Chapter Text
ARCHIVE STATUS: RESTRICTED
SUBJECT: GAMMA JACK
FILE INTEGRITY: PARTIAL
ACCESS LOG: REOPENED FOLLOWING OPERATION KRONOS REVIEW
RECOVERED INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT - FILE 02A
DATE: 14 MAY, 1947
INTERVIEWER: [REDACTED]
INTERVIEWER: For the record, please state your name.
GAMMA JACK: You already know my name.
INTERVIEWER: State it anyway.
GAMMA JACK: Gamma Jack.
INTERVIEWER: Legal name.
(Pause.)
GAMMA JACK: [REDACTED]
INTERVIEWER: Thank you.
GAMMA JACK: Nobody calls me that.
There are six hours of surviving interview tapes featuring Gamma Jack.
In every single one, he lies.
INTERVIEWER: How would you describe your relationship with the general public?
GAMMA JACK: Passionate, intense, occasionally inappropriate.
INTERVIEWER: Inappropriate?
GAMMA JACK: Have you seen the fan mail I get?
INTERVIEWER: I'm serious.
GAMMA JACK: So am I.
(Pause.)
GAMMA JACK: People like me. It's one of my better qualities.
INTERVIEWER: And why do you think they like you?
GAMMA JACK: Well, I'm extremely handsome. That helps.
[PORTION OF RECORDING LOST]
INTERVIEWER: Several witnesses described your behavior during the Nevada incident as erratic.
GAMMA JACK: Witnesses also describe movie stars as ten feet tall. People get emotional around me.
INTERVIEWER: Did you or did you not damage federal property?
GAMMA JACK: Damage is such an ugly word.
INTERVIEWER: You cracked a reinforced containment wall.
GAMMA JACK: Allegedly.
INTERVIEWER: There are photographs.
GAMMA JACK: Then it sounds like you already solved the mystery.
[PORTION OF RECORDING LOST]
INTERVIEWER: Do you believe yourself fundamentally superior to ordinary civilians?
(Long pause.)
GAMMA JACK: Define ordinary.
INTERVIEWER: Answer the question.
GAMMA JACK: I think there are people born capable of extraordinary things and people who spend their lives frightened of them.
INTERVIEWER: That wasn't the question.
GAMMA JACK: It was the interesting version of the question.
[PORTION OF RECORDING LOST]
INTERVIEWER: Federal evaluators have expressed concern regarding increasing emotional volatility-
GAMMA JACK: Oh, not volatility. Such a disappointing word.
INTERVIEWER: Do you disagree with the assessment?
GAMMA JACK: I think men with clipboards enjoy pathologizing people they can't control.
INTERVIEWER: Control is not the issue here.
GAMMA JACK: Isn't it?
[PORTION OF RECORDING LOST]
INTERVIEWER: Have you experienced feelings of isolation from your peers?
GAMMA JACK: Constantly. But I've been informed it makes me mysterious.
INTERVIEWER: This evaluation is not a joke.
GAMMA JACK: That's unfortunate. It would improve drastically if it were.
INTERVIEWER: Do you maintain close personal attachments?
(Pause.)
INTERVIEWER: Mr. [REDACTED]?
GAMMA JACK: That depends who's asking?
INTERVIEWER: The federal government.
GAMMA JACK: Then absolutely not.
[PORTION OF RECORDING LOST]
[RECORDING RESUMES]
BACKGROUND VOICE: -thought you already left.
GAMMA JACK: Clearly not.
BACKGROUND VOICE: You stayed.
GAMMA JACK: Don't sound so surprised.
(Paper movement.)
BACKGROUND VOICE: You shouldn't antagonize them during evaluations.
GAMMA JACK: It's the only enjoyable part.
(Brief silence.)
The first thing Jackson does after the interview is to lock himself in the bathroom.
He closes the door quietly behind him and stands very still in front of the sink. The only noise he can make out is the soft buzz from the fluorescent lights overhead.
A sudden shiver runs down his spine. It must be the coldness from the building, he tells himself. What else could be the cause, right? He was surrounded by concrete walls, metal pipes and air conditioning that was just a touch too cold if someone were to ask him.
Not that he would ever admit it though.
Shaking his thoughts away from the coldness creeping into his bones, he braces both hands against the sink and simply stares at his reflection.
The sight greeting him makes him sick. Although the makeup department had done a decent job of powdering over the shadows under his eyes, it did nothing to hide the dull look in his eyes.
From a distance, he probably still looks immortal. That should be enough.
Just up close is another story entirely.
There's a tiny tremor in his left hand.
Embarrassing.
He curls his fingers into a fist before he can think about it too long.
Beyond the bathroom door, men in ties are discussing him in lowered voices. He can hear the cadence without making out the words. They always lower their voices around him, as if volume itself might set him off.
Jackson turns on the faucet and leans over the sink, letting the cold water shock him awake. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to wash away the pounding in his head but it does nothing. His reflection continues to stare at him in the same tired state.
"God," he mutters.
He grips the sink and lowers his head, focusing on the sound of the running water. His fingers tighten against the porcelain as frustration settles into his chest.
A dull crack sounds beneath his hands. He freezes and looks down just as a thin fracture creeps across the white basin, branching outward until it turns into a spiderweb of fine cracks.
He jerks backwards immediately, staring at the fracture line spreading through the ceramic.
For one awful second he imagines alarms going off. Containment teams, another report, another meeting where men who have never held anything dangerous inside themselves discuss him.
But nothing happens. The building remains silent and he exhales slowly.
"Untouchable", he whispers softly to his reflection, trying the word on like a joke.
The mirror does not laugh.
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM
SUBJECT: GAMMA JACK
DATE: 14 MAY, 1947
Subject presented as cooperative, though continued displays of narcissistic behavior and antagonism toward interviewer remain a concern. Recommend further evaluation regarding emotional instability and grandiosity complex.
Additional note: staff continue reporting burning feeling in subject's presence despite no direct hostile behavior observed during session.
Jackson slips out the through the back exit, keeping his head down as the heavy door swings shut behind him. The front lobby is packed with reporters again, just as he'd expected.
Maybe the back entrance will buy him a few minutes. Maybe, if he's lucky, no one will notice him at all?
...Of course they do.
The moment he steps outside, somebody notices him anyway.
"Gamma Jack!"
Another voice immediately follows, "Jack, over here!"
More voices join them and for a second, he considers just turning around. Just leave them, leave everything behind and disappear.
But he can't. It's too late now.
His shoulders square and he lifts his head. The late afternoon sun catches him at exactly at the right angle, gliding along the sharp line of his jaw and catching in the waves of his hair. Camera flashes go off around him, one after another, until they're almost indistinguishable from the sunlight itself.
For one brief, perfect moment, everything that existed in the bathroom upstairs, the shaking hands, the cracked porcelain, the tiredness etched into his bones, disappears completely.
He straightens instinctively.
And suddenly he is beautiful again.
By the time the reporters reach him, Gamma Jack already exists.
Jackson is gone.
"Did the government call you in for another evaluation?"
"Any comment on the Nevada incident?"
"Is it true you damaged federal property?"
"Gamma Jack-"
He smiles, easy and devastating, and the crowd settles almost immediately like it always does. People lean toward him unconsciously when he speaks.
"They keep inviting me back," he replies smoothly. "I assume somebody in Washington is deeply in love with me."
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Even the agents stationed near the doorway exchange amused glances.
He notices.
A reporter pushes forward eagerly. "So the instability rumors aren't bothering you?"
"Oh, they devastate me," Jackson replies drily. "I spend hours crying in mirrors."
More laughter rises from the crowd as flashbulbs keep going off until white spots dance across his vision.
And there it is, that feeling.
Warm and narcotic and immediate.
The feeling of all their attention on him. It's strange how easy it can feel. He doesn't need to convince them. Just give them what they're already looking for.
The fear from upstairs dissolves beneath it almost instantly. Standing here in the center of all these people, Jackson feels himself expanding again, becoming something larger than the anxious thing hunched over a government sink ten minutes earlier.
The cameras adore him, the reporters orbit him. Even the men assigned to monitor him watch him with poorly disguised fascination.
He can feel the exact moment people surrender to him.
A woman near the barricade reaches out impulsively and catches his wrist before security can stop her.
"Gamma Jack, my daughter loves you."
Jackson looks down at her hand. His gloves conceal the worst of it and prevent her from seeing the change, but he still feels the heat flicker beneath his skin, a dangerous reflex, his body reacting before his mind has a chance to catch up.
For half a second his smile nearly falters. Then he turns his hand over gently in hers instead.
"Well," he says softly, voice lowering into something intimate enough to make the woman visibly blush, "your daughter has excellent taste."
The crowd laughs again and the woman beams, still holding onto his hand. Everything is going well until suddenly, somewhere behind them, a Geiger counter chirps.
A tiny sound, barely audible. Yet Jackson hears it instantly. His eyes flick to the source and he sees a technician standing near the edge of the crowd looking down at the counter in his hand.
Great.
She glances between them, confused, and slowly releases his hand. The warmth of her touch is gone before he even has time to miss it.
There.
That tiny recoil. That microscopic flash of uncertainty.
Jackson feels it like a knife slipped carefully between his ribs.
But his smile only widens.
"Careful," he tells her lightly. "I bite."
The crowd erupts again.
And just like that, the moment belongs to him again.
A government handler finally steps forward before the crowd can grow any larger.
"All right, that's enough."
Disappointment washes over the reporters. There are groans and complaints, somebody still calls out another question over the noise.
"Gamma Jack, is it true you scored higher than Atomic Annie on the federal threat index?"
Jackson starts walking backwards towards the waiting car without taking his eyes off the crowd.
"Oh, she hates when people bring that up," he says conspiratorially. "Please don't print it again."
More laughter.
One of the younger photographers nearly misses his shot because he's grinning too hard.
The handler beside Jackson starts looking exhausted.
"You enjoy this too much," he mutters under his breath.
Jackson glances sideways at him. "And yet you continue inviting me places."
"You were subpoenaed."
"Whatever."
The car door opens but Jackson pauses before getting in, looking once more at the crowd gathered outside the building. Reporters still shout questions at him despite the distance now. A few civilians have stopped just to stare. One little boy stands near the barricade gripping a notepad to his chest.
Jackson catches the kid's eye and winks.
The child looks moments away from fainting.
And there it is again, that awful, wonderful feeling of adoration. For a second it fills every hollow space inside him so completely he almost believes it could last.
Then another camera flash goes off too close to his face and he flinches. Just barely, but still he notices the handler noticing it.
Silence settles briefly as he ducks into the back seat.
The door closes and everything changes. The noise outside dulls into muffled static and the smile falls from his face so fast it almost feels violent. He leans back against the leather seat and shuts his eyes.
The handler gets in across from him a moment later, straightening his tie.
Neither of them speak for several seconds.
Then, "You're shaking again."
Jackson turns to look at him. "What a rude thing to say to someone after a performance."
"It's getting worse."
"That's also rude."
The handler watches him carefully and clinical which Jackson hates.
"You should let medical run another full evaluation."
"Oh, absolutely not."
"Jack-"
"No." His voice sharpens.
The handler exhales slowly through his nose.
Outside the window, the crowd is already dispersing. Without the spectacle, they lose interest quickly. Jackson watches them go.
"You know," he says quietly, still staring out the window, "they always look disappointed afterwards."
The handler frowns. "Who?"
"People."
Jackson knocks lightly against the window.
"They meet me and realize I'm just a person wearing expensive fabric."
"You aren't just a person."
Jackson laughs softly at that.
"No," he says. "That's the problem, isn't it?"
The car turns sharply onto the avenue. Sunlight flickers through the glass in brief golden flashes, striping across Jackson's face and disappearing again before the handler can fully read his expression.
When Jackson speaks next, his voice is light once more.
"So," he says, adjusting one of his gloves carefully, "how catastrophic was the interview?"
The handler stares at him for a moment.
"You told a federal psychiatrist you considered democracy 'visually unappealing'."
Jackson smiles faintly.
"Yeah," he grins. "But in my defense, I was being extremely charming at the time."