Jackson Nero: Origin

"Hello. My name is Jackson Nero, and this… is my story."

"For as long as I can remember, I've always been a spectator… or, more accurately, I've always been the outcast. You see, my quirk can be pretty easily mistaken for something that a villain would have. Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did too. I've hurt a lot of people in the past… I know it's already tough on my parents – they just want what's best for me – but I wish they'd look at me like a son and not as a nuisance. I don't know. Maybe I'm just being ungrateful for the fact that they haven't thrown me out. With the amount of… uh, accidents that I've been the cause of, you'd think they would have given up on me after moving around so much."

Jackson paused. Turning to the side, he cast his gaze out the window of his family's tiny apartment. In the distance, he was able to hear the faint sound of traffic, with the occasional siren breaking apart the monotonous noise. He looked back at his old laptop's camera, opening and closing his mouth a couple times before sighing and closing the device.

"That was pathetic," he murmured as he slid down the folding chair.

Staring at the ceiling, he couldn't help but count the splotches of water damage and other markings that lined its surface. He stopped counting around fifty, though. The therapist that his parents had hired had suggested using the video as a way to get his thoughts and feelings out. Laying across the chair's seat, Jackson wondered if he would even reach fifty if his parents hadn't paid for that stupid advice.

Hearing the door creak open brought Jackson back to his senses enough to give a sidelong glance. It was his father. Standing in the doorframe, Johnathan Nero looked first at Jackson and his current position and then at the closed laptop. Johnathan stepped into the room, walked past his son at his makeshift desk. He lowered himself into a seat on his son's bed and let out a sigh. Looking back at Jackson, Johnathan gave his son a look full of sadness.

"Don't worry, Jack. It'll get better. We'll make it through this."

For the first time since they had left Philadelphia, Jackson wanted to explode.

He wanted his dad to know that he knew how empty his words were. He wanted him to know that repeating stuff like that doesn't magically make things good again. He wanted him to know that it was his fault that he had married mom and they had had him, that he wouldn't have such a cursed life had they never met. But more than anything else, he just wanted the world to know how unfairly it had treated him.

Before his quirk had developed, life was fairly simple for the young Jackson Nero. He did decently in preschool, his parents were fairly well off, and he had a nice circle of friends. Even when his quirk first developed, not much changed in his relationships and life went on as usual. It was at age five that his life began to darken. One day, a friend of his had been under the relentless assault of a bully who had developed a sound quirk that allowed him to whisper directly in a person's ear from a couple meters away. Not sure what else to do, the young Jackson Nero pushed the bully to try and get him to stop. His quirk activated.

Jackson Nero; Quirk: Shred

At a touch, he is able to slice or, more accurately, scrape away at an object's surface. The depth of these slices depends on the force of the touch.

After damages had been paid, the Nero family moved for the first time.

From then on, and for the next nine years, the family began moving up and down the United States' East Coast. They would take up residence in whatever home they could afford, and from there they would try and find a little stability. Johnathan would attempt to find a job where his finger blades could be considered useful. It was usually something along the lines of kitchen staff or gardening assistance. His mother, Linda, attempted the same, albeit with her malleable touch quirk, often landing a quick metal-working job or other industry profession. They would usually last a year before another incident occurred, forcing them to abandon another home.

They had stayed the longest in Philadelphia. During his time there, Jackson made it a point of avoiding other people as much as possible. He limited himself to sparse conversation and mild relationships, nothing that ever extended past sharing a pencil or two. At first, his fellow classmates tried getting him to open up more. They thought it was simply nerves from being the new kid and that, given time, he would be more talkative. Soon enough, though, they realized that he would never open up. He couldn't. For a time after that, they left him alone, which Jackson was completely fine with. But just as soon as he had started adjusting to this new sense of calm had the rumors begun.

Years earlier, he had figured out that wearing gloves would weaken his quirk's effect. Upon discovering this, his eyes had lit up, and he began thinking of ways he could design a glove to completely negate his quirk. His heart had raced at the thought. He decided, though, that it would be best to stick with leather gloves for now. It was the cheapest thick material he could afford and as long as he didn't move his hands much, he wouldn't have to replace them often. From then on, he began to wear gloves constantly. Even when he was sleeping and eating, he would have them on.

Unfortunately, this habit was simply fuel for people's assumptions. Pairing it up with his reclusive behavior, his classmates were quick to draw conclusions. They had collectively decided that he must be some kind of secret villain with an extremely dangerous quirk involving his hands. Of course, they were half-right, but they never attempted to ask Jackson whether it was true. Afterwords, they reacted with fear, avoiding him even more, which Jackson was still fine with. But fear eventually turned to anger, and anger into violence.

The first rock was thrown about two weeks after Jackson's classmates decided he was evil. Because of Philly's gas prices, he would walk to and from school most days. It was on one of those days where, with his back turned, a classmate hurled a stone at his back. The wind knocked out of him, Jackson collapsed forward, barely saving himself by sticking his hands out. Gasping for breath, he glanced over his shoulder to see his assailant running away. "That's what you get, villain!" he heard him shout. Jackson was stunned. He kept staring even though his classmate had already turned the corner. He didn't understand. He hadn't done anything to anyone and yet he was called a villain? Why?

Coming to his senses, he realized with a start that he had been trembling, the pain completely forgotten. Rising to his feet, he moved to dust off his clothes, but stopped short upon seeing the ground. Where his hands had hit, there were what looked to be claw marks from some kind of wild animal. Each gash was about half an inch deep. Raising his hands, he finally saw what remained of what had once been his gloves. The leather shreds slipped off, falling to the ground in loose piles. Taking a shaky breath, Jackson began the slow walk home. He made extra sure to keep his hands as perfectly still as possible.

When he got home, he didn't say a word about what had happened. He knew that if his parents found out, they would most definitely move again. He didn't know the full extent of the costs they had paid in order to keep this nomadic lifestyle going. All he knew was that the houses they had been in had progressively worsened as the years went on. Going from a modest two bedroom house at the start until they went to a one bedroom hovel. If they were lucky, that is.

And it was all his fault. Everyday he had constant reminders. His father had taken to repeating reassurances to Jackson. It would always be the same line, too. It always made him look so tired. His mother, on the other hand, had tried to keep a happy-go-lucky attitude. To the world, she made it seem like it was an inevitability things would get better. But behind her purple eyes, there was a tinge of sadness. Maybe it was the regret of, as Jackson thought, bringing someone into the world who would spread so much evil.

So Jackson kept quiet, as he didn't want their assumed fears to be true. He kept quiet even when the attacks grew bolder. School supplies were damaged, gym clothes were shredded, and even more rocks were thrown. Even teachers seemed to be giving him the evil eye as the rumors spread to them. He endured it all. He didn't want to prove to his parents that he was, indeed, a villain.

Over the course of nearly a year and a half, these kind of attacks continued. Of course, they eventually began tapering off, as people just grew sick of harassing the villain who wouldn't ever fight back. Only those with the biggest egos continued with their assaults. They saw it as a way of living out their greatest power-fantasies. They could be just like their favorite heroes and defeat the villain. But even stoning wasn't enough for them, now. They just needed the excuse to use their quirks.

And that excuse eventually came.

Of all the things Jackson liked most, one of his favorite pastimes was design. He liked designing all manners of things, but hero equipment was definitely his number one. He would often sit away from others during any study period in order to draw in peace. He would scribble away at various accessories a hero could wear to improve themselves and their quirk. It was his way of living out his own fantasies, and he most certainly didn't want to involve others. But, during one of these periods, time had finally run out. The darkness that had been dormant the past two years had finally consumed him.

Crack

All attention was drawn to the corner. Eyes flickered around to detect the sharp sound's source. Jackson's heart was racing. His whole body shook as his classmates fixed their gazes on the aftermath. As if someone had taken an axe to it, the table was now newly scarred, with the corner only hanging on by a thin layer of plastic edging. One of his pencils laid on the ground, perfectly sliced down the middle.

Without a word or his things, Jackson rose to his feet and began trudging to the door. As he walked, he kept his head down, quietly wishing his curly hair could cover his face. He could feel the sweat forming and though he willed it with all his might, he could not stop his lips from trembling. Just as he was about to exit the room, though, a tight grip was placed on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going, villain?"

Without a pause, whoever had stopped him knocked his wind out. Jackson collapsed to the floor. Floundering, he gripped at his stomach and took in shaky breaths. He could feel snot begin to leak. But the assault wasn't over. Another hit to the stomach sent him flying a few feet back, slamming into the floor and rolling into the wall. Coughing turned to retching as Jackson gasped for breath. He curled into the fetal position, hoping his attacker would stop. But the meager defense wasn't enough, and Jackson felt his whole body being lifted up. Before he had time to register this, though, he was already in the air and slamming into his table. Jackson went to grip at the pain, but yanked his hands away. He could already feel the blood on his stomach, and he was pretty sure a punch didn't do that.

Shakily looking up, Jackson was finally able to see the face of his attacker. If he hadn't been breathing heavily, his jaw probably would have dropped. He wasn't exactly sure what his name was (maybe Mason?), but he knew he remembered him from the start of the year. Always wearing his styled blond hair and a beaming smile, from a distance he had seemed to be the one with brightest attitude. In fact, he had been one of the kids to try their hardest at befriending Jackson. Now here he was beating Jackson to a pulp. And he wasn't holding back. His shirt noticeably rippled as he activated his muscle expansion quirk. The friendly smile he had always worn was now a merciless smirk.

As Jackson stared, his eyes flitted around the classroom. No one appeared to be coming to his aid any time soon. The on-duty deputy teacher was too engrossed in their book to do anything. As his gaze revolved around the room, his look fell upon what he knew to be Mason's jacket. Mason had always worn it unzipped, obscuring the design. Jackson hadn't cared enough to ask what it was. But now, laid flat on the desk, he could clearly see what it was supposed to be. Suddenly, the smile and styled blond hair made sense. Jackson's blood began to boil. Before he could do anything though, Jackson was once again smacked away, rolling across the floor. He didn't care.

"Faker trash…" Jackson muttered. He gritted his teeth, trying to regain composure.

Leaning in, Mason mockingly lifted a hand to his ear. "What was that villain? You'll have to speak up if you want to say something to someone who's above you."

Jackson snapped. The deep falsetto was too much. "You're not a hero!" he shouted, slapping Mason across the face.

Blood splattered. Classmates screamed. Mason reeled and Jackson's blood went cold. The teacher's extend-o-fingers quickly restrained him, bringing him to the ground, forcing Jackson to look at what he had done. He could see Mason staring at him, terror in his eyes. He could see the wet gashes he had left on his face. There was a chunk missing from his nose. Blood was trickling out of it.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Both parents and police were called. Recovery heroes accompanied them. They fixed up Mason the best they could, leaving when their work was finished. Jackson was only half-aware of these events, though. He was too caught up looking back at all the things that had led up to this. Apparently his two years of harassment and assault came out during that meeting. His parents fervently questioned him, asking why he never told them. They never got their answer though, as Mason's parents had finally arrived. After being informed on the entire situation, they agreed to a relatively simple out of court settlement, which Johnathan paid right then and there.

Before the sun had even set, the Nero family had already packed up and left Philadelphia.

And once again, Jackson was at his breaking point. His blood boiled as if a fire had been lit under his heart. Here was one of the people who was supposed to be on his side. They were supposed to care for him, know him. But right now, they didn't even understand him. That's all he wanted. To be understood. Yet his father didn't seem to want to put more effort in than a small sentence.

And there was the conundrum. It was his father. Someone who was in just as much a predicament as he was. Actually, he had it even worse. Jackson's mouth softened, the corners drooping downward. Just like how Jackson had never asked for this life, neither had his dad. He and his mom had always been the ones to work the long hours, and they had never forced him to get one either. It had always just been then breaking their backs in order to give them all a decent life.

Jackson sighed as he rose from his chair. His thoughts were too jumbled and being cooped up in that apartment didn't help. "I'm going to go for a walk," he said, "Gotta see what the best routes to school are, I guess."

Nodding, Johnathan gave his son a small wave farewell. "Take care, son."

And like that, Jackson Nero was out exploring the streets of New York, uncertain of what the future may hold for him.

A/N: Guess I'm going to continue this trend I set for myself in another series, but if I were to choose an opening for this series, it would most certainly be Loser by Kenshi Yonezu. Yes, the same guy who made Peace Sign.