Jackson Drake’s Apartment — New Raygate, Prince Ed-Field
After last night’s debacle with the guy that Jackson would later find out had the whitest white boy name ever: Johnny. Jackson didn’t catch a last name, though. If he did, then he had already forgotten.
Whatever.
When he got home later that night, Jackson remembered that weird feeling he had when the voice of that woman entered his head. It was like she not only invaded his mind like some kind of weird alien probing, but had completely froze his movements in every way imaginable. Something like that doesn’t escape you. It stays and lingers for a while. And because of that, JAckson found it difficult to sleep through the night. Tossing and turning one hour, waking up the next. It was continuous until Jackson figured enough was enough, and stayed awake just a little past daybreak.
It was clear to him that sleep wasn’t going to come, so Jackson got an early start to the morning. As mundane as it sounds, Jackson had a few rituals that he had to do. It wasn’t a matter of budging on them, either. One could say he’s got a bit of OCD when it comes to those things.
The first on the agenda(after he showered and such, of course), was going for his morning run. It usually takes him through a series of turns within a few blocks of where his apartment is.
In the two weeks he has been back in Baybridge, the people around had missed seeing a familiar face around. When he would pass by the friendly neighborhood mailman, Thomas, Jackson simply would wave as he had his earbuds in his ears, focusing on the pulsing beats of Dre. As he would go straight and only turning left after three block, Jackson would find himself arriving just in time for Ms. Applegate’s fresh batch of apple-cinnamon bagels. She always set out one that was extra chewy just for him. She knew how he liked it. There was extra essence of apples in his. Jackson always did feel spoiled by that woman, but he didn’t dare to speak up. She was one of those that had a warm demeanor but would also whoop your ass into shape. Jackson probably knew she wouldn’t do that to him, but he didn’t want to take the chance.
After Jackson had his brief snack, he circled back to his apartment. Afterwards, he would head off to would meditate for a full hour. His form of meditation was a big different than what most would think meditation was. To others, sitting still, and concentrating on their “zen” with soothing music playing at a low volume was their form of meditation. To Jackson, however, it was a little more complicated than that. Back in Brazil, he was taught the best way to properly find your center was not through the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and slowing your breathing but rather through the beats of a bonga while feeling the spirit of Brazil flow through your body. He was taught to keep his body in a constant rhythm, never letting a single motion be wasted.
For his meditation, Jackson would do what he always had done since he set back into the swing of things in Baybridge: find an unused corner in Courtbridge, take a 90s boombox with him, and play his usual meditation music. As it would play, he would let the music overtake him, filling him with the rhythm of the people whose art form he spent a decade learning and mastering. Each pulse and each drum beat would fill him up with such energy that he would move side to side, twirl, corkscrew, backlfip into a handstand, hop on one hand for a few times, land on his feet, and repeat for a full hour.
As he had been going for about ten minutes, a crowd started to gather. They seemed to be into it, so Jackson would give them a show. As the kids would say nowadays, he turned up.
What seemed like hours later, Jackson had made it back to his apartment. That street performance he gave(as some called it) had given him a little extra pocket change. Apparently some int he crowd found it to be so good that they left him a few bills here and there. Most of them left $1 bills, but there were a few $5s and $10s. In fact, at the end of it, Jackson accumulated about three-hundred dollars.
All of that just for an hour of dance. Sounds like a career change is in order.
As Jackson contemplated on that, he shrugged. Besides, it was a bit past 7:30, and Jackson had yet to decide if he wanted to go out tonight or not. Sure he could stay inside. That was always an option. And maybe it would be the smart option. After all, after last yesterday, there was no doubt that he would be more closely monitored by either RAVEN, DOVE, or perhaps both. Nevermind the fact that he knows someone who works there - well, two people. One of them, of course, is missing, and the other is that Japanese fellow. Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly close to that guy, but he does know him. And he heard him out(somewhat) about Levi. That has to count for something, right? Right? Right.
Jackson quickly changed his focus from the above to his hunger. His stomach was growling and god-forbid if he was going to wait any longer to feed it. But the question still remained…
“What to eat, what to eat.” Jackson murmured to himself as he opened his tiny fridge and came to the sight of - well to the sight of nothing really. Aside from a possibly-expired carton of milk and some Chinese leftovers he picked up for lunch earlier from Courtbridge. If he were to eat that now, what would he have for breakfast tomorrow?
Decisions, decisions…
“Fuck it.” Shrugging, Jackson took it out, and went to the garbage where he knew the chopsticks that came with the half-an-order of chow mien and pork dumplings.
He walked and chowed down on his meal. He came to a stop as he took a seat on his poor person couch. It was old, stiff, and not very comfortable, but Jackson found it on the cheap. Literally. He found it on the street, and paid a guy ten bucks to help him lug it into his apartment. Jackson’s pretty certain that there’s a bug living in it. As long as he doesn’t bother Jackson or eat him while he sleeps, he can crash on the couch any time he wants to.
Scrolling through whatever was on, Jackson found himself incredibly bored. Nothing but reruns and shitty lifetime movies. There’s a marathon of Law and Order: Special Metahuman Victims on USA network. They’re doing a special about the sexual assault victims through use of telekinesis. As bad as that was, Jackson didn’t feel like sobbing tonight, not when something
had to be on the horizon. Something had to have been coming his way. Please oh please--
And as if like clockwork, Jackson’s phone buzzed. He took a look the caller ID, and saw it was an unknown number. Shrugging, he answered it. “Hello?”
“Jackson Drake?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who is this?”
“You have a collect call from Baybridge State Penitentiary. Do you accept the charges?”
Jackson paused for a moment. He didn’t have the money to accept any charges, but there was a part of him that was curious who he knew in prison. “Yeah sure.” He simply replied, waiting to be connected to whoever was calling him.
“Jackson, it’s been a long time.”
“I’m sure it has,” Jackson sassed, “who is this?”
“What? You don’t recognize my voice?”
“Should I?”
“Oh, well I don’t know. It’s been years since we talked. You were dragged out of my house from Children Protective Services, so perhaps not.”
Jackson was a bit freaked. Either this was some prank and Jackson had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, or it wasn’t, and some creepozoid was playing with his head. Either way, it needed to end.
“Look man, I don’t know who you are, but you’re costing me money that I don’t really have. So, can you just get to the point. I don’t have the time —”
“You don’t even have time to speak to your own father? My, how Brazil has changed you.”
Jackson felt the pulsing beat of his heart increase rapidly in the seconds that passed. So much so that he nearly dropped his phone, but instead he took to looking at the ceiling.
It wasn’t until thirty seconds later and words that the man
claiming to be his father had said that was just white noise to Jackson that he finally would speak. “L-listen bub, this is past the point of it being funny. I’m hanging up now. And if you call me again, you’ll regret it.”
“But don’t you want to know about Levi?”
And he said it. The magic name that would get Jackson to halt in anything. The name of his lost friend that hasn’t been seen for a week now. Disappeared without a trace and in suspicious circumstances, too.
“Talk.”
Strongriver Plaza, HedgemountLong day Jackson has had and that phone call earlier didn’t help. He needed to let off some steam. And a night out on the town was exactly what he needed. To think that some guy that was claiming to be his deadbeat, drugged-out, no good man that happened to be his father. He hadn’t heard from Leonidas in years. The last time he even remotely heard from the asshole was about five years ago when he found out that he was in Brazil. Jackson didn’t know how, but he fucking arrived there, and tried to appeal to Jackson for a second chance..well, more like fifth chance. After JD had decked him a good one in his jaw, that was the last time he saw the man.
So, why after all of these years, was some man trying to pass off as him? It just didn’t make sense to him. And to top it all off, he had the gall to know about Levi. That fucking asshole. I swear, if I ever hear from him again, I’ll—
Mid-thought, Jackson saw that the line to the Golden Throne was moving and Jackson was up. He showed his ID -his Metahuman ID - and was let in, if not from a judging look from the bouncer.
“No funny business, you hear?” The bouncer said. Apparently being Metahuman meant one couldn’t joke.
“I’m going to need a live audience before that happens.” Jackson laughed.
The bouncer was stone-faced.
Jackson shrugged, and stepped into the entrance of the club.
As per usual to this kind of club, it was one of those places that had a mix of three things: stench of cigarettes, leftover “essence” from the private parties, and of course, sweat from every prostitute dancing away and from every old, desperate man hoping get a small taste of women way out of their league.
Truth be told, Jackson wished he wasn’t this desperate, but he needed distractions,and the women here were of the finer variety. Hopefully his poorness isn’t a dead giveaway.
As he took a seat at the bar, Jackson gestured to the bartender. “A Jack, please. Neat.” He said turning around.
Moments later as his drink was set beside him, Jackson took it,and sipped it slowly. After a few more sips, he found his head kind of bogging side to side. Whatever song it was that they had playing, it was kind of catchy, so much so that Jackson wasn’t just moving his head anymore. He was sort of grooving in his seat.
And it would ended up getting to the point where Jackson would down his next drink, and go out to the dancefloor.
Fistpumping his arm into the air, Jackson obnoxiously shouted, “Turn up, Baybridge!”
Just like that, Jackson became the most obnoxious guy in the room, proving that white guys can’t - and shouldn’t - dance.
Way to lay low.
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