Jessica's dwelling — her office-slash-rented apartment — was a signature disaster zone. You could tell that at some point there had been actual attempts at "civilizing" the place — decent if not new furniture had been brought in, a work desk stood in the center, a cabinet with case files sat to the side — but at some point the owner had given up entirely on order, surrendering to her own carelessness. The floor was littered with empty bottles of cheap alcohol and instant food packaging, the wallpaper had begun to yellow under the weight of time, and the air carried a persistent smell of hopelessness.
The living space suited its owner well enough. Though Chris's own apartment was different — not by much. There was no disaster zone, but every detail of the place, from the rusty plumbing to the rotting furniture, spoke of a financial situation that left much to be desired. Though Chris had gotten used to it.
And by the way, Jessica had demonstrated yet another superpower. She had managed to get absolutely hammered.
Worth noting that they had never actually made it anywhere specific — meaning Jessica had gotten herself blind drunk literally on the road between point A and point B. With brief stops at the most decrepit and sketchy shops imaginable, selling the lowest quality bootleg alcohol conceivable. But Jessica didn't care, courtesy of her "super" tolerance. Though that same super tolerance did nothing to save its owner from horrifying mornings. Chris had been the first witness to that.
The guy himself was almost afraid to imagine what would happen if a completely ordinary person drank as much whiskey of that quality as Jessica did. For some reason it seemed to Chris that in his personal lives column, a binge like that would drop the counter from "10" to "9."
In short...
Typical Jessica.
"We... Burrrrp—" Jessica let out a thoroughly unladylike belch directly into his face, filling it with the full bouquet of alcohol fumes. So thoroughly that Chris nearly vomited all over his new friend right then and there. "Had a great ti—" Jessica's eyes swayed from side to side, as if searching for a new victim that might boost her blood alcohol content. Naturally there were no alcohol reserves to be found. Nothing like that ever lasted long with Jessica, though that never stopped her from searching for a stash that was supposed to materialize out of thin air every single time. "—me..."
"Yeah," Chris grimaced, trying to help Jessica lie down with his one working arm. "More or less..."
In response he heard only a loud snore that made the windows rattle.
Sighing and trying to pull the door shut as firmly as possible — the locks on Jessica's door had fallen off long ago, most likely due to the violent nature of its drunk owner — Chris went back to his own apartment.
And since the time was already pushing three in the morning, Chris decided, as usual, to turn on the television and try to fall asleep to the background chatter of some random late-night program.
And of course he didn't notice Jessica Jones opening her completely sober eyes the moment Chris disappeared into his own apartment.
The girl quickly threw on some clothes, slipped quietly out of the apartment, and headed in a direction known only to her. And only a single note in her phone hinted at the purpose of her little deception.
"Manhattan Psychiatric Center."
"Tss..." Chris winced as he instinctively leaned on his left arm out of habit. He'd been given painkillers, of course, but a broken hand was a broken hand. That wasn't even counting the bruised right hand from the first unsuccessful punch into the wall.
And honestly, he still couldn't believe all of this had happened on the first day of knowing Jessica.
More had happened in a single day than in all the previous years of his somewhere-monotonous, somewhere-agonizing life.
First, he finally had a friend. And what a friend. Jessica Jones herself — part-time detective, Harlem's loudest troublemaker, and, as it turned out, a genuine superhuman.
Second, he had... superpowers.
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He could come back to life a limited number of times, and there were the beginnings of some kind of super strength.
"But how does it work?" Chris muttered to himself, staring at his bandaged hands. "Is it some kind of set? It's just..."
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"I..." Chris swallowed a lump in his throat. "I don't understand where these powers came from..."
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"No-no-no..." Chris's breathing took on a distinctly panicked quality. "I don't know... I don't know... No idea whatsoever... Just absolutely zero clues..."
Understanding that another breakdown had begun its countdown, Chris quickly moved to the small dresser beside his bed. Opening the drawer, he took out one of the few personal sets of things left over from the orphanage. Not always, but sometimes they helped him detach from... another episode.
"Steve Rogers, America's Greatest Hero"
Cards.
Completely ordinary cards featuring great figures of American history. This hobby had been wildly popular during his childhood. Since these kinds of cards came with chewing gum, even the poorest orphan could afford them. They were collected, traded, and even used for improvised battles with made-up rules, where of course Captain America always won.
This little childhood pastime had always been his lifeline. Immersing himself in the world of imaginary heroes, Chris didn't think about the tight walls of the psychiatric hospital, didn't think about having no friends, didn't think about his "unreal" memories...
A simple little game that occupied his complete attention.
Exhaling in relief, Chris began flipping through the small stack of cards, reading off the names of those featured, as was his habit.
"The Howling Commandos," Chris smiled when he came across a picture of a group of soldiers. "The elite team led by the Captain, who made an invaluable contribution to the defeat of the Nazi regime. Their group was the one that stopped HYDRA under the command of Red Skull..."
Below each member of the team their name was written.
"Dum Dum Dugan, Jim Morita, Jacques Dernier, Margaret Carter..." The names of the famous heroes rolled off his tongue easily and naturally, since he had read them aloud an uncountable number of times. "And..."
Chris stopped abruptly, frowning in bewilderment. He rubbed his eyes, trying to confirm that yes, he wasn't imagining it.
"Who the hell is James Howlett?!" Chris yelled, seeing a completely new face on one of his favorite cards. "What are you doing on my collectible card, you random hairy guy?!"
Cold sweat of genuine terror broke out on Chris's forehead. He, barely squeezing words out, looked around the room and then...
Screamed.
"AN EXORCIST!" Chris yelled like a madman, pressing the card to his chest. Getting to his feet and ignoring the pain in his hands, Chris bolted out of his apartment. "JESSICA, CALL AN EXORCIST! SOME BRUTAL CANADIAN GUY HAS POSSESSED MY COLLECTIBLE CARD! WHA—"
The moment he threw the door open, he ran straight into a rather flustered Jessica, who had been just about to step out onto the landing. The girl had frozen in an uncharacteristically sheepish pose, as though she'd been caught doing something shameful.
"Where are you going?" Chris scratched his head in confusion.
"Getting booze," Jessica answered immediately.
Nodding and not doubting this for a single second, Chris shoved the Howling Commandos card in Jessica's face.
"Jessica, something crazy is going on!"
"Uh..." Jessica looked at the cardboard piece skeptically. "Cool card?"
"That's not the point, Jessica!" Chris pointed in a panic at a specific part of his prized possession. "There's a guy here who shouldn't be here!"
"You mean the Asian guy?" Jessica frowned. "Chris, that's racist. I'm judging you."
"Not the Asian guy!" Chris shook his head. "Do you see James Howlett?!"
"No."
"How can you not see—" Chris stopped abruptly, finally noticing that the mysterious man...
Was gone.
"E-EXORCIST, URGENT!" Chris yelled even louder than before. "The National Guard! The Catholic Church! The freaking Ghostbusters! Anyone, I don't care, but we need to—"
"Would you calm down already!" Jessica snapped at him, freezing Chris in his tracks. "What are you even going on about?"
"I was looking through my collection as usual," Chris swallowed. "And then I saw a person on one of the cards who shouldn't be there."
"By 'looking through' you mean..." Jessica raised and lowered her right fist vaguely in the air.
"Go to hell, Jessica!"
"Well what else is anyone supposed to think?!" the girl sighed. "Who else sees random guys appearing out of nowhere?"
"I didn't imagine it!" Chris answered categorically. "Some guy materialized and then disappeared from the picture!"
"Maybe he got tired," Jessica shrugged. "What were you expecting? For him to stand there all day?"
"Go to hell with your Harry Potter references!" Chris grabbed his head. "He was definitely there! I'm not crazy!"
The moment that last sentence hung in the air, an awkward silence settled in.
"I'm not crazy!" Chris said to Jessica, offended.
She sighed, reached for her favorite flask, then sighed again when she realized it was empty.
"Chris, you're just exhausted," she told him like he was a small child. "Today was way too insane — you died a couple of times, then broke your hand, took painkillers... It all just piled on top of each other, and now you're seeing random burly guys."
"Yeah?" Chris doubted his own sanity.
"Happens to everyone," she waved her hand. "You just need to... decompress, you know? Maybe add something new to your daily routine..."
"Like what?"
"Why not start running in the mornings?" Jessica made a fairly reasonable suggestion.
"But my hand is broken," he held up his cast skeptically.
"That's your hand, not your leg?" Jessica raised an eyebrow. "It helped me once, back in the day..."
"Yeah?" Chris raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You don't exactly look like someone who gets up for a morning run..."
"Which is exactly why you're an inexperienced virgin and I'm thriving," Jessica snorted. "Besides, I know a great life hack for morning runs..."
"What's that?"
"Miss one day — add thirty minutes to the next run."
"Oh, that sounds solid," Chris nodded slowly. "Does it actually work?"
"Of course," Jessica said with a satisfied hum. "For example, tomorrow I'm supposed to run for two weeks straight..."
And Chris was left speechless.
Because there was simply no comeback for that.