I wasn't sure exactly what the limits are for M, but I decided to up the rating just in case. Enjoy...kind of. :)
Warning for Violence and Extreme Sick Thoughts
Jackson flipped his hair and flashed a smile into the mirror. Which mood should he choose today? Cocky? Mischievous? Don't-give-a-shit? There were, after all, more to choose from than the variety of Mr. Potato Head's faces. He wanted to appear full of charisma for his business meeting, wanted to make a good impression on his boss so he would give him a half-decent job this time. The Machinov job had been anything less than entertaining. Jackson preferred the more trying jobs, the one that invited positions of cunning rather than those of brawn. He wanted a "fun" job, one that would be more like putting together a jigsaw puzzle instead of going to the shooting range. Fun.
He finally settled on cocky with a hint of dedication. He tried it out in front of the bathroom mirror and, satisfied, clicked off the bathroom light. He'd practiced these faces so often. It was only necessary, in a job like his, to always be able to put on a facade, no matter what the occasion. It was also one of the reasons he'd slid by so easily as a child and young adult.
"Jackson...I don't want to upset you...but I need to know. Did you hurt Tim?" Christina's face was anxious and concerned.
Jackson simply smiled calmly. "No."
A pause. "He says you did."
"I greased the floor of his room with cooking oil," he responded coolly. "I don't believe I should be held responsible for any accidents he may have had."
"Well...why would you do that?"
"Simple."
"Would you...care to elaborate?"
"He called me Jack. Jack the Ripper."
"I see. Well, then, back to class. Jackson."
He had been six at the time. Christina hadn't quite known how to handle him but she regarded his misbehavior in a nonchalant air. After all, childish pranks weren't unusual for one of his age or intelligence.
She didn't realize then how she should have nipped them in the bud to begin with.
Jackson lifted his briefcase from the office table and opened it gently. A knife glistened from the inside, its blade sharp and shiny. He lifted it and regarded it carefully, smiling contentedly.
Killing had always been what one might call a hobby. Pastime, passion, no matter what it was, Jackson had it. It gave him the strangest sense of power to drain the life of another. It was merely amusing to harm them...but to make them stop breathing, their hearts stop beating, now that...that was another story entirely.
"Jack Ripper," Tim's voice was mocking. "Weak, scrawny Jack Ripper the orphan."
Jackson regarded him coolly. "Shut your mouth."
"Why? You're no match for me." He was partially right. At ten Tim was at least twice the nine-year-old's size. Why should he be intimidated?
"The mind has more power than any of your physical capabilities," he said gracefully. The other boy had given him a blank look. Leave it to Jackson to have the vocabulary of one twice his age. He hadn't had to say more. At least, not then.
The other children didn't know about the secret stockpile of weapons he had hidden in his room, in a box under his bed. He was proud, he'd made them himself, out of various items found around the orphanage. Items that any other child or even adult would deem useless. But they weren't.
He also had several knives he'd stolen from the cafeteria when on kitchen duty. Kitchen duty, a chore assigned to him for his various misdemeanors. Not that he minded, it was his chance to steal cutlery to add to his collection of tools.
Oh, how pleasant it had been, that first kill, Jackson looked fondly back on that memory. He'd had it coming to him, really he had. None of the children had ever expected. At that age the only real weapon, they believed, was a gun. But Jackson didn't need guns. They were below him, a weapon reserved for those wishing to leave big, brash messages. Jackson preferred to work in stealth, dealing his blows as his victims screamed for mercy. With a gun one just shot and ran or got caught. But that was not the case with any of the torture implements Jackson used. Not the case at all.
"Jackson," Tim's voice had been strained and fearful.
"Deciding to use my real name now that I have the upper hand, eh?" Jackson's voice had been mocking, the knife blade glinting in the darkness of Tim's room. "Weak."
"I-I-Jackson, I-didn't mean any of it," Tim tried to laugh. "It...it was all, just-a joke, buddy, you know? Just a joke."
"A joke?" Jackson repeated his words slowly and carefully. "Hm. Is that so?"
"Yeah," he could almost feel the boy's relief pulsing through his veins. "Yeah. Haha, man, can't you take a joke?"
And then he pounced. The knife slid easily into flesh, so quickly Tim hadn't had time to scream or say more. Jackson had calmly backed away from the slowly pulsating, slowly dying body. He wiped the blood free from his hands on the boy's shirt.
"Yes. I can."
That he could. He'd proven it...and he'd proven something else, too. He'd proven that he wasn't going to be Jack the Ripper. He would leave his own legacy as a feared assassin, dreaded killer named Jackson Rippner.