Differing from public knowledge, James Jackson was not an evil man. Absolutely not, nor was his mother, father, elder brothers, or even the dreaded haunt of Helsinki, in actuality evil people. Contrary to the media and other folks who desire to do harm against the Jackson name, the Jacksons were a quiet family. They may not have had much to their livelihood, but what they did have was each other.
Of course, that togetherness would never last, as James Jackson discovered at the age of barely six. Wrought with financial concerns as well as loans with a syndicate or three brought a terror to their doorstep. In their fitful fear all that managed was a slavery donation of their youngest, young James Jackson was the weakest of the bunch and quite slow in all manners. From there James Jackson knew nothing of what happened to the family over all those decades as he was used as live sport in arenas, where he did battles to death then considerable mutilation against other like physique men and women.
He never returned champion but always hung just lurking in the depths below the greatest of the bunch. Forever banished to stumble and grovel in the chained arena, lined with barking gamblers and sycophants loving the smell of blood as well as the scene of bruised bodies.
James Jackson may never have lived much longer than twenty-five years if not for the acquiescence of himself by his new mistress. The Black Queen.
She came on a Friday dressed in a veil of black in the kind of outfit one would wear to a funeral. Her aura was uncontrollable leaking out like tentacles molesting a person's skin. Upon purchase she opened James Jackson's cage, unlocked his shackles, then gave a single order, "Go Wild." and wild he went. It was justice for the misgivings they did unto him. They had broken the law in their endeavors; therefore, he ought to return them to whatever god and whatever devil that tempted them.
Then on, James Jackson brought peace and tranquility to his residence. A residence that the Black Queen obliged in forfeiting. She fed him, she pampered him, and displayed an unusual affection for him that her other disciples rarely saw. Every request he made she would allow; him to return home for a day, how to tarnish those that had enslaved him, the list would go on for days.
So, when the Black Queen had made her own request from James Jackson, he would return the favor because he was not a thief. He did not take something without giving back. Today he was to give these people's lives to the mistress. Maybe then she would grant him further affection. Quite possibly he may have the courage to speak a word to her.
Another peculiar aspect the Black Queen realized of James Jackson was his inability to speak. She took him to doctor after doctor, deposing the ones with unlearned responses, and not one could explain the absence for such. He had no mental or physical damage so all that could be offered was a psychological barrier that he must overcome himself. On the day he knew of the reason, James Jackson bore an unsatisfying guilt. He was a broken product for his mistress. He counted each tear and slobbering strand of drool that left his mouth as well as eyes that evening. It was 84 in total.
When James Jackson had arrived at the bunker, he was to rid it of the ants within. His partner was some hedgehog lady, completely ugly with not a single feminine aspect to her body. Given the nature of his ability and his accustomed behavior instilled into him as a slave, he preferred nakedness. Something about the cool wisps of air that would batter his scabbed skin and the rays of heat that would every now and again illuminate the high density of his bones. Indeed, his skin, when caught at the right angle, could be transparent.
James Jackson had felt the presence of the boy who was dashing through the tunnel to their position. He could sense the anger caked by a decrepit sadness that went along with his strides. So, he fled into the shadows in order to spy on this young man. How he quickly sliced open restraining the woman and then his physical capabilities to weave between his blades. Meanwhile, he saw the boy's eyes dart from one end of his body to the other. James Jackson knew this feeling from his time in the arena. It was when a building strength had finally been let go into the wild to lay claim to its throne as a champion.
The difference here was that the boy did not press the attack. He very well could have but he cared for those behind him. It was a distraught fact that left James Jackson disappointed. Nevertheless, it entertained him fiercer than ever because the boy still sought a path to victory. It would be a great gamble, but James Jackson never shied away from any opponent. Yet, when the blade that was the easiest of them all to dodge was not, James Jackson stood dumbfounded. His sparring partner had quit it seemed. Maybe the fight was too long.
He swallowed then closed his eyes to spite the action.
'What a waste of time.' Or so he thought until the blade that was lodged through the boy's right pectoral would not come loose.