PROLOGUE: IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME.

There was a dead man on the floor. There was a dead man on the floor who was at least fifty years old, maybe older you never know, and his blood was draining out of the bullet hole in his head and onto the Malaysian redwood flooring. Jack looked down at the body on the floor of his living room sadly, biting at his nails on one hand. The quartz chandelier above him glittered impassively and the gun in his hand held a warped reflection of it in it's dark metal.

There was a dead man on the floor, and Jack had put him there.

"So. Listen." Jack says softly, his voice echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings of the mansion he'd called home for the past three years. "Not that this hasn't been fun but... I'm breaking up with you."

His blue eyes spark at the joke, even as he quickly bends over and removes the two year old wedding band from the man's hand. A small smile works it's way over his face as he stands, before he quickly walks away from the crime. His shoes make a sharp taping that echo through the empty mansion, following him up the spiral staircase in the front hall, down the lavish hallways, and into the bedroom he had shared with his victim and husband.

He bends and reaches under the bed, a large four poster from some European country or another, before pulling out a duffle bag. Jack quickly works his way back downstairs, back to the body of his husband.

"Still where I left you, good." He laughs, digging into the duffle and pulling out a pair of large doctor's tweezers. Clicking them ominously, he descends, quickly lifting the head of his victim, already starting to grey without it's blood pumping. With precision one can only have with practice, Jack works the tweezers into the wound, deeper into the head. He twists them around a bit, making a grossed out face at the squelching sound of brain and blood and little fragments of skull, but eventually cackles in glee when he pulls out his prize.

The warped remains of a bullet, his bullet, stained red with little chunks of skull and offal still attached sits pretty in the tweezers. Jack can't be happier as he inspects it, overjoyed that it's still in one piece and he won't have to go digging around and look for any offending little pieces that may still be stuck in there.

"So, uh. It's not you," He says softly, standing once again and hoisting the duffle over a thin shoulder. "It's me."

Laughing at his own joke, Jack makes his way past the body and into the most expensive room of the house, the kitchen. Marble from Venice, wall sconces from France, the latest appliances from Tokyo, it was all quite nice, but Jack didn't have time to marvel. He was a man on a mission, after all.

Humming to himself, he makes his way to one of the hand painted by the great artist blah who lived in blah, blah, blah art pieces, and promptly rips it from the wall, letting it clatter to the ground without a second thought. His eyes were only focused on the safe beyond.

The safe itself was imbedded in the wall and had taken Jack somewhere around six months to find. It was Swiss, of course it was, one of the best in the world.

It takes Jack around three minutes to crack it.

Rubbing his hands together, Jack giggles in the excited way of a child opening their Christmas presents. He swings the iron door open, barely able to contain himself, only to have the smile drop from his face in a heartbeat.

"Empty?!" He shrieks, punching the wall next to it. "What the fuck you old creep, where the hell is it?!"

Three fucking years he'd spent on this scam, three fucking years. Seducing the bastard and even going so far as to fucking marry the guy, being carted around as a fucking trophy wife and all he got for it was an empty goddamn safe? What the fuck indeed!

Growling in rage, he hoists his duffle higher on his shoulder. He quickly gets some paper towels from the overly expensive dispenser and wipes the safe down. Jack then takes a walk through the house, ripping every single picture of himself and the mark (or just himself, in some cases) from the walls, stopping to give the creep a good kick in the side for good measure, and then storming over to the marble fireplace, before nonchalantly throwing three years worth of memories and a used bullet into the fire.

The light from the fire warms his skin, but irritates the brown contacts in his eyes. It was time for a new look, he thinks, then a new mark, one who would actually pay up this time, and repeat.

The Black Widow Scam was tired and old, Jack knew, but goddamn if he wasn't good at it. This was somewhere around his fourth husband (he stopped counting after a while) in six years, and each and every one of them had left him loaded, except for this latest fucker.

He runs through a mental checklist, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Pictures burned, bullet retrieved, fingerprints gone, check, check, check.

It was time to disappear, he thinks sadly.

It was time to move on.

(THIS IS A LINE, ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?)

The hotel Jack sets himself up in is nice enough, not gross or inhospitable, but not exactly five stars. However, Jack was never a stickler for details, as long as it had a clean bed and running water. He may be a world renowned thief, and therefore used to the finer things in life, but goddamn if he can't just man up and deal with it.

Jack stands in the not-quite-crappy-but-almost bathroom of the hotel, staring at the reflection in the mirror. Brown hair, brown eyes, a simple combination, but apparently that's what his mark had likes. Or, well, liked.

Heh.

His reflection smiles a bit, a small quirk of pale, thin lips. Jack tears his eyes away slightly, looking down at the choice he was currently trying to make.

"Hrm, blonde hair with blue eyes, black hair and green eyes, or brown eyes with... oh I could do red hair. Be ginge, that could be fun."

Decisions, decisions. With a sigh Jack mulls over what his next disguise was going to be. According to the news, the police were looking for a man, about 20 years of age, with brown hair and brown eyes in the murder of an esteemed gentleman who had been murdered and robbed blind. Long story short, Jack had to change up his look if he wanted to avoid getting locked up for life.

With a sigh, Jack looked through his duffel, which had been hiding under the sink, and with no small amount of shock lifted another bottle of hair dye out of the dark recesses of the bag. He looked over the label, stopping with a smug little smirk.

"Oh, I haven't done this before~."

A/N OH SHIT NEW STORY. Howdy y'all. Have I ever told you I ship Jackrabbit like a motherfucker? No? OKAY WELL YEAH. So basically this is a con-man AU, and shit will go down, but that's all imma say until we get rolling along :D Thanks for reading loves!