Another Chance

     Gold shined across Jackson's eyes. A sharp, terrible pain shot through his head and across his body. He winced and shut his eyes tight, gripping his head just as his ears started to ring. It was deafening; paralyzing.

     It wasn't going away. Shaking hands pat himself down until he felt out a small bottle of pills, hastily shooting two into his mouth. Breathe, he reminded himself, just breathe. In, out, in, out. The medicine took effect, and the pain and ringing began to disappear. Jackson sighed in relief and opened his eyes, the golden gleam gone and returning back to their clear blue color.

     "What the hell, Rivers?"
     Jackson immediately looked up to see the stupefied agent, matching his expression before following his gaze. "Shit," he hissed at the pile of spilled coffees, "I'm sorry, I--"
     "This is the third time this month! What, another migraine?" the agent taunted. He shook his head and stormed past Jackson, roughly bumping into his shoulder. "Can't believe they let you in," he muttered under his breath. He didn't bother fighting back, instead staring at the spilled mess he'd have to clean up in a bit. Right. Here he was, the once infamous and adored Master Thief, who was able to steal anything at anytime, now working for a large, mysterious, and undoubtedly powerful company called Prodigal...
     As an errand boy.
     Another heavy sigh.
     "Me too."

     If you'd told him long ago that he'd become some errand boy from the results of being brainwashed for nearly thirty years, he'd have probably nodded then walked off to ignore you for the rest of your life. Even right now, as he was scrubbing the floor of said company, in the body of a twenty-something year old while he should be in his fifties, he had a hard time swallowing that reality. It was just way too surreal, and part of him still felt like this was some kind of elaborate prank.

     One minute he was stealing a painting, and the next he was learning that magic was real. He remembered the events that lead up to it, feeling a burning pain at his torso as if to remind him-- if not that, then the night terrors surely did. It'd always be followed by those golden eyes that looked into his, and the next thing he knew... twenty-nine years passed. He couldn't find anyone he'd known before, and all the places he used to go to were now different. The only face he recognized was the one that helped him out of his brainwashed state to begin with: Atticus Demos; "Grandfather."

     In the middle of his scrubbing, Jackson's eyes drifted to his hand and the large scar on the back of it. This would make two times now that Atticus had saved his life. He was the only familiar face to greet him, and even got him a job under the Prodigal to get him back on his feet. He'd wished they could spend time together again. Grateful as he was, Grandfather had always been a stable comfort in his life, especially at this point. Even with so much time having passed he felt his feelings for him strong and yearned to be even closer with him, were those feelings returned?

     Instead, all of Jackson's time went to his new boss and supervisor, a large man under the title of "The Commandant". He overlooked all the agents and field workers, that worked under the Prodigal. He was gruff, strict, and most certainly an ass. Every little thing Jackson did was either incorrect or not good enough, if this errand boy job wasn't proof enough. There was no way to prove it, especially since this was their first time meeting, but he could've sworn the guy had a grudge against him.
     The floor spotless, Jackson tossed the last of the paper towels and looked at his phone. It was well past lunch. Should he still get those coffees again...?

     Suddenly, one of the Prodigal's agents passed by him quickly. Then another. Another, and another, and--
     "What's going on...?" he muttered, only to be answered shortly by an email his phone received. "All Agents to The Commandant's office ASAP." He pocketed his phone and watched the stampede of nervous agents, each one unsure of what they were being called in for, and each one not wanting to be the last one there.
     Well. "Screw it." He was an agent, too, right? Even if he WAS on coffee duty.

     The room was crowded enough for Jackson to slip in without worry. He could barely breathe with how close together everyone was. Each agent shifted uncomfortably and talked amongst themselves over what could cause a sudden meeting like this. It wasn't until the Commandant came in and fixed them all with his steeled gaze that things got quiet.

     "A mission," he said in a low, booming voice. "The best of us are currently too busy and it's too late for them to withdrawal. Now I know most of you are still trying to get used to being an agent, but this mission requires everyone's attention and needs to be done quick. However, the circumstances are rather dire and your life will be on the line. If any of you soldiers are willing to step in, then you will have my greatest respect."

     He was met with silence. Jackson looked at all the people avoiding the Commandant's stare, even avoiding each others. He'd have scoffed, but he understood the mentality. It was always easy to say you'd put your life on the line for something, but it was a different story when that reality was staring you in the face. Maybe back then he'd have been in the same boat as them, but he'd faced death a few times already, and he was willing to do it again if it meant not having to go back to Starbucks for the third time today.

     His hand raised. "I'll do it." Bewildered gazes immediately fell to him, but he refused to shrink. The crowd of agents scuttled away to give room to the Commandant, who marched over to him. Then he shrank.

     "Private Rivers," he spoke as he towered over him. "Everyone else is dismissed." As the agents filed out they all tossed him a look ranging from shocked to pitiful. He didn't look, too intimidated by the supervisor looming over him like a hawk. Their sizes were so different that Jackson felt he was completely swallowed up by his shadow.

     Theodore Weiss, otherwise known as the Commandant-- one of five Headmasters and the second highest rank in the Prodigal-- stood at an intimidating six foot six with a stature similar to a brick wall. He ran things as though it were the Army, and considering his background it was understandable why. The first time they met he'd looked at Jackson as though he were a crumpled up piece of trash on the ground rather than a person. He'd understood strict glares given by serious people, but it felt like there was serious hate whenever he gathered the courage to make eye contact. The thief was convinced that if it hadn't been for Atticus's own personal intervention he would've been denied a spot here.

     "I didn't expect that our newest recruit would be the most confident one in the room. If Demos and the files say that you were once a successful thief, then I trust you'd use those abilities to get what we need then?"

     Another scoff rose up Jackson's throat, but he swallowed it down. He used to be known as one of-- if not the best thieves in the country! But... that was thirty years ago, and if his nightmares were an indication of anything, that title lost its glory long ago.

     "If you need a thief's skills for this mission, I'm your man. It's been a while, though, so I'll need time for planning and a map of the layout." Having that sharp stare aimed right on him was nerve-wracking, but this was the best time to say it. "If I do this fast and clean, you'll have to promote me from errand boy. I'm sick of getting everyone's orders. I think I know several people's favorite coffees better than their names! Speaking of which, I'm going to be expecting a drink for myself after this." Old habits die hard. Commandant may be scary and intimidating, but well, he was still a good-looking man.

     "Promotion? Don't get ahead of yourself, soldier," Commandant scoffed. "You're no thief anymore, in my eyes, at least. You are an agent under my wing and I will only judge if you've performed well. You will not disappoint me." He spoke rather harsh and blunt.

     He grabbed a black folder with several papers and other necessities, shoving it at Jackson's chest before he went back around to settle back down on his chair. "Everything is there. And whatever you grab there goes directly into my hand. No one else. Not even Demos could get it unless it's by my hand, even if he knows where the Overseer is. When I see results beyond satisfaction, perhaps I will reward you a with a drink."

     Jackson grunted at the files pushed onto him, but kept his gaze on the Commandant. A smile somehow slipped through his lips. "I'll be back by dinner, then," he promised