I'm starting to think my Literature teacher is unconsciously influencing this story. Seriously. When I was writing Chapter 4 (during his class…I'm a terrible student), he was rambling about how women will search for any excuse to cheat on their husbands, just like his ex-wives did when they were married to him. Meanwhile, there I was, writing about the ever-slutty Selena. Also, Jackson and Jonathan's father's name is Frank, which is my Literature teacher's first name. And then, when I was writing a section about Anna in my notebook yesterday morning, what do I hear him shrieking?

"You don't mess with a Mafia princess! You just don't! Even if she deserves it, it's a stupid idea!"

Kinda creepy.

Also, one thing you might notice as you read through this chapter is that dialogue from Chapter 1 is being shown again. That's because we've almost reached the apex of the flashbacks, which is Anna's murder (which was touched upon in Chapter 1). Once we get past that, we'll be seeing in the flashbacks exactly what Jonathan and Jackson were up to for those thirteen years that they were separated.

In any case, enjoy the newest chapter!

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THE ONE WARNING: I don't do warnings. Proceed at your own risk.

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Disclaimer: I'm telling you, Mr. Craven, I'll let them know that I don't own 'Red Eye' once you send me backstage passes for the filming of the sequel! Same goes for you, Mr. Nolan! And I better be able to get into Cillian's trailer, or somebody's gonna suffer!

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

Switchblades and Spirit Gum

It was a cool day in December when Jackson decided to wander around town. His father was at work, his mother was passed out in her bedroom, and Jonathan had actually remembered to go to school that day. Jackson had chosen to sleep through their alarm, deciding that a pillow was a much better thing to rest one's head on than a desktop.

At about 10 AM, Jackson had finally managed to drag himself out of bed. After eating some leftover Chinese food for breakfast, he peered into his parents' room to see his mother sprawled all over the mattress, the room smelling like stale alcohol and cigarettes. After realizing that she wouldn't wake up even if a car plowed into her, Jackson stole some money out of her purse, changed into clean clothes, and headed into town.

As soon as he had arrived in the main part of town, the question arose of what he was actually going to do while he was there. Racking his brain, Jackson tried to remember what places were open at that point in the day. After a few seconds, Jackson began to make his way to the local bar.

As he entered the dingy tavern, it took Jackson's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lack of lighting fixtures. Once they did, he peered around, trying to determine who else was there. Not many people were there that morning, apparently. Besides the bartender, there were two of the town drunks passed out in the corner, a few of the local men playing pool in the center of room, and two unfamiliar men chatting as they sat at the bar counter.

Meandering towards the tavern's jukebox, Jackson pulled a quarter out of his pocket. After plunking it into the machine and hitting a few buttons, the gentle crooning of a country singer was replaced by the shrill wailing of a rock band.

One of the local men clapped his hands over his ears, shouting "Turn that crap off!"

"Make me," Jackson spat back before walking to the bar counter and plopping onto a barstool.

"I'll have a Guinness," he told the middle-aged bartender, who looked as though he'd like nothing more than to fall asleep right there on the counter. Leaning against the bar counter, Jackson smirked at the freedom with which he could spend his day. There was no nine to five job to bother him, and school was nothing more than a passing concern.

The bartender, a local man named Tom, sighed. "You're underage."

Smiling brashly, Jackson countered by stating, "That's never stopped you before."

Tom persisted. "You're sixteen, Jackson."

Smile vanishing, Jackson leaned over, telling him coldly, "Give me a beer or I tell your wife that you fucked my mother."

Sighing with a pained expression on his face, Tom nodded weakly as he rummaged among the bottled behind him. Patiently waiting, Jackson looked over at the two strange men speaking in low voices off to the side, listening as best he could to what they were saying.

"…I know that he doesn't trust me, but for crying out loud, tracking a fucking kid is the pits. He's still treating me like a damn rookie, and I've worked for him for…"

One of the men seemed to notice that they had attracted Jackson's attention. Making a small sign at his buddy, they both fell silent.

"Here," said Tom in a dead voice as he plopped the cold beer in front of Jackson. Momentarily distracted from the two men, Jackson reached into his pocket and plunked his money down before grabbing his drink and taking a swig.

The song on the jukebox ended, and another country ballad began to play. Rolling his eyes, Jackson grabbed another quarter from his pocket and walked over to the jukebox.

The men playing pool groaned loudly as the sounds of Nirvana filled the room. Jackson merely shrugged. "It's my quarter."

One of the pool players, a short, stocky man who was balding slightly, shouted drunkenly, "Why do you play that shit? Why can't you just leave our music alone?"

"Because your music is crap," Jackson retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

The man, who had obviously had quite a lot to drink, seemed to take offense at this. "You bastard!"

Jackson rolled his eyes, enraging the man even further. Grabbing his billiard stick, he charges towards Jackson like only a drunk man could, stumbling as he went and looking like a complete buffoon.

Without flinching, Jackson grabbed one of the barstools by its leg and swung it at the charging drunk, hitting him across the side of the head. Surprised, the man teetered for a second before crashing to the ground and promptly passing out.

Watching his friend's collapse to the ground, the others grew anxious while gathering around him to see if he was alright. One of them, a tall, heavyset man, looked at Jackson angrily. "What the fuck is your problem?"

Jackson shrugged. "He charged at me."

The man gritted his teeth and rolled up his sleeves. "Kids like you need to be taught a lesson."

"Really now," Jackson said blankly, not even batting an eye.

Angrily, the large man marched over to him, his face contorted in rage. Jackson just stood there as the older man came closer, his posture relaxed. It was a little bizarre to see: Jackson, the scrawny kid that was barely 5'10", calmly awaiting a 6' man with bulging biceps.

It was when the larger man was about three feet away that Jackson sprang into action. Hastily grabbing a switchblade from his back pocket, he flicked it open and sliced through the air in front of him. Stunned, the man stumbled backwards, blood beginning to leak out of his throat. Clutching his neck with his hands, the man turned to look at his friends with bulging, pleading eyes as he fell to his knees. His friends, seeing what had happened, rushed over to him, and everything descended into chaos.

"Joe! Joe, you okay?"

"Call 911! Somebody call for an ambulance!"

"Joe, can you hear me?"

Jackson watched the proceedings with a dull interest until he felt strong hands grabbing his collar and Tom's angry eyes entered his field of vision.

A second later, he was being shoved out of the tavern, Tom's voice screaming, "Get out! Get out of my bar and don't come back!"

Landing with a thud outside the tavern door, Jackson stood up and dusted himself off. Peering around, he walked to the side of the building and sat in the shade provided by its walls. He stayed there and waited for a while, going unnoticed as Joe and his buddy were loaded into an ambulance. As the white vehicle drove away, its sirens blaring, Jackson felt a strange sort of satisfaction with what had happened.

He was about to get up and head back home when there was suddenly a strange man standing in front of him. Mistaking him for one of the other local men, Jackson threatened, "What, you want to join your two buddies?"

Chuckling slightly, the man said, "I'm not here to threaten you." Amiably, he held out his hand. "Name's Sal."

Jackson reached out and shook, but he said nothing. Sal, not seeming to care if Jackson gave him his name, crouched down to meet him at eye level and asked, "You're awfully skilled with a knife, aren't you?"

Not sure if he could trust him, Jackson stated emotionlessly, "I guess."

Grinning a little, Sal stated jovially, "You don't need to be modest. You just sent a grown man to the hospital with one swipe of a blade. Hell, if he dies, that means you've committed murder and you only had to swing once."

Coldly, Jackson said, "It was self-defense. He and his buddy came charging at me. They got what was coming to them."

Chuckling as though Jackson had just made a joke, Sale replied, "Right. In any case, I'm willing to bet this wasn't your first time handling a knife, correct?"

"What's it matter to you?"

Speaking in a tone reserved for hush-hush discussions about trading nuclear bombs, Sal responded, "Well, did you know you can make good money with that kind of talent?"

Ears perking up, Jackson replied, "I'm listening."

Grinning, Sal continued, "What if I told you that I could arrange for you to get paid for little displays of your talent?"

"How much?" Jackson asked brusquely.

"Well, it wouldn't be a one-time job. We'd be hiring you like any full-time occupation, and you'd be given assignments throughout the year."

"But how much would one...'assignment' cost?"

Smiling, Sal answered, "For your first assignment…how's a thousand dollars sound?"

Jackson blinked. Quickly performing some mental math, Jackson calculated that Sal was offering him easily five times as much money as his father had in his savings account.

"And what would I have to do, exactly?"

When he received no reply for several seconds, Jackson let out a small cackle. "You want me to kill someone, don't you?"

Smiling confidentially, Sal responded, "Does that matter?"

Jackson grinned. "Not really."

Reaching into his pocket, Sal pulled out a small scrap of paper and a pencil. He scribbled something down and then handed the paper to Jackson, saying, "Go to that address at noon tomorrow. I'll explain everything there."

Jackson grabbed the paper and stared at it, saying nothing. Smiling, Sal stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away, vanishing like a specter into thin air.

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It was only a few minutes after their encounter on the street corner that Jackson and Jonathan found themselves back in the apartment. Jonathan was wrapping gauze around Jackson's shoulder, Jackson hissing in pain as he did so.

"Hold still," Jonathan stated tersely for perhaps the fiftieth time. Jackson, whose shoulder still stung with sharp pain every time the gauze wrapped around it, cried, "That hurts!"

"If you'd hold still, then maybe it wouldn't hurt as much," Jonathan stated in an irritated fashion. Still aching, Jackson resigned himself and allowed his brother to dress the gash in his shoulder. Jackson comforted himself by looking at the marks across Jonathan's jawbone and neck; even if he had a bloody shoulder to deal with, Jonathan hadn't fared much better.

Jonathan, still applying the gauze, asked abruptly, "You said you needed to hide from your superiors. Is this for a certain amount of time, or indefinitely?"

Jackson, distracted from his shoulder, muttered, "A few months, at most."

Jonathan gave him an incredulous look. "A few months."

Jackson nodded. "Hiding from the cops is easy. I can disguise myself well enough that they won't recognize me as the same man that tried to kill Charles Keefe. And my bosses only have people operating in countries that have or are targeted by terrorists. There's a whole slew of countries that don't fall into either category that I can hide in."

Jonathan, seeming interested, fastened the gauze together with a clip and asked, "Then why wait a few months?"

Rubbing the fresh bandages, Jackson answered, "Because I don't have access to any ways out of the country. The only way I can leave is on a commercial airplane, just like any ordinary person in the country. And to do that, I need a passport and identification. Right now, the only ID I have is for a Jackson Rippner, who everyone and their mother are looking for."

Sitting across from Jackson on a chair he had retrieved from the kitchen, Jonathan inquired, "And how are you going to fix that?"

"I have some loyal contacts left from my assassination days who owe me some favors. I already contacted them, and they're going to forge a whole new identity for me. Birth certificate, Social Security card, college diploma, the whole shebang. But it'll take time to finish the job, so I need to lay low until they're done."

"So, if you have to lay low, why are you here now? It's been a few weeks since the Keefe attack, so where have you been hiding?"

There was pause as Jackson held his shoulder and stared at the floor for a few seconds, reluctant to answer. He looked up to see that Jonathan was still watching him expectantly. Sighing, he answered, "I got shot twice. I had to be taken to a hospital where I could bribe a doctor into treating me without taking me to the cops, and pay for treatment in cash. After I was released, I came here."

Pulling on the neckline of his shirt, he yanked it in such a way to show the scars on his chest from where the surgeons were forced to remove the bullets. "Pretty, aren't they?"

Jonathan frowned slightly. "How did you get those?"

"I thought you said you read about it in the paper."

"Refresh my memory, then."

Sighing, Jackson replied, "I screwed up. I was assigned to kill the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, and I let a hostage get the best of me. That's how I got those…" He lifted his head up, exposing his neck, "…and this."

Jonathan blanched a little at the small but noticeable scar that lay in on the center of Jackson's throat. "What happened to your neck?"

Smiling ironically, Jackson explained, "I got stabbed with a ballpoint pen."

Giving him an odd look, Jonathan asked, "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not. Even if you did, I don't feel like telling you."

Shaking his head, Jonathan sat back in his chair. Jackson fixed his shirt, watching as his brother folded his hands together and looked slightly anxious. Folding his arms, Jackson waited until his brother finally managed to speak.

"If you are going to stay here…"

"If?" Jackson asked with a bemused smile.

"If you stay here…" Jonathan persisted. "What exactly will you be doing while you're here?"

Jackson shrugged nonchalantly. "There's not much I can do. I'm a wanted man, and seeing as my organization wants me dead, I have to stay out of public view for a while."

Jonathan nodded slightly. "So, if you stay, there won't be any Mafia men visiting here?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "No, especially since I don't work for the Mafia…"

Jonathan sighed, running his hands through his hair impatiently. "Whatever it is that you do…and I don't want to know what it is, so don't tell me…it won't be brought back here somehow, will it?"

Jackson leaned back on the sofa cushions, lounging casually as the blood seeped into the gauze. "Have someone you need to impress, Scarecrow?"

Ignoring this, Jonathan told him, "Also, you can't stay here for free, you know."

Jackson didn't say anything. He simply crossed his legs and muttered, "Hmm."

Jonathan continued. "I'm going to assume that…whatever it is you do…you've been getting paid for it. I'm not keeping you here as a charity case. I'm going to need some money from you, and you'd better be out of here in a few months."

Jackson shrugged. "Sounds fair. I promise I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can, and you'll never have to deal with me again. And as for the rent, I assume you know that's not a problem."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Jackson stared at him for a second before a grin spread across his lips. He let out a small chuckle as Jonathan gave him an odd look. Seeing his brother's confusion, Jackson remarked, "What, you mean I was unconscious all night and you didn't even snoop in my briefcase?" He chuckled. "Scarecrow, your lack of curiosity amazes me."

Walking to the other side of the room, Jackson grabbed his briefcase by its handle and laid it out flat on the floor. Unlocking the clasps, Jackson pushed open the briefcase, revealing nothing more than a few wigs, some contact cases, and a wide variety of stage makeup. Although he seemed slightly surprised by what he saw, it was nothing too odd for Jonathan to really care. That was before Jackson pulled out a false bottom, elaborately latched to the rest of the briefcase. Upon opening it, Jonathan's eyes widened as he saw stack upon stack upon stack of one hundred dollar bills.

"Jackson…" Jonathan asked tentatively, seemingly unsure as to how he was supposed to react. "Where did you get all this money?"

Shutting the briefcase closed with a flourish, Jackson smiled. "Technically, it's not money, if you want to be specific. They're counterfeits, but very elaborate ones. They've got all the security features that a real hundred has: the color changing ink, the face that you see through a bright light, the chemicals that react to detector pens…most banks can't even tell the difference between these and the real deal."

Placing the briefcase on the floor, where it leaned against the wall innocently, Jackson smiled in amusement. "Just one of the perks of working for Iranian oil moguls."

Jonathan couldn't seem to stop looking at the briefcase, his eyes slightly glazed over as he stared. Jackson couldn't help but marvel at the fact that his briefcase probably held more money in it than Jonathan would ever earn in his entire lifetime.

Even if they were counterfeits.

Opening the briefcase again as though he had forgotten something, Jackson pulled out the false bottom once more and grabbed a stack of hundreds. Carelessly, he tossed it at Jonathan, who caught it barely. "There. That should cover me for the next few months, right?"

Jonathan stared at the money in his hands. "There's got to be several thousand dollars here."

"So?"

Jonathan stared at his older brother for a few seconds, not choosing to respond to the question. Eventually, he sighed, pocketing the stack of money in disbelief.

----------

Defying even his own expectations of himself, Jackson had to struggle internally over whether to meet with Sal again. The prospect of a thousand dollars in his pocket was enticing to his sixteen year-old brain, and it certainly sweetened to pot on the whole deal. Thinking hard, he couldn't honestly remember a time when he'd had an amount of money even close to that.

But there was also the problem of what Sal was asking him to do. There was little doubt in Jackson's mind as to what the job would entail, and what part he would have to play. Thinking over this, Jackson reasoned with himself that killing a person probably wasn't very different than killing an animal. When it came down to it, humans were really just another species of animal, blundering their way through the world in the hopes that they'd survive long enough to reproduce.

Besides, he'd been able to effectively slit the throat of the man at the bar. What would stop him from doing the same thing to someone else?


Still, there was something in the back of Jackson's mind that nagged him, telling him that it would be different than killing a man charging at you with fists clenched. Jackson tried to shake it off. He reminded himself again and again that there was nothing to it, that he shouldn't be worrying so much over it.

Besides, he could always say 'no'.

In any case, all these thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as he made his way towards the address Sal had given him, happily thinking of the thousand dollars that would soon be lining his pockets.

It was 11:45 AM when Jackson stood outside the local motor inn, its neon sign reminding him that, yes, they DID have vacancies! Never mind that the neon sign was pointless in the middle of the day.

Scanning the building, Jackson saw that all of the rooms faced outwards, towards the parking lot. Looking down at the directions he'd been given, Jackson read that he needed to go to Room #4080. Scanning the door fronts, his eyes eventually alighted on the correct room. He walked over to it calmly, and, upon reaching it, banged loudly on the door.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and a tall man peered down at Jackson as though he were a bug. Jackson recognized him as the man that had been with Sal in the bar.

Attempting to appear casual, Jackson stated gruffly, "Sal told me to meet him."

Unfazed, the tall man replied, "I know." He stepped out of the doorframe, keeping his eyes on Jackson as he did so. Feeling slightly anxious, Jackson stepped into the dingy motel room.

Inside, Sal sat on a folding chair, a wide array of papers spread out in front of him. When Jackson entered, he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. As the other man closed the door, Jackson felt a strange sense of foreboding.

The tall man leaned up against the wall and lit a cigarette while Sal stood up and addressed Jackson. "I'm gonna assume you've been thinking over what we talked about yesterday?"

Jackson nodded. "You're gonna pay me to kill someone for you, right?"

Sal scratched his chin. "Sort of."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Sal stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood up to address Jackson. "Did you wonder at all why we might ask a sixteen year-old kid to do something like that, rather than a full grown adult?"

Jackson said nothing, not sure where this conversation was going. Mentally, he calculated how many seconds it would take for him to make a break for the door.

Sal sighed. The tall man walked away from the wall and stood next to Jackson, looming over him imperiously. Exhaling a puff of ashy smoke, he addressed Jackson calmly.

"We're from an organization that deals with people that have talents like yours. Talents of a…macabre nature."

"Killing people," Jackson uttered dully.

The tall man smiled. "Bingo. Problem is, our organization doesn't have many people working for it in the United States. Apparently, people aren't nearly as desperate for money around here as in other areas of the world. So we need new recruits. Young people with the skills we need. Kids like you."

Jackson let this sink in, not sure what to think. "So, when you saw me at the bar, you decided I'd be a good recruit?"

The tall man shook his head, still smiling. "It wasn't a coincidence that we were at that bar at the same time as you."

Jackson blinked. "What?"

Sucking on the end of the cigarette, the man explained, "Our organization's always on the lookout for recruits. So when we found out about you sending that twelve year-old kid to the hospital about a month ago…well, let's just say that we were intrigued."

Sal took over as the tall man continued to make love to his tobacco. "We were assigned to track you for a while to see if you were up to snuff. Most of the time, we saw that you were a pretty sick fuck, but we weren't sure if you were homicidal material. Then you attacked that guy in the bar, and that's when our doubts were erased."

Jackson folded his arms over his chest. "If you were following me this whole time, then what'd you find out?"

Sal chuckled. "Skeptical?"

"Maybe."

"Your name is Jackson Crane. You were born August 13, 1976. Your mother's Selena Crane, age 34, father's Frank Crane, age 36. Your brother's name is Jonathan a.k.a. "Scarecrow", age 14. You live on 1019 Oceanic Boulevard."

Jackson scoffed. "Please. You could find that out in ten minutes from anyone in town. Hell, you could have followed me home from the bar and found that out."

The tall man raised an eyebrow. "You fuck your brother."

Jackson, not having expected this, yelped, "WHAT?"

Calmly, the tall man repeated, "You fuck your brother. You hate your mother more than anyone on this planet, and you don't like your father much better. You've done fucked up things to animals, and you do them routinely. You've got a jar of pigeon's blood sitting on a shelf in your bedroom that you keep mixing with water to keep from congealing. Three days ago, you got beaned across the face with a soccer ball in gym class."

There was a ten second pause in which this information sunk into Jackson like a weight. Dumbfounded and somewhat embarrassed, Jackson barely managed to mutter, "Shit…"

The tall man smiled. "If it's any comfort, with the amount of sick things committed by the members of the organization, screwing a relative seems downright normal."

Shaking his head a little, Jackson asked numbly, "So what happens if I join this organization of yours?"

Sal folded his arms over his chest. "We'd be taking you with us to our headquarters in Miami. We'd have to train you, along with the other recruits, until we think you're ready to start working in the field. You get paid a set salary, not counting what you'll get for each assignment you take on. That's where you'll get the majority of your income. Our headquarters are the base of operations for all assignments in the eastern half of the US, so you'd be traveling a lot with other members to do jobs around the country. However…" He paused for a second and walked closer to Jackson. "…you wouldn't see your family again. You'd have to leave them behind and stay in Miami. Essentially, you'd be dead to them."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "That's a bad thing?"

"That includes your brother as well."

Jackson shrugged. "I don't want to have to live in Tennessee the rest of my life, living the same crappy life that my father does now. This sounds far more interesting."

Sal smiled, and the tall man seemed to do so as well behind the haze of his cigarette smoke. Sal clapped his hands together. "Alright then. I guess you're in." The tall man merely muttered, "Point of no return."

Jackson seemed unfazed, as though it were every day that he made life-altering decisions such as these. However, his heart was pounding and his mind was tumbling over the information he'd been given. There was something exhilarating about the idea that he would be able to say goodbye forever to this crapass town and the crapass people who lived in it.

"However…" the tall man continued, his deep voice booming through the haze from his cigarette, "…we still need to make sure you're good enough to join."

Jackson frowned. "I took out the guy in the bar. What else do I need to do?"

Putting out his cigarette in a handy ashtray, the tall man said, "You took him out in broad daylight. That's bad. We need to know you'll be able to do a job without alerting the entire neighborhood."

"So then what exactly do you want me to do?"

Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph and handed it to Jackson. "Her name's Anna Napolitano. Your job is to kill her."

Jackson stared at the photo for a few seconds, imprinting it in his mind. Judging by the fact that she was looking away from the camera, he guessed that it was taken without her knowledge. She had lightly tanned skin and long, dark brown hair that ran down to her waist. Her eyes were a warm mahogany, and her smile was full of crooked teeth. In Jackson's adolescent mind, she reminded him of a stick figure: no tits, no ass.

Sal continued. "She's seventeen years old, and she's just moved to your town from Vermont. Her uncle's a major player in the mafia in Chicago. The guy doesn't have any kids, so he treats her like a daughter."

Stuffing Anna's photo into his back pocket, Jackson inquired, "So, this is all to get at him?"

Sal nodded. "He's supposed to draw up a will in a couple of days. Right now, everyone's betting that he'll name Anna his sole heir. That means all the money, all the power of a Mafia don is going to someone who's not even out of high school."

Jackson smirked. "And her relatives aren't happy about that, are they?"

Sal grinned. "You catch on quick, don't you? Yeah, we're waiting for confirmation that her uncle names her his heir. The minute we do, we need her dead." Giving him an almost friendly look, Sal added, "If you do this right, the organization has to pay you for it. My guess is that you could get a thousand dollars for it. Probably more, if you can dispose of the body."

Jackson shrugged. "Doesn't sound too hard."

The tall man shook his head. "That's where you're wrong."

Reaching into his back pocket, Sal pulled out another photo and handed it to Jackson. It was of a tall, burly man looking rather odd in an expensive-looking suit.

"Who's he?"

"Her bodyguard," Sal answered mournfully. "Anna's parents are all too aware of the sensitive position she's in, and they've taken the necessary precautions. The reason they moved to Nowheresville, Tennessee without telling anyone was because they knew that the will was about to be written out, and they knew it would be easier to hide their daughter here. The bodyguard's been trained to protect her with his life, and he'll do it in a heartbeat."

Jackson's stomach sank at the sight of the impressive-looking handgun that the bodyguard was carrying. "Huh."

Sal continued. "We need you to get her to trust you over the next few days. We've been tailing her for the last few weeks, and she's pretty trusting for someone in her position. If you can get her to let down her guard, then getting her away from her bodyguard shouldn't be too hard."

Jackson frowned. "You've been tracking both of us at the same time?"

The tall man raised an eyebrow. "There are two of us, you know."

Sal handed over a stack of papers to Jackson. "This is a copy of all the info we've got on her. Try and use it when you talk to her." Folding his arms, he asked, "Any questions?"

Jackson nodded. "What happens if I fail or I get caught?"

Sal looked to the tall man, who merely shrugged before answering, "You die. Simple as that."

The impact of those words hit Jackson hard. Somehow, he seemed stunned that anyone could say something like that so casually, but he refused to show it. He simply flashed a cocky smile and said, "Alright, then."

----------

Although Jonathan hadn't expected it, somehow, living with your fugitive brother in your apartment could turn into a daily routine, albeit an odd one. It almost seemed like a farce, the way it played out, but nobody seemed to be able to tell that someone was being stowed away in his condo, which was all well for him.

Jackson's presence seemed to barely interfere with Jonathan's day-to-day life: Jonathan continued to go about his usual routine of going to work, dealing with mob bosses, and planning for Gotham's premature apocalypse. Jackson, for his part, seemed to spend his time lounging around Jonathan's apartment, entertaining himself. Jonathan wondered how he didn't get bored, but didn't concern himself with it. That was, until he started to get the sinking feeling that Jackson was starting to sneak out while he was away.

Jonathan didn't have any solid evidence that Jackson was leaving the apartment, but there were signs of it that he couldn't help but notice. He would come home and find things that he didn't remember having before…books, pieces of clothing, random household items. And he would notice Jackson's stage makeup lying around opened, occasionally staining whatever counter it had been left on. Yet Jackson never seemed to run out of concealers, creams, or "spirit gum" (whatever the hell that was).

Of course, whenever he asked Jackson if he'd gone out at all, Jackson would merely smile sweetly and say, "What, me, Scarecrow?"

Eventually, Jonathan confronted him, pointing out that he honestly couldn't remember buying a copy of 'Lord of the Flies', yet there Jackson was, happily reading a hardcover copy.

Jackson had chuckled. "Well, you caught on quickly enough, Scarecrow."

Jonathan groaned. "I thought you said that you needed to stay in hiding."

"I do. But that doesn't mean I need to stay inside all day. Especially if I disguise myself well enough."

Remembering the wigs and the stage makeup that Jackson kept leaving around the apartment, Jonathan sighed. "What if one of the members of your organization sees you? Surely they know what you look like in disguise."

Lounging casually on Jonathan's sofa, Jackson had replied, "They don't have any idea where I am, for the simple reason that they don't know I have a brother. And members of the organization almost never come to Gotham City, anyway."

Jonathan had frowned at this. "Why's that?"

Jackson shrugged. "Out of all the cities in the country, it's the most corrupt, and has the least useful police force. There's little need to hire a professional assassin when you can shoot someone yourself and get away with it."

Jonathan, realizing the truth of this, had mumbled, "Really now."

Opening his book up again, Jackson had added, "Blame it all on Carmine Falcone. Mob bosses like him screw up everything."

Jonathan had let the conversation drop there.

In any event, Jonathan was willing to let the issue of Jackson's outings go. He figured that Jackson must know what he was doing. Even if he didn't, there wasn't much he could do. If Jackson was caught by the police, Jonathan knew that he had enough leverage with Falcone to get out of any blame he might receive. Though if Jackson was caught by his organization…well, there was no telling how that might pan out.

There was very little communication between the two brothers, though that was mostly the fault of Jonathan. Whatever conversations they had were generally initiated by Jackson, usually by saying something sarcastic or bizarre. Jonathan would respond with short, clipped sentences, and Jackson would continue as though Jonathan were the most enthusiastic talker in the world.

Despite allowing Jackson to stay in his apartment, Jonathan still harbored anger towards his brother. Whenever he was forced to deal with Jackson, he couldn't help but remember the feelings of pain and abandonment left over from having his life destroyed in a single evening.

Yet, at the same time, the prospect of having Jackson leave was a dismal one. As much as he hated to admit it, somewhere inside Jonathan was the fourteen year-old that worshipped his big brother and would do anything to keep him near. And after being absent from his life for thirteen years, Jonathan was reluctant to lose Jackson once again.

When he came home at night, he would watch Jackson sometimes with the curious patience of a passerby to a car accident. He felt as though it were a stranger sitting there at times, and other times it felt as though he were merely looking at a mirror image of himself. Jackson confused him, made him question his own emotions, and Jonathan didn't like that. Yet, at the same time, it fascinated him. That was the price of becoming a psychiatrist: he couldn't help but analyze himself.

----------

Sal offered to drive Jackson home from the motel, and Jackson accepted the chance to be lazy and not have to walk. Besides, he welcomed the opportunity to ask questions without the tall man's imperious presence.

As they drove down country roads, Jackson turned to Sal and inquired, "Who was that guy? The tall one back in the hotel room?"

Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Sal replied, "That's Kevin. He's the head manager over at headquarters."

"Which means what exactly?"

"Basically, it means that he's the boss. There's several ranks within the organization, but he's in charge of everybody on the Eastern seaboard. He's not too bad, really. We've had a ton of bosses in the last eight years, and he's been one of the most easygoing."

Jonathan thought this over. "So then why'd he come here? If he's in charge, he's gotta have better things to do than check out a new recruit."

Sal shook his head. "He didn't come because of you. He came for the Anna case. We weren't even looking for a new recruit when we came here, but we heard about your reputation by chance, so we decided to check you out."

Jackson frowned. "But if Anna's case is so important that the head manager is involved, then why am I the one that's carrying it out?"

Sal turned to glance at him for a second before returning his focus to the road. "Simple. Even though Anna's case is big…and it's one of the biggest we've gotten in a while…we need to get her to trust her killer enough to abandon her bodyguard, remember? A seventeen year-old girl's a thousand times more likely to trust someone her own age than an overly interested adult."

Jackson thought this over and decided it made some sense. Leaning back in the passenger-side seat, he asked, "So how exactly am I supposed to get her to trust me?"

Sal shrugged. "Get her to like you. Be charming. Don't be such a rude little shit. You'll think of something."

The car pulled up in front of Jackson's house. Once it was parked, Sal turned to Jackson with a dead serious expression on his face. "Before you go, just get one thing straight: Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up. If you fail, you're completely screwed. If you get caught, you're still completely screwed. And don't go to the cops, because if you think the Witness Protection Program will save you, you're a damn idiot."

Jackson glared at him coldly. "I won't fuck this up. I'm not stupid."

Sal sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "It's nothing personal, but way too many recruits have chickened out at the last minute, and they end up six feet under." He bit his lip before continuing. "I'll be back in a few days to let you know whether or not her uncle's named her heir. If he has, then you have to kill her. If not, you're off the hook. If you change your mind…just tell me, alright? I'll talk to Kevin, and we'll do it instead, but you don't want to end up dead just because you didn't think this through."

Jackson nodded numbly. "So you were serious when you said that if I fail…"

Sal gave him an icy look devoid of any compassion as he replied, "Find some cyanide."

----------

According to the packet of information he had received, Anna's moving van wouldn't be arriving until the next day. As such, Jackson lounged around his room, thinking over what he would have to do in only a few hours.

In an odd way, Jackson was excited by what he was going to do. Dissecting animal cadavers had started to lose its appeal, but the murder of a human being seemed far more challenging. And his reward would be to leave his crappy house and his crappy parents in his crappy town and actually do something. Something exciting. He'd never even been outside Tennessee before, yet he was only a few days away from traveling throughout the US.

Granted, there was a small part of him that felt bad for leaving Jonathan behind. But he couldn't be his wet nurse forever, and this was too good an opportunity to pass up. His future seemed bleak if he didn't accept Sal's offer, and he knew that it was the sort of business he could thrive in. And Jonathan? Well, he'd have to make it on his own, for once.

Looking over the information Sal had given him, Jackson was starting to get a good idea of who he was dealing with. Anna Napolitano was basically a young child trapped in the body of a seventeen year-old. She was naïve and trusting, despite her position as a Mafia princess. Her innocence was what made her uncle dote on her. She was a sweet respite for him after running his cruel operations for the mob.

She was interested in things that Jackson classified as "girly": singing, horses, romantic comedies, etc. She was very sociable, and had left quite a few friends back in Vermont. She was absolutely boy-crazy, and Jackson couldn't help but wonder if he could use that to his advantage.

Yes, Anna Napolitano would be easy to take care of.

Just then, Jonathan entered the room, looking pleased and out of breath. Smiling, he told Jackson, "I just scared the hell out a group of girls."

Jackson blinked, his train of thought lost. "What?"

"There were these girls at my school that kept stealing my backpack and making jokes about me. They even broke my glasses, the bitches. So I decided to make them pay for it tonight. By the way, is it okay if I took that jar of pigeon's blood you were keeping on your shelf?"

Jackson considered this and, after deciding that Sal's offer had put him in too good a mood to get him upset, responded, "It's fine."

Jonathan grinned. "Anyway, they had a sleepover tonight, so I took some of Mom's old china dolls from the attic and smashed them up and left them on their front step covered in the pigeon blood. After they found them, I started popping up at their window wearing all these masks. But I also took a ton of photos of them while I was doing it. After a few hours, I rang their doorbell and left the photos on their front step."

Plopping down on his mattress, Jonathan continued, "The expressions on their faces were priceless."

Jackson let out a hearty laugh. "Nice job, Scarecrow," he chuckled. "But if it had been me, I'd have set their hair on fire."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Well, you never were one for subtlety."

Jackson shrugged, picking up a dart from his night table and throwing it at the opposite wall. He couldn't help but think of his reputation as "Jack the Ripper" among his classmates, and all of the terrors he'd inflicted upon them to earn that title. "I guess I get it from my namesake."

Jonathan laughed. "You mean Mom's great-uncle?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. He hadn't realized that Jonathan didn't know about his title. "Of course not. I'm talking about Jack the Ripper, dumbass."

Jonathan laughed again. "Right. You're Jack the Ripper." Jackson frowned. "What's so funny?" "You." Jackson threw another dart at the wall, which hit the wall with a satisfying 'thunk'. "You think I couldn't do what Jack the Ripper did?"

"Okay, first of all? Jack the Ripper was a holy terror in London. You're just a backwoods hick from Tennessee. Secondly, Jack the Ripper tore apart prostitutes. The worst you've done is take apart the O'Reilly's Doberman. And thirdly? You're name's not Jack, it's Jackson."

Jackson shrugged. "Same difference. Jackson's not too far off."

"Still, calling yourself Jack isn't going to make you Jack the Ripper."

Jackson smiled, throwing his last dart at the wall as he thought about Sal's offer. "I could be, if I wanted to." He thought about Anna Napolitano, probably asleep in some hotel room, eagerly awaiting her arrival in her new house in Tennessee. She didn't know that in only a matter of days, she'd be dead by his hand.

Jackson's last statement seemed to rattle Jonathan, who pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as his face developed a nervous look. "Jackson, you're not…you're not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"

Jackson said nothing, not wanting to tell Jonathan about what he was about to do, but not wanting to lie, either. Jonathan seemed to look all the more nervous because of his silence. "Jackson, don't think of doing something idiotic just because you think you're tough. We're lucky the neighbors aren't chasing us with pitchforks when their pets go missing…"

Jonathan's attitude annoyed Jackson. They'd always been partners in crime before, and it was hypocritical of Jonathan to act so reluctant. Irritated, he snapped, "Oh, like you have any right to complain. I've never seen you give a shit when you're using your kitchen knives out in the woods."

"Jackson, it's one thing when we're talking about dogs or cats…"

Aggravated even further, Jackson interrupted by adding, "Says the guy who just stalked a group of girls for three hours. And borrowed some pigeon's blood to do it, I might add." Jackson rolled over, facing his younger brother. "Since when did you care about other people, Scarecrow?"

"I'm not worried about the other people, I'm worried about you. You know that if something bad happens, they'll point fingers right at us." Jonathan frowned when Jackson said nothing. "Are you even listening?"

Jackson was no longer paying attention to Jonathan, instead letting his mind settle over the idea of never coming back to this house again. He felt like this should upset him, but it really didn't. There weren't any fond memories that he attached to the place, just routines that he followed without thinking.

Seemingly out of the blue, Jackson asked his younger brother quietly, "What do you want to do when we're older?"

Jonathan blinked in bewilderment. "What?"

"When we get older, when we're out of this house…what do you want to do?"

Jonathan shrugged, and Jackson could see that he didn't have any idea. "We do what Dad does. We work on construction jobs."

Jackson laughed. "Yeah, right. We're weaklings and you know it. We're just scary weaklings."

Jackson envisioned himself like his father, going to work day in and day out at construction jobs that he hated and wasn't even particularly good at. He'd come home every night to a wife that hated him and to kids who were born by accident and who didn't even care whether he lived or died. He wouldn't have friends, simply coworkers that he didn't particularly hate. The closest thing he'd have to a real social life would be the occasional poker game with some people in town, where he'd lose half his paycheck on bad hands.

Jackson was snapped out of his reverie when Jonathan asked, "Alright, then, what are you planning to do?"

Jackson was silent for a moment before replying. "There's a guy I met in town that's offering me a job. A good one, too. It pays really well, and if I can do one assignment alright, then he'll let me work with them full time."

Jonathan frowned. "What kind of job?"

"He said he'll pay me a thousand dollars just do to one thing for him. If I do it right, he might even pay me more…"

"Yeah, but what is he asking you to do?"

Jackson fell silent again. Jonathan would probably have interrogated him further, but the sound of tires squealing alerted them to the fact that their father had arrived home, meaning that they wouldn't be able to talk openly until the morning. Jonathan glanced at his brother, eyes pleading for an answer.

Jackson merely flashed him a cocky smile, saying, "We'll talk again."

----------

As Jonathan sat in a plush chair in the heavily adorned office of the most powerful mob boss in the entire city, all he could think to himself was, "Try not to strangle this bastard."

Carmine Falcone had never exactly been renowned for his charming personality or his wonderful social manners. Still, Jonathan couldn't help but wonder how this raving, egomaniacal little man had most of the city under his thumb.

"Mr. Falcone, I am well aware of the pains you have gone to in order to deliver our shipments safely. However, you have been more than compensated…"

Falcone slammed his fist against the top of his desk, his face turning red at the prospect of having someone dare to disagree with him.

"Listen, doc. I'm no idiot. I've gotten all your shipments in, no delays, no problems. But if you think that I'm gonna do all that just for you t'toss some coins at me, then we gotta problem."

Jonathan sighed. "If money is the issue, then I can ask that you receive…"

"It's not about the money. I swim in money. Favors are far more interesting."

A rather creepy smile crept across Falcone's face. "Is it so hard for you ta go to a trial and say a few words? You've done it twice already, ya should be an expert by now."

Staring at Falcone sternly, Jonathan replied, "It's not an issue of my willingness to testify. The simple problem is that Mr. Zsasz is not my patient. As such, I can't testify in regards to his mental state."

Falcone waved his hand to show his dismissal of Jonathan's words. "The judge is in my pocket, and so's half the people in the court system. They're not gonna care if you fudge a few facts."

"But the District Attorney's office will. I've had the assistant DA on my back since the first time you asked me to testify. She's suspicious."

Falcone nodded a little as he considered this. "Who's Zsasz's doctor?"

Jonathan racked his brain before answering. "Leon Warren."

"Who?"

"He's one of the younger doctors. He just started at Arkham a few weeks ago. Last I checked, he wasn't in your network."

Falcone sighed. "You know where he lives?"

Realizing where this was going, Jonathan hastily added, "I highly doubt that removing him will solve this. The case could still be taken by another doctor."

Arching an eyebrow, Falcone responded harshly, "You're the head 'a that asylum?"

"Yes…"

"And you're his superior?"

"Yes…"

"Then use some persuasion, dammit. Bribe him, threaten him, hell, tell him ya workin' for me. But tonight, I better hear from you, and I better hear that you found some way to get yourself on that fucking witness stand."

Sighing, Jonathan resigned himself to what Falcone was saying. "I'll see what I can do…"

----------

A half hour later, Jonathan arrived at Arkham, his head still swarming with the commands that Falcone had given him. He knew that, somehow, he was going to have to get Zsasz's case from Leon. If he didn't, Falcone would be pissed, and as much as Jonathan hated to admit it, he couldn't afford for that to happen.

Striding quickly up to his secretary, Jonathan asked, "Do you know where Dr. Warren is?"

Looking up from her Sudoku puzzle, his secretary bit her lip to think. "Mmm, I think he was about to leave actually."

Shit. Jonathan walked as quickly as he could to Arkham's staff parking lot, hoping that he would somehow manage to catch the younger doctor before he was out of the building.

Luckily for Jonathan, only a few seconds after he entered the asylum parking lot, Leon Warren emerged from a separate entrance, his hair tied back in a ponytail as his eyes focused on a file that he was flipping through. It wasn't until he had practically bumped into Jonathan that he looked up to see the older doctor.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Hello, there Dr. Crane."

Jonathan nodded. "Hello. Dr. Warren, would it be alright if I spoke to you for a moment?"

Leon blinked. "Of course." He closed his folder and held it under his arm before looking up at Jonathan with intense blue eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of Jackson.

Shaking that thought out of his head, Jonathan addressed Leon. "You've been assigned to Mr. Zsasz's case, correct?"

Leon nodded. "I got his file about a week ago."

"I've been speaking to the Board of Directors, and it seems that Zsasz's lawyer has filed an appeal. They're trying to get a doctor to testify that Zsasz is mentally ill so that he'll be kept at Arkham indefinitely."

Leon winced, surprising Jonathan a little. "They're not going to ask me to do it, are they?"

Sensing an opportunity, Jonathan seized it. "That's what I came to ask you. If you feel confident enough to do it…"

Leon shook his head fervently. "I'd prefer not to. I'm not exactly a public speaker."

Smiling inwardly, Jonathan replied, "Then let me take over his case. I've had to testify at similar trials, so the board won't take issue if I do."

Leon nodded as he walked towards his car, Jonathan following behind him. "Alright then. I'll give you his file tomorrow."

Remembering that Falcone wanted him to report back that night, Jonathan asked, "Actually, would it be a problem if you gave me his file now?"

Fumbling with his car keys, Leon bit his lip. "Hmm…technically, I'm supposed to be leaving right now…"

Looking up at Jonathan, Leon smiled a little bit and said, "Tell you what. As it is, my files are disorganized as all hell. Why don't we go grab some coffee, and I'll just fill you in on Zsasz's progress? Your shift ends now, right?"

"Yes," Jonathan lied, knowing that he could just blurt Falcone's name at the board to excuse any absence he might take.

"Peachy. Here, hop in my car. We'll head to Starbucks or something."

As Leon opened his car door to allow him in, Jonathan felt a twinge of antisocial reluctance. However, he shook it off. He needed to get Zsasz's case, and this was a means to that end. He would have to repress his distaste for social situations if it meant he could accomplish his goal.

Sliding into the passenger seat of Leon's car, Jonathan glanced out the window to see someone standing at the edge of the parking lot. Curious, Jonathan peered at him to see if he could get a good look at him. Peering back at Jonathan was a blond man, his hair containing streaks of gray that betrayed a hint of some age. His dull brown eyes stared at Jonathan, the light wrinkles in his skin suggesting that he was in his later forties or early fifties.

"You all set?" Jonathan practically jumped at Leon's query, and turned to nod at the younger man. Looking back, he tried to get a better glimpse of the strange man. But by the time his eyes rested on the spot where he had stood, the man had vanished like a phantasm.