Jessica glared at him for a full minute.
The office was unusually quiet, the only sound the rhythm of their breathing.
Suddenly, Jessica felt a strange flutter in her chest.
Love… what the hell is love… this was ridiculous this blond asshole was actually making her feel… a hint of safety.
"Fuck it!"
She drained the glass in one gulp. "I'm in!"
She pointed at Marcus. "But! I answer only to myself. Try to control me "
"And?"
"I'll tear this building apart."
"Deal." Marcus's victorious smile spread across his face. "Welcome to the Seven, Queen Jones."
Ding! Special popularity +15,000!
"Ashley!" Marcus tapped the speaker; she walked straight in.
"Take Ms. Jones to styling. She needs the full Watt Company initiation."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait " Jessica was being dragged away. "Styling? Initiation? I don't fucking need "
"That's right. You earned it," Marcus's voice followed her. "You must live up to the title, Queen."
"You blond bastard! Fuck!!"
The door shut.
Jessica Jones was officially "delisted" by Watt Company.
She was sent into boot camp not for power, not for image.
"No, Ms. Jones! Smile! Eight teeth! Like Mr. Patriot!"
"Ms. Jones, that line is wrong! You cannot tell the public 'get out of my sight'!"
"Ms. Jones, put down the whiskey! Heroes drink Watt Energy Drinks!"
Jessica felt herself losing her mind and this was only the beginning.
Ashley ignored her own reactions, scrolling through the tablet. "We're also refining your origin story."
"I fucking need an origin story?"
"Of course! You can't tell anyone you've been brawling with small-time punks in Hell's Kitchen." She looked at Jessica as if she were naive.
"Listen, new script: You, Jessica Jones, Columbia University dropout, gained superpowers… from alien radiation! You were lost, until… you met Patriot! He's like a lighthouse, guiding you to understand true power…"
Jessica felt last night's whiskey start to churn in her stomach again.
The stylist brought a costume.
Jessica Jones froze.
It was a white bodysuit.
Not ordinary white it was shimmering pearl white, blindingly bright. Across the chest, a garish purple-and-gold "Q" emblem gleamed.
"…I will kill you," Jessica growled.
"Oh, don't be like that!" the stylist squealed. "You promised Mr. Lee! Darling, this is the Queen's armor the latest memory-fiber tech from the Lee Group! It accentuates every curve, every advantage of yours!"
"Ashley!" Jessica spun toward her assistant. "Fuck you!"
"Calm down, Jessica." Ashley stepped back. "This is your new look. Accept it. Six weeks of media training, expression management, combat stance."
"I don't need a pose! I can fight!"
"Sweetheart, you can fight," the bearded stylist said vaguely, "but you can't perform. Your moves… are too crude. The audience wants beauty! Ballet! Like this!"
He struck Patriot's classic hands-on-hips pose.
"Get the hell away!"
"Listen," Ashley's expression hardened, "Patriot's film Patriot: Origin releases in six weeks. You, Queen Jones, will debut as Watt Company's secret ace, fighting alongside the Seven."
"That night, you'll be the brightest star second only to him."
Jessica stared at the mirror: a woman forced into white armor, her hair sculpted into waves.
For the first time, she felt like she truly knew herself.
"Goddamn…" she muttered.
"Yes! That's the look! Hold it!" the stylist snapped photos. "A little… broken! The audience will love it!"
Meanwhile, Watt's PR department scrubbed every record of "Jessica Jones" from Hell's Kitchen.
Before her debut, she had to remain a mystery.
Back at the penthouse, Marcus poured a bottle of '82 Cola and turned on the TV.
A breaking news alert flashed.
"…Billionaire Tony Stark's Malibu mansion hit by unknown armed helicopters, destroyed and plunged into the sea…"
On screen, the cliffside home erupted into flames.
"…Stark missing; bodyguard Happy Hogan in ICU; White House…"
"…Stark publicly challenged terrorists, even revealing his location…"
"Idiot."
Marcus shook his head.
"Tony… Tony… always the same."
He understood the unfolding events better than anyone.
He picked up a secure Watt line.
"Ashley, draft a statement. Watt International and Patriot condemn the attack on our friend Tony Stark."
"Patriot will stop at nothing to find Stark and declare war on cowardly terrorism!"
He hung up the phone.
His blood boiled popularity surged again.
Ding ding ding… ding ding ding…
Nick Fury's phone rang.
He answered.
"Director Fury," Marcus said, his voice thick with grief and anger.
"I just saw the news… Tony… I can't believe it!"
"I need S.H.I.E.L.D. authorization! I have to… do something! Those terrorists will pay!"
Fury paused.
"…Stark, calm down. We are assessing "
"Assess?! Tony is my friend!" Marcus snapped, Oscar-mode instantly engaged, his voice trembling. "Give me everything on those terrorists! Now!"
"…We will share intelligence. But be careful, Stark. These people… are dangerous."
"I was born for this adventure, director."
He hung up; the grief vanished from his face.
He held a legitimate ticket into the fray.
"All right."
"Dr. Killian… don't disappoint me."