Heading out of the hotel after bandaging some of his wounds, Jackson wore a navy blue t-shirt, a second-hand greatcoat, jeans, and an event keycard around his neck. He joined up with Mark Esmen, a tall and lean man with a short but broad nose. The assassin wore something more festive, appropriate for the place the two were about to go to. A shirt with an anthropomorphic wolf holding a shotgun with the slogan “furries with the NRA” proudly on display. A sight Jackson despised with all his heart.
‘So, ready to display your fursona?’ Mark said sarcastically before gesturing for Jackson to follow him to the furry convention across the road. Which was also sponsoring a gun show right next to the venue. He couldn’t understand why Mark bought tickets for two events and not just the one that was actually important. But he didn’t have time to complain or find out. All the reptile wanted was to get their supplies and go.
‘Now, my scaly friend,’ Mark continued as they both walked across the street and into the bustling crowd. ‘I’ll do all the talking, and you just look...’ he glanced at Jackson’s expressionless face before cracking a smile. Even behind that emotionless visage, he could tell that Jackson was not having a good time. ‘Just focus on looking like yourself. I doubt anyone will have any second thoughts about what you are.’
To put it mildly, it was a stupid plan. The idea was simple: hide in plain sight while both Mark and Jackson collect some firepower from the NRA convention before storming the ProTech power plant. While the plan was actually sound, as they both easily navigated through crowds of people and security without any problems. The idiocy comes with Jackson’s understanding of the world and how confused and annoyed it made him. From the time he spent underground, he failed to comprehend what a fursona was or why people liked to dress up as animals. It was even stranger that the National Rifle Association, an organisation known for liking the Second Amendment with an unhealthy obsession, while also championing their love for hunting, had their event happen on the same day, right next to the furry convention.
The entire thing was bizarre beyond comprehension, yet, through events that transpired while he was stuck underground for 75 years. The circumstances of these two events happening at the same time made complete logical sense. Some people liked to dress up as animals and, at the same time, liked to exercise their American right to shoot guns. In a roundabout way, the two groups were bound to come into contact and intermingle positively at some point.
‘Oh, my God!’ A random woman at the furry convention approached Mark and Jackson. She examined Jackson’s body, looking over his countless scars and bandaged arms, thinking the blue blood was paint that didn’t stick right to his costume. Believing that Jackson was a well-designed and hyper-realistic fursuit made by a proper professional, and seeing his height, thinking that Jackson was a kid. ‘Hey, I love your fur suit! What is your fursona's name and can I take a picture with you?’
From the way they were looking at Jackson, he could tell they saw him as a child wearing a bulky suit and possibly shorter, as his feet were strange to them. Back in his day, being 5’3 was considered an average person’s height. However, he was unable to voice his frustration or correct the people who thought he was wearing a suit or was anywhere close to being a child. So he stared back, emotionless, while he hated every second of that interaction.
Mark stepped in, doing his best to hide his laughter. ‘Forgive my nephew; he is really shy and is nonverbal. Believe it or not, he made the suit himself.’
‘Really? That is so cool!’ She said with childlike excitement, which only made Jackson dread her presence even more. He wondered if it would be best to kill her on the spot and just fight his way to the NRA convention and steal the guns there just to avoid people talking to him and being amazed by his scarred body and strange scales. However, he had to remind himself that it was just a temporary setback and reassured himself that it was only a one-time thing. Even if he wanted to blow up the entire building.
‘You can say that again. Made it from scratch and in only a matter of weeks. If I remember correctly, he named his fursona Spartacus the Dragon. My nephew also likes to write fanfiction and added his original character into stories like My Little Pony and Sonic the Hedgehog. But despite his edgy and dark look, my nephew can write some pretty decent stories that are relatively wholesome and sweet.’
Mark and the woman continued having a conversation with one another. Jackson could tell his comrade was having way too much fun making up stories at the reptile’s expense. He could tap Mark with his tail or retaliate with a punch to the crotch to break his entire pelvis to stop the whole ordeal. But that couldn’t happen; it would be foolish to lash out just because he was the butt of an elaborate joke, which he was now convinced was deliberate and that neither of them had to go through the furry convention at all. So that he could calm himself and not have his blank expression crack to expose their cover and the fact that he wasn’t a suit but an actual person. All Jackson could do was think of happy thoughts. Like setting the entire building on fire with everyone inside.
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After taking a picture with the woman, Mark and Jackson continued on their way. They would have a few more interactions, all of which were the same. Everyone all thought Jackson was a kid and acted amazed by his “fur suit” while asking to take a photo with him. One person offered unwanted criticism, stating that Jackson’s scars were over the top and his mismatched scales were done poorly and suggested that he should perhaps buy the same colour paint or learn how to properly shade his fur suit. That criticism about his scales almost made Jackson crack a smile, finding it funny that a random stranger had any clue what his scales should look like. Mark, on the other hand, was trying his hardest not to giggle at that interaction.
Eventually, and to Jackson’s glee, they finally arrived at the NRA convention. Everyone from furries to gun enthusiasts walked around and enjoyed weapons designed for killing like they were treasure or a toy, with how they held the weapons. That display made Jackson recoil, disproving the gun culture of the day compared to 75 years ago. Some would call for people to respect the rifle and acknowledge it as a weapon that could kill and maim. Yet behind those empty words were just people wanting something they shouldn’t own or didn’t need at all. To him, the United States of America of the day was a perverted version of the past. A consumerist and hyper-individualistic culture to the point of sabotage on a societal level. Though at the same time, it wasn’t surprising to Jackson that the country became the way it did. He would also acknowledge that he had zero clue about the history of the modern world and what made it become the way it did. He could take the time to research it, but there was no point. Not when he had Brian to kill.
‘Alright, my reptilian friend.’ Mark smiled at Jackson. ‘I’ll go to the corner and buy a rifle while you do your thing. Afterwards, I’ll get some bang for our job. You do your thing, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.’
As soon as he said that, Jackson walked away from Mark to do what he needed to do. Even as the world saw him as a little green reptile suit, no one would expect what they thought was a child to be a nimble thief. Going through crowds and stalls with the grace of a cat, pocketing ammo boxes, pistols, and the magazines that go with the handguns he had stolen. Yet what caught his eye was a shotgun.
At the KelTec booth, he noticed a few weapons that were very modern and technologically sophisticated compared to the firearms he used in the 1920s. Being mostly made of hard plastic, besides wood or iron. In a way, it reminded him of the weapons produced by ProTech the mercs were using when they were hunting the reptile down. The weapon that made him interested was a KelTec KSG tactical, a pump-action short-barrel shotgun that would be perfect for what Jackson would go up against. He was hesitant to grab the weapon, worrying that there might be some form of technology that would prevent him from using it. Jackson suspected that Mark would teach him how to use the weapon, but he still believed there could be more to the weapon that would make it inoperable.
However, that would be a problem for him to find out later. Using his tail, he grabbed the shotgun while getting the attention of the store owner by pretending to look at the pistol section and tucking it under his greatcoat. Yet he would admit that the pistols looked far tackier than he liked and could imagine the potential flaws he might encounter while using the weapons. Some might say it was perfect for home defence, but comparing the shotgun he had stolen to the other weapons KelTec had put on display. The only kind thing he could say was that their weapons looked nice to use and appeared to be powerful. A good marketing tactic for the layman, all things considered.
But he got what he needed; all Jackson was after in the convention was bullets and weapons. Any ammo that didn’t match the weapon he stole would be reused to produce homemade explosives, and any gun that had no ammo or was deemed useless would have its parts stripped and used to make some kind of weapon that would assist Jackson in the assault.
Breaking off from the main crowd and making his way to the emergency exit, Jackson looked over his shoulder to search for Mark. Unfortunate that he couldn’t find his comrade, he hoped the assassin was successful in retrieving a weapon of his choice. Jackson was capable of fighting anyone with subpar equipment, but he doubted Mark would be as adaptive. The plan hinged on the assassin doing his part, though Jackson was willing to carry on without him. For him, Mark was only essential in bringing him to Miami undetected. Further assistance was unnecessary, yet he could appreciate the help. The world was different, and having someone to aid him in using technology he couldn’t understand would make the mission a guaranteed success.
Failing to find Mark, Jackson left the building and made his way to the nearest hardware store to get himself a ball-peen hammer and additional supplies. Once he put them in the hotel. He was satisfied with his personal armament. But Jackson had made a promise he intended to keep since the day the people involved murdered his family. That a tool of his choice would mangle and tenderise their flesh and be used as an example.
