousy at the act. She had a mark on her face, red from being hit. The male seemed to rush away, the female started to let tears out quietly. The child once again, was still confused.
Out of the child’s perspective, May seventh, about 11:58 AM, only an hour and twenty three minutes after the child’s birth. He was born to his two parents, Sarah Bilvonchi, and Anthony Bilvonchi. The family originated directly from Italy, Anthony’s came during 1918. The child was perfect at birth, no defects at all but only odd breathing patterns. Overall, the child was fit to succeed.
“WAKE UP! C’MON!” The cigar bounced up and down as the child twist and turned in his bed, the man becoming impatient. “GET UP!” he yelled again, lifting the tired child from his bed. Jackson rubbed his head, making an “ugh…” noise, obviously tired still. The father took the cigar from his mouth, jabbing it in the child’s back. “WAKE UP!” he said again. Jackson screeched, the house filling with screams. “SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” the father yelled, shushing him. The eleven year old calmed again, obviously roused up. “Good, now stay quiet, please…” the father said softly, “Stay quiet when you poked me with a fucking burning weapon?” the child thought, the father turned from the child signaling him to follow. The house was musky with smoke and dust, the walls and floors dirty as usual, and the house its same old way. The father went to sit on the couch, sighing. “You know, you’re the only one in this family who got an A+ in ELA and Math…” he said quietly, trying to cheer his son. Jackson sighed, sitting next to his dad. “You’re going out early, hm?” “Yes, you’re going to Jones’.” Jackson sighed, “Please… just don’t let those guys come back…” the father nodded at Jackson. Suddenly, through the halls of the house, a loud crash interrupted their chat. “CHECK FOR TONY! KILL THE FUCKER!” was heard from Jackson’s bedroom, “Jackson! Get out of here!” the father rushed Jackson to a cup board in the kitchen, hurrying him in. Jackson shut the boarding tight, shivering quietly, whimpering. He looked at his hand, barely able to spot it through the musky closet. He whimpered as he heard more yelling from the kitchen, along with his father screeching. Out front the heard a car skidding across the pavement. The screen door burst open, Jackson creaked the closet open, dust blocking him from seeing anything. Through the screen door straight ahead he spotted a man with a mask pulling his mother along, setting her down, obviously in front of his father. He saw that the masked man pulled out a 9mm pistol, placing it on his mother’s head. They spoke directly towards each other, Jackson was too scared to realize what they were saying. One suddenly pulled the mother up, pushing her to the wall. He held the pistol to her face, chuckling as he muttered. Jackson, as said above, could not hear due to the fact he was too nervous. Suddenly, one started to pull off her pants, Jackson looked away, sobbing quietly as he heard his mother screeching for help. He saw the glitter of a pistol in the corner of his eye, suddenly it rang out with a usual “PEFFF”, the flash being concealed from the hider. His father’s head appeared, blood scrawled across his head. Jackson curled himself into a ball, in too much shock for emotion. He stopped whimpering, just shaking, shaking. He whispered to himself, shaking his head in horror, a emotion filled him. Anger, anger was the emotion that would stay for years to come. After about an hour, he finally heard the screen door shut. He silently opened the small cabinet, looking around and falling to his father’s dead body. His father’s face was pale, the bullet hole bleeding profusely. Jackson got up, in too much shock to think or say a word. He saw his mother’s body in a heap, she was nude, bleeding from her pelvis, her clavicles broken, and her neck broken. She was against the refrigerator, the small kitchen in the housing was sprayed with blood. The house, obviously small, had two bedrooms, both across from each other with a main hall. The living room was through the hall way, the bath room in the middle of the hall. The kitchen was stretched to the left of the living room, where the door to the outside was. Jackson propped himself against the wall, a blank expression stretching across his face. A knock came to his door, flashing red and blue lights from outside. A head peaked through a window to the side of the kitchen, an officer peaking through. He had a professional expression scrawled across his face until he saw what had been Jackson’s family. The officer ran to the front door, slamming his foot into it and sprinting inside, another officer falling in behind. Jackson just shook his head, awaiting the conclusion of his dream. It was no dream, it was his life. His parents were dead, his family was done, his mother was violently raped then killed. He balled his fists, suddenly slamming them against the ground and causing his knuckles to bleed, he shook his head in a rage of sadness, the officer grabbing him and holding his radio to his mouth, calling in ambulances. As soon as one arrived, two men subdued Jackson, hauling him away…
“Alright, dismissed!“ The Trainer called to the sea of blue uniforms, they were sweaty, pale, and tired. “I am proud to dismiss you all from my presence, you’ve all proved yourselves worthy of the blue of the Federation.” Jackson fiddled with his hat, jotting notes down on a piece of white paper. The sea started turning, all of the uniformed trainees stepping from the grass. Jackson sighed, fiddling with the note in his pocket, his OCD symptoms taking him to tap it over five times. “Jackson!” Jones stepped in front of Jackson with his blue uniform and all too familiar hat. “Pretty snazzy, eh?” he chuckled. “I have one too, so don’t go gloating around.” Jackson replied with the usual deep voice. “Why do you gotta’ be so serious all the damned time?” “We’re officers of the law now, not some chucky cheese’s workers.” Jackson replied, sighing. “So, you going back to town?” “I’m going to go look if anything is available in Newark, might prove something worthy more than… you know.” Jackson replied once more, obviously flashing back to the moment. “Newark sounds good, heard it’s a ghetto out there.” Jackson sighed at Jones’ term, “Ghetto”. The two continued from the Police Academy’s court yard, the trainer suddenly approaching the two. “Jackson.” the trainer stepped up to Jackson, grabbing on to his hand with a firm grip and shaking it. “Take care of yourself.” he said softly, moving on. Jackson put his hand in his pocket again, toying with the piece of paper. The two continued on, the cities ahead.
“10-0, 10-33, 10-78, 10-78!” Dispatch was blabbering the usual coding, Jackson fiddling with his usual toy, his hat. “11-17, repeat, 11-17, 11-99! Jukovilkisk boulevard! 11-49” Jackson threw the hat to Jones’ seat next to his. Jones’ spilling his coffee as he the hat hit his arm. “AUGHH!” he screeched as coffee pained his left arm. “WE NEED TO MOVE NOW! JONES! SUCK IT UP!” Jackson screamed to his companion, pressing his foot on the gas and flipping the sirens on. Jackson waved at Jones’ fire arm, Jones pulling it out quickly. “10-2, 10-38.” Jackson hollered on his radio, quickly slipping the steering wheel to a right as they pulled into a crowd of officers propped up behind two vehicles. Suddenly, a shot whizzed into the window, making a loud crash as Jones’ held his chest. He dropped the fire arm in his hand, breathing in short patterns. “FUCK! 10-78! Officer down!” Jones held the left side of his chest, the shot penetrating through near his trachea. Jackson kicked his door open, shots whizzing by as a group of men with ski-masks and black balaclavas carrying black bags made their way towards a apartment, two armed with rifles, the rest with pistols. He trudged to the trunk, stumbling into cover. He quickly yelled to Jones to clip the trunk up, it suddenly opening a small amount. Inside was a morita MKI, bullets to the side. He fumbled with his hand over it, grabbing it and a few magazines. He quickly fell to cover, his hands shaking, unsteadily loading a magazine into the chamber, nervously shaking. He adjusted his collar, quickly raising himself up, the morita shaking in his hands. He quickly fired a shot as he steadied the sights, aligning them with a armed man sprinting up the side walk towards cover. His stomach quickly turned into a hole, Jackson shaking and tapping the morita nervously as he fell to cover. Gunshots ringing within his ears. A corner emitted with sub machine gun fire, he turned his head from cover to see four police officers with Kevlar and various weaponry, firing from cover yards away. A helicopter suddenly circled in from above, the last of the men fleeing into a house. Jackson quickly threw the morita to the side, sprinting to his cruiser. Jones was bleeding profusely, obviously in a tough spot. Jackson quickly pulled off his hat, pressing it on the bullet wound. Jones was breathing in an odd tone, “Trachea…” Jackson thought as he sighed, screaming “10-78!” into his radio again. A last bullet whizzed from a man’s SMG, hitting Jackson directly in his stomach, about near his appendix. He fell to the ground, holding his stomach uneasily. An officer rushed from cover and grabbed him, the cul-de-sac quickly filling with more gunshots. Blood trailed as the officer dragged Jackson away from the cruiser, he sputtered, attempting to call out for Jones. The officer pulled him behind a seemingly newly arrived cruiser. Another shot whizzed by, Jackson uneasily climbing behind the tire, suddenly realizing the officer that had dragged him had a bullet to his head. He sputtered more, sinking down the tire, the rounded cul-de-sac flashing as he closed his eyes. The cul-de-sac was rounded, of course, with six houses on each side, one propped in the middle, a trail leading behind it. Cruisers were propped along the sidewalk, the officers behind the cars facing the middle house. Blood seeped on the tire as Jackson slid down it, looking at the ground, his eyes shut tight. Clutters of officers and Kevlar was all he heard, his stomach in too much pain for him to hold out any longer. He stopped sputtering, finally giving out…
“God gave you another chance,”Edit
“AGAIN!” The paramedic slammed the pads into the officer’s chest again, shocking it at a high power. The officer spit and sputtered, opening his eyes as two paramedics held him down, the ambulance making a quick jerk. The paramedics rushed to cover up his stomach, Jackson in excruciating pain, holding onto his bleeding stomach. He screeched as one of them jabbed his arm with a needle. Once again, Jackson fell into a daze, his eyes shutting up tight within moments.
“This chance would prove good.”Edit
Dazed, lying on a bed next to a window, Jackson stood. The bustling city outside, the usual Mobile Infantry propaganda on billboards filling the building’s walls were in view. A bandage was wrapped around his stomach, he stiffly trudged towards his fridge. It had been a week since the injury, unknown to Jackson, he began to demonstrate the oddest of abilities. Jackson took notice to such abilities, he had taken it as an opportunity. The city of Newark had provided too much stress for our dear friend.
After a slow two months of demonstrating to his close friends his abilities, he was tempted to get away from the city, to leave this “shithole” behind and forget his past life. Jackson enlisted into the Mobile Infantry, being tested rigorously for his talent. After a large sum of time testing and honing his large skills, he finally was placed in the Games and Theories division.