Cyberpunk Story [Possibly WIP]

Jackson scratched at his scars. They were itching, which he figured must mean it was about to rain. He raised the remote, clicked a button, and the shades raised to reveal that it was, indeed raining. He wondered when this “super power” as his little sister called it, would actually come in handy. He clutched his whiskey with his other hand, raising it to take a sip before returning it to its place on the table. As he glanced around his apartment he was struck with how normal it looked, still. Architecture hadn’t gone far in the past ten years, whereas technology had gone farther than anybody could have ever imagined. Without looking he took his glass of whiskey back into his hand, swirling it about and listening to the sound of ice on glass. Yes, technology had gone far. He downed the remaining alcohol and stood, marveling at how he wasn’t woozy yet. After all, that had been his sixth.

As he strolled towards the door, he had to remind himself of the days when six glasses would have put him on the floor. It had been a while. Not everybody remembered the days when alcohol affected people. Now, even kids could drink it.

Jackson opened the door into the hallway, glancing at every door number as he walked past. He stopped in front of the last door before the stairs and knocked twice, sharply and quickly. He could see an eye staring him down through the peephole before the door opened, revealing the occupant.

Michael was a nervous man, always had been. The surgeries hadn’t changed that one bit. As Jackson looked him up and down, he was thankful for that. That nervous man had an eye for bad situations, and under pressure he regularly pulled through. The two shook hands and embraced briefly, both muttering, “Nova initia,” before releasing and turning to descend the stairs. Michael scratched his scars, before turning to Jackson. “Do you think…” he began, but Jackson cut him off.

“Michael, it’s raining.”

Michael looked dejected. He also wishes this gift was a super power thought Jackson as he had many times before. Reaching into his front jacket pocket he found his baby in the place it always was. He lovingly ran a finger along the barrel before Michael cut in.

“We could just stay home. I mean, this sounds like a bad idea.”

Jackson shook his head. “No, we’ve got to do this. It’s our last chance.” Michael again looked dejected, before muttering, “Not if we just steal from another supplier.” Jackson stopped and allowed Michael to walk a few more steps before he started. “Michael, you remember what this man did?” Michael stopped and bowed his head before responding.

“Is revenge really the answer?”

Jackson closed the distance and pinned Michael against the wall, thankful that nobody was walking through. He still overdid it a little bit, as he heard the drywall crunch. He shrugged internally; it wasn’t the first time he had to pay for damages. He renewed his focus on his partner.

“Michael, they killed her. Blood for blood.” Jackson let up a bit when he noticed Michael was having trouble breathing. Michael struggled and Jackson let him go, watching silently as he walked further down the halls. Michael stopped and turned, throwing out his hands.

“Well, are you coming?”

Jackson returned to Michael’s side. “How many men?” he asked, knowing that his partner had already scoped out the place. Jackson had never had the patience for it, but Michael was a natural.

“About twenty, twenty five. Ten of them heavies like..” Jackson didn’t need him to finish. Like us. he thought as the walked out the front door. They turned right and headed down the boulevard. Jackson was cool and confident, Michael was nervous and a little shifty. But that wasn’t all out of the ordinary. From time to time as they walked Jackson stopped to shoot the shit with cops, bums, and passerby. Finally they stood in front of a monolith. Cooper’s Place.

“You ready?” Jackson didn’t wait for a response to the question as he pushed open the front doors, walking to the receptionist.

“Nova initia…” Michael replied, following.

The receptionist was a cute thing, in his mid twenties. He must’ve been new, though, as it didn’t take much prompting before Jackson and Michael were in an elevator headed to the penthouse. It hadn’t taken much; all they really needed to do was “prove” that they weren’t heavies. Luckily Michael had a solution for that: act like a pussy. Jackson snickered quietly as his partner shook his head, long tired of Jackson’s remarks. He realized it was just the way things were, but that asshole had proven his worth a long time ago too. The elevator beeped with each floor. Around floor forty Jackson stopped snickering and looked at his partner. They locked eyes, hands in their coats and prepared to go out swinging. Forty six, forty seven, forty eight… Their hands grasped the weapons tighter. Forty nine… They both muttered the phrase together, drawing their weapons.

“Nova initia.”

The elevator dinged and opened, revealing two huge, burly men. Their prosthetics were not hidden, probably to make them seem more fierce. Indeed, their burly, shiny arms radiated strength as they reached out and knocked Michael and Jackson’s heads together. They both passed out.

---

Jackson woke up a time later, hanging upside-down from a meat hook next to what he could only assume was a cow, although this wasn’t really his element. A voice came from behind him.

“So. I hear you don’t like how I do business.”

The voice was the smooth sound of a man assured of his power. As Jackson struggled, he caught a glimpse of Michael hanging two hooks over. His eye was swollen shut, and something was throwing off sparks near his chin. Blood dripped from a wound on the side of his head onto the concrete floor. Jackson twisted as much as he could to get a look at their captor.

Unassuming was the man that stood before him, in a tailored three-piece suit that seemed immune from the bloody environment. He held a cane out in front of him, clearly not necessary for walking but absolutely vital to his image. A slight cocky grin dominated the man’s face, and his eyes told Jackson only one thing. I am in control here. Jackson spat at the man’s face, but it fell a bit short and landed at his feet. As he gathered another shot, a real one rang through the air. Jackson could barely see the man who fired it, standing behind the boss. He mentally traced the trajectory to see where it had landed, square between Michael’s eyes.

“Now that I have your attention, how would you like to make a deal?” The smooth voiced man was unperturbed by the death, whereas Jackson was doing everything he could to swing himself closer to Michael, whose unswollen eye had opened at the shot and now stared dead into space. A swift strike of the cane hit Jackson in the cheek, and he did his best to face the monster before him. Now was not the time to fight.

“What do you propose? Dirtbag… Jackson thought, spitting blood out onto the ground.

“You stop following me, and start going after the people behind this.” The man punctuated each word with a slight swing of the cane. Jackson’s eyes narrowed as he felt he rage building up again. “You’re behind this!”

“Oh Jackson, you don’t really think I’m the only one behind this? You’ve got to understand that there are bigger things at play here.” The man suddenly looked put upon. In his public image, he was said to be in his mid-thirties but in this state it was clear he was much older. It didn’t do much to subdue Jackson’s rage, however. He bit his lip for a minute and finally came up with a reasonable response, one that had a chance of getting him out of here.

“What’s in it for me?”