Jimmy Hudson (sonofsnikt) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2011-11-21 21:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | jimmy hudson |
Who: Jimmy Hudson. Narrative.
What: Deep, deep questions without any answers.
When: Late evening/early night, 11/21/2011. (It never said 11/26. >.>)
Where: The crappy motel he’s been staying in since arrival.
Warnings: A little language, and some unpleasant subject matter. Maybe PG-13.
Quiet. Jimmy Hudson never knew how much he actually liked the quiet until it was gone. His whole life, he’d been a kid seeking thrill after thrill, nothing ever quiet being good enough to satisfy some deep, unexplainable need within him. Though lately it was fast cars, it hadn’t started that way. It started just about as innocently as every other kid’s explorations into “the forbidden”. What started as stealing cookies from the cookie jar and staying up past bedtime had rapidly escalated to underage drinking, recreational drug use, fast girls, and lately fast cars. Growing up, he’d never really thought about what he was doing. If there was one thing you could never accuse Jimmy Hudson of being, it was a man of deep thought. It wasn’t that Jimmy was stupid, it was just that he didn’t really see the need to constantly think about everything. Why waste time with that when you could just do the damn thing and get it over with? What was so wrong with just going with the inborn instinct common to all human animals?
Except he wasn’t human, was he? He was a mutant, a breed apart, and more than that, he was the son of the single most prolific killer in history. No one really knew how old his dad was for sure, just that Captain America could remember him from World War 2. Even then he’d been a Canadian black ops agent, the guy that did the things that the military blacked out of the press. It was certainly true that he’d been killing ever since, sometimes for Weapon X, sometimes for Magneto, and sometimes for whoever gave him the fattest check. Wolverine had been the only member of the X-Men to come by his codename before joining the team, and while Jimmy was pretty sure some of the rumors about The Wolverine assassin were bogus, urban legend type stuff, if even half of them were true the guy had a body count that would make Gaycee, Dahmer, and Bundee jealous. Why, though? Why? That may have been only one of the questions that had plagued Jimmy since finding out who his dad was, but it was certainly the most troubling and urgent. If the answer was just that James Howlett had been a psychopath, that Jimmy could deal with. It was the other possibility that gnawed at him. The possibility that maybe it was a side effect of his animalistic mutation.
The very same mutation Jimmy had inherited from him.
Was that need for a thrill how it started? Was James Howlett once the precocious kid stealing cookies from the cookie jar? Did he slowly get eaten up inside by the yearning for things darker and baser until he voluntarily submitted himself to the animal within? Was that the kind of man Jimmy himself was going to become? The notion terrified him on a level entirely beyond the physical. Jimmy didn’t want to be a killer, it was true, but what about in a few years? What about when fast cars and illegal street races stopped being enough to sate his thirst for excitement? What was the next escalation? Where else could he go? Stealing cars? Stealing money? Stealing people? And how far was that from ending them?
Jimmy didn’t have much to go on for answers, but there was a possibility. He wasn’t entirely sure if anyone else knew, but if they did they weren’t directly referencing it. The only thing he had to go on was one line in a tiny little note left to him by his father in the box Kitty brought him. It was the one line Jimmy hadn’t been able to stop reading, over and over and over again. “Sabretooth might be your half-brother. Dunno if it’s true.” Jimmy fervently hoped it wasn’t, but he couldn’t deny some of the similarities. The same blonde hair, almost identical mutations, the same savage tendencies… It was hard to ignore, and if it was true, then it meant that anyone born from the Howlett line could end up just as sick and depraved. Jimmy wanted more than anything in the world for it to not be true, wanted to just laugh it off and toss the notion into his mental garbage heap, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t because his father couldn’t and because, deep down, he could feel the feral instinct in him twisting into another new shape. He couldn’t deny that since the fight with Sabretooth, part of him wanted it. As terrified as he’d been when Sabretooth ambushed him, part of him, a very different part than the macho teenage boy, wanted another shot at him. Not just for the vengeance, either. Since that fight, since his healing factor had finally kicked back in and healed him up from the brink of death Sabretooth had beaten him to, there was something…different about him. He wanted the chase, he wanted the fight…
…he wanted blood.
And if that hooker renting the next room didn’t shut the fuck up, he was pretty sure he was going to get it sooner rather than later. This was one of the few times he’d managed to beat the TV in this shithole room into submission so he could watch Ocean’s Eleven on HBO, and two minutes in he’d heard the now-familiar voice of Jane, the hooker that routinely rented out the room next to his. Jane apparently didn’t know the meaning of the word discrete; because he was pretty sure the wives and girlfriends of whatever scumbags she was banging in there could hear her wailing banshee screams clear across town. He hadn’t bothered to say anything up to this point because he knew the manager would kick him out over her without missing a beat. He was a kid with no valid ID, a dwindling supply of cash, and an ironclad no questions policy. She was a regular renter that somehow managed to keep below the radar of the local law. To a sleaze like the guy running this place, it would be a no brainer and Jimmy knew it.
It only took fifteen minutes before he broke, this time. Growling in frustration, he threw the remote at the power button on the TV, snatched up his sweatshirt and his laptop, and headed for the window. He’d insisted on a bottom floor room in case he needed to make a quick escape, but that also meant that he did have a refuge if he wanted to get away from it all for awhile. Sure, it meant that he had to dig his claws in and climb for three floors, but when he finally made it to the roof and didn’t have to constantly hear some hooker’s wailing, it was worth it. Pulling his sweatshirt on and zipping it up against the cold, he just plopped down on the back edge of the roof, overlooking what he was pretty sure the manager called a scenic view of a ten foot alley below. Not for the first time since he’d started living out of crappy motels, he turned to the internet for comfort in what was rapidly changing from a life to a nightmare. This time, though, he wasn’t skimming through free porn sites or torrenting the latest Hollywood popcorn flick. This time, he spent half an hour staring at a pretty simple message on the network before he could finally hit post. “I really hope I don’t live to regret this…”