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"...Kate." The little girl answered timidly.
"Kate..." Anthony repeated the name under his breath.
Then he reached out and gently... touched the doll in her hands.
"...You like this?"
"Yes. You... you saved me."
Anthony's expression froze for 0.1 seconds. Did that happen? Of course it did!
"That day... the building collapsed, and my dad..." Kate's eyes reddened.
"That alien monster wanted to kill me... then... then you showed up."
She mimed the scene: "You looked at it and—zap!—light shot out of your eyes!"
"...Sorry."
Kate was stunned.
"Sorry, Kate." Anthony's voice turned hoarse.
"That day... I should've been faster."
"If I'd been just a little quicker... your dad... he'd..."
He didn't finish.
A hero's self-reproach says more than a thousand words.
"Uhh..." The intern reporter standing nearby burst into tears on the spot.
The orphanage director covered her mouth, eyes rimmed red.
A glimmer finally sparked in Kate's numb, wide eyes.
She stared at this god-like man who'd rescued her and was now apologizing.
"No... it's not your fault!" Kate suddenly shouted, flinging the doll aside and throwing herself into Anthony's arms.
"It's not your fault! You're a hero! You saved me!! Waaaah..."
The little girl's sobs echoed through the room.
Anthony—Homelander—awkwardly, gently hugged her back.
He tilted his head and closed his eyes.
A single "heroic tear" slid perfectly down his handsome cheek.
Flash—!!!!
The magnesium lights went wild.
"Ding! Popularity +213!"
"Ding! Popularity +480!"
"Ding! Popularity +355!"
"..."
"Ding! Special popularity +10 000!"
Anthony laughed maniacally inside.
"Perfect... the performance was flawless. Once Vought milks this, my popularity will explode—everyone will love me!!"
The "show" over, Anthony left the orphanage satisfied.
Instead of heading straight back, he decided to circle New York twice overhead for dessert—the cheers of the crowd.
As he flew over the chaos of Hell's Kitchen,
his super-hearing caught something unusual.
"...No... please... let me go..." a woman's voice, choked with fear.
Hell's Kitchen.
The name fit like a glove.
Even a month after the "end" of the Battle of New York, the air here still reeked.
Jessica Jones tossed an empty bottle into the sink with a clatter.
In the mirror: a pale woman with dark rings under her eyes.
Her black hair was a bird's nest; the same black leather jacket and ripped jeans as always.
"Fuck."
She swore, snatched her keys.
Jessica has powers.
She has no idea how—just that the damn crash that killed her family left her this "gift": super-strength and the ability to jump off a ten-story roof without breaking a leg.
To her the gift is worthless.
It's brought only trouble, isolation, and a reputation as a freak.
So she learned to hide.
She's cycled through jobs—cashier, bar-back, even handing out flyers in a squirrel suit in Times Square.
She drifted like that until... the Battle of New York.
That day she watched a Leviathan smash through a building's side.
She saw a caped blonde "superman" carry a nuke into the sky-hole.
And at her feet a Chitauri soldier raised an energy spear at a little girl crouched behind a taxi.
Jessica didn't think.
She lunged, grabbed the alien bastard's head, and with the strength she'd hidden for ten years slammed it into the asphalt.
She saved the girl.
From that day something she thought long dead sparked back to life.
"Stop right there, bitch! Hand over the cash!"
Hell's Kitchen, 2 a.m.
Three junkies corner a nurse just off shift in an alley; one flicks open a switchblade.
"Please..."
"Fuck your please!" The leader slaps her across the face.
"Hey!"
A lazy, irritated woman's voice calls from the alley mouth.
"Can you idiots change the script? Every time it's 'bitch' and 'money'—so boring."
The three turn and see Jessica Jones.
"It's you! That leather-jacketed freak!" the leader snarls.
"She's alone—let's—"
Bang!
Jessica didn't bother with words.
She snatched a trash-can lid and flung it like a frisbee, smashing the leader's face.
His nose shattered, teeth flew, and he dropped with a yelp.
"What the—?!" The other two froze.
"Next." Jessica cracked her knuckles.
"Fuck—kill her!"
The one with the knife charged like a maniac.
Jessica sidestepped, caught his wrist, and bent it backward.
Crack—!
"Aaaaargh—!!"
The thug rolled on the ground clutching his broken arm.
The third turned to run.
Jessica darted forward, grabbed his collar, and bowled him into the brick wall at the alley's end.
Boom—!
A chunk of wall caved; the guy slid down like wet cement.
Jessica dusted her hands, fished a crumpled twenty from the pocket of one moaning crook, and pressed it into the stunned nurse's palm.
"Cab fare home. Don't walk this way again."
"...Thank... thank you! You... you're a hero!"
"I'm not a hero." Jessica waved it off. "I'm just... Jessica Jones."
She turned and vanished into the dark.
Across the street, half-hidden in shadow, a man in a purple shirt and matching tie watched every move.
A sick smile curved his lips.
"Oh... my," he murmured. "How... primal, how... powerful. You... are mine."
Next night, the same dingy bar Jessica favors.
"Cheapest whiskey you've got, Jack—on the rocks."
"Playing vigilante again, Jones?" the bartender asks, wiping a glass. "You'll land in serious trouble one day."
"Shut up and pour."
"Hey, mind if I buy you a drink?"
A soft male voice interrupts.