Watt Tower Headquarters.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive incense and success.
The place made Jessica Jones itch all over.
As usual, she wore her black leather jacket and ripped jeans, her hair a mess, and the lingering stench of last night's cheap whiskey clung to her.
She stood beneath the towering statue of Patriot in the lobby, her face a mixture of disgust and calculation.
"Damn," she muttered under her breath.
She hated this place. Hated everything about it.
She didn't belong.
Everyone around her, from the receptionist to the security guards, looked like they had stepped out of a fashion magazine perfect, practiced smiles plastered across their faces.
"Ma'am? Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm here to support Patriot."
Jessica slapped the black V-card on the reception desk with a loud snap.
Ten minutes later.
The top-floor office.
Marcus Lee stood with his back to her, a floor-to-ceiling window behind him.
He wasn't in costume.
Instead, he wore a custom Italian suit, every strand of golden hair perfectly combed.
From this angle, he didn't look like a hero; he looked like a Wall Street asshole.
"Jessica Jones," he said calmly, "you look… terrible."
"Know your enemy, know yourself," Jessica replied, hands in her pockets, scraping dirt across the expensive Persian rug. "Your hair looks like a golden retriever licked it."
Marcus slowly turned around.
Damn. Jessica had to admit, his presentation was godlike.
His face was both sacred and arrogant, even more dazzling in real life than in pictures.
"You came all this way just to insult my hair?" he asked, smiling as he stepped closer.
"I came," Jessica lifted her chin, "because I heard you're putting together a 'super circus.' Thought you might need someone to sell tickets."
"It's the Seven," Marcus corrected gently, his voice soft but cutting.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Jessica caught the scent of his shower gel; heat flushed her cheeks.
"Why would I need you?" he asked, leaning forward, his towering presence casting her in shadow.
"Because I can twist a man's neck like opening a soda," she retorted, eyes locked on him. "And you you need someone to do the dirty work. A perfect hero shouldn't get his hands bloody, right?"
Ha.
Marcus laughed.
"Jessica… Jessica…" he shook his head, as if scolding a child.
"Do you think I need strength?"
He extended his hand.
Jessica instinctively stepped back, raising her fists.
But his fingers merely brushed her shoulder, lifting a small fragment of peanut butter from her hair.
"Jessica, I don't need strength. I have all the power I want."
Slowly, his feet left the ground.
He hovered in front of her, looking down.
"Jessica Jones, twenty-four, car accident survivor, orphaned. Superhuman strength and a resilient body. PTSD and moderate alcohol dependence."
"You " Jessica's face went pale.
"I can see every hidden scar on your body. Your liver is swollen from alcohol. I can see… you're afraid."
"You bastard!" she yelled, shame and fear fueling her punch.
She poured everything into it.
Bang!
Marcus raised his hand and caught her fist effortlessly.
A fist that could punch through concrete bricks was now held in his palm, motionless.
"No, Jessica," he said, crouching while still holding her hand. "You're not afraid of me."
You're afraid of yourself.
"Shut up!" she tried to pull free, but his hand felt welded to hers.
"You're afraid of that helplessness. Kilgrave was the first, but he won't be the last. The world is darker than you think. Without me, you're just a freak struggling in the shadows."
"You're more afraid that you'll always be that little girl who watched her family die helplessly."
"I said shut up!"
Jessica grabbed a brass desk ornament and smashed it against his skull.
Crack!
The ornament shattered; Marcus didn't even flinch.
He released her hand.
Jessica retreated to a corner, panting like a trapped wild animal.
"Go to hell…" she sobbed, crying herself quiet after ten minutes.
Marcus straightened his tie. "Feeling better?"
"…," she wiped her face, eyes vacant.
She saw it. Marcus had transformed back into the radiant Anthony Lee.
He walked to the bar and poured a glass of whiskey.
"Darling, you now have two choices."
He handed her the glass; she took it and drained it like water.
"First: go back to your rat hole, continue playing Hell's Kitchen's dutiful cop, drink your cheap booze. Someday, you'll encounter another Kilgrave or worse, S.H.I.E.L.D. or the military will catch you, dissect you, and study why you jump so high."
"…."
"Second."
Marcus spread his arms, facing the window.
"Join me."
"I'll give you everything."
"The PR department at Watt will make you a hero. Not some street-level fighter in alleys but a hero people scream for, buy toys of, hang posters of on their walls."
"I'll pay you enough to drink top-shelf whiskey for life."
"Most importantly…"
He turned toward her; his blue eyes glimmered with something she couldn't identify but couldn't look away from.
"I can give you recognition and… love."
"Love?" Jessica blinked. "Don't you want… to be loved by everyone?"
"I…" her voice caught, "I fucking… hate you."
"I know," Marcus smiled. "Good start."
I fucking hate this name.
"Which one?"
Jones… Queen.
She hissed under her breath. "Sounds like a stripper's stage name."
"Oh no, no." He wagged his finger. "It's perfect."
It embodies strength, independence, and defiance and it's undeniably sexy.
You'll get used to it.