I had the plot going in my head for a while, and thought I'd contribute to it after watching, and rewatching, both seasons of "Jessica Jones" on Netflix.
Can't promise the most regular updates, but I always plan on finishing my stories, whichever I start.
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel's "Jessica Jones" and affiliated comics or television series.
Today had been a pretty shitty clusterfuck of a day, with a healthy sprinkling of goddamn disappointment on that crap sundae.
First, Jessica was out of a job, again. It seemed a salvageable enough situation, once she showed her hand and blackmailed the sleaze running that white collar sweatshop for some well-deserved severance, but then he made an uncalled for crack about her parents. That opened up old wounds. Day drinking with her best friend should've cheered her up, except now some yuppie asshole (Robbie or Bobby or something) introduced himself by offering to play Trish in 'the Love Tester', singing the old theme song and (loudly) talking about how "It's Patsy" was his best spank-material as a preteen.
No she was not in the mood to play nice.
"I'll play you," she said. He didn't seem to mind the idea, but clearly she was his second choice behind Trish Walker. Her fragile self-esteem... how would it ever recover?
Trish seemed to pick up what she was getting at and wanted to put a stop to it before there was a scene, ever the mediator. "Jess," she warned tiredly, "it's not worth it."
"I think it is." Yeah, maybe Trish Walker was used to sleaze bags harassing her since she was fifteen but that didn't make it right. Besides, Jessica knew that she had some issues to work out. First day looking to start a new career, might as well hustle an asshole. "But I'm not really feeling the love tester..." She made a show of looking over the games this bar had to offer, like she hadn't already planned how to deflate this douchebag as soon as he mentioned his 'bald-headed bishop'. "How about the strength tester?"
Douchebag Bob or whatever seemed to think that was funny. And no longer leering at Trish, so step in the right direction already.
"If I win," Jessica baited the hook, " you pay our tab, apologize to my friend, and find somewhere else to drink."
Sleazy smile, with a whole lot of undeserved overconfidence. "And when I win?"
Trish had to stifle a snort at that, looked over her drink, clearly thinking 'alright, finish him'.
Jessica thought 'my pleasure' right back, plastering on an overly-flirty smile. "You win, I'll take you out back and meet that bald-headed bishop."
He matched her pasted-on smile with a smug, shit-eating grin. "You're on."
Her fake-as-shit smile fell off as soon as the douche turned his back, all his frat-boy yuppies egging him on.
Go figure, the frat boy could throw a punch. Probably had to fight off all the accusations of date rape. Machine took its pounding in stride at least.
Still affecting the part of a silly twig of a bitch, Jessica pouted as she stepped up for her turn. "Mm, it looks so hard..."
"Not yet it's not," said the Wall Street douche, his friends sniggering on cue. She could practically feel his eyes on the inside of her jeans.
When she made a fist, it was hard enough to pop the knuckles. Alright, maybe she was going a little overboard on the strength tester but wasn't like this shit didn't deserve the humility.
WHAM!
The punching bag of the strength tester game was sturdy enough to stand up to a whole bunch of strangers doing their best to clock it to stroke their egos, an endless stream of New Yorkers punching their feelings out. It was not built tough enough to stand up to her though, and now the punching bag looked like a broken-in baseball mitt.
And the douchebag's face looked like someone punched his man-card hard enough to give him hot-flashes.
Good. Nyah-nah-nah-nyah-nah.
With a mortified expression and his face turning the color of cottage cheese, the douche conceded defeat and flipped through a roll of bills. More than enough to pay their tab. "'rry," he muttered.
Now Jessica admitted she could leave it alone but where was the fun in that? "I didn't hear you asshole."
He turned back around, looking furious but too embarrassed to do anything about it. The douchebag had made too big a scene already, all eyes in the cafe were on him. Plus he was looking reasonably certain she'd be able to kick his ass if he tried anything.
He'd be right.
Now, much louder, "I'm sorry!" Then he left with his boys, looking deflated. His boys trailed after him, some looking stunned and others looking like they'd never stop giving him shit for this. She'd have to remember to feel sorry for him later. Much later.
Trish of course had that look on her face; the one that said she didn't approve but was still very happy with the end result. Or maybe she did approve but wasn't happy with herself for approving? Meh. Honestly if Jessica stopped to be worried about how much Trish approved of how she used her abilities, she'd never get anything cool done.
Their server (or waitress or whatever was the term) had a different look on her face. A 'holy shit did that just happen?' sorta look. For a second, Jessica was worried that she'd be asked to pay for the stupid strength-tester machine, which would be complete bullshit. Whole city put out their frustration on that thing after a few drinks, it was going to break eventually, Trish was already on low-rent 'damage-control', spinning a fib about Jillian Michaels (as if), and hopefully that would be the end of it.
No such luck, the waitress broke out of her deer-in-the-headlights impression long enough to ask, "Do you box or something?"
Fair enough question. "Nope. Just eat my spinach and junk."
"She eats a lot of junk," confirmed Trish, covering her smirk with a sip of her own drink.
"Shut up."
"Your form is terrible," the waitress blurted. "No offense, my cousin throws in the ring for his precinct, he's pretty good."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jessica lied. Her 'form' was hard enough to break the machine as is, she didn't really want to go toe-to-toe with a freight-train or the Hulk anytime soon.
"Precinct?" Trish looked interested, which made Jessica a different sort of nervous. In fact, it made her more nervous than having to pay for that stupid game.
"Yeah he's a cop," the waitress explained, looking to Jessica again. Jessica recognized that look too; curious, doubtful, but willing to be convinced with some evidence. "Are you 5-O?"
Jessica snorted. "Five-nine, but not in these heels." The joke clearly went over chatty-Kathy-wonder-waitress' head though. "No I'm not a cop. What, do I look like a cop?"
Surprisingly, the waitress seemed to consider it, but then just shrugged and left for another table.
"I was going to ask for a refill," Jessica groused. Someone just cost themselves a tip. And she had just won all this money from a douchebag too.
Now Trish definitely had a look on her face. A 'great power means a greater calling' or something like that look on her face. The kind that made sure Jessica never would get a moment's peace. "That's not a bad fit..."
"What is?" Jessica swigged her drink, which was an alright mix of sour and sweet, just barely passable as a day-drinking beverage.
"You," Trish said, excitedly. Oh great, now she was gesturing. "You could be a cop. You should be a cop-"
Yeah and Jessica nearly spat out the drink. Thankfully being around Trish as long as she was, and liking booze as much as she did, she had trained herself to be immune to spit-takes, no matter how ridiculous the suggestions could be. "No way."
"Why not?" Trish demanded, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "Why do you think you shouldn't be a cop?"
"Are you serious right now?" Jessica set down her drink with great, exaggerated reluctance. "I have no experience with law-enforcement, I've never carried a gun, I have a record, I look like shit in blue, I hate cops, I have a well documented history of problems with authority in general, and I don't want to."
"Wow you've given this some thought," said Trish, eyebrow still raised.
"Mm-hmm." Jessica went back to her drink, declaring this check-and-mate in her head-
"Except," Trish started counting on her fingers, "you need money, you don't have a job, you would make good police, you're a born detective, you'd be the authority, you can't run away from all jobs that have authority unless you want to go for self-employed with your big nothing planned, and at the very least you'd kill it at the physical."
Shit. "Well I don't want to."
"You have a better job lined up?" Probed Trish. Of course she wasn't going to let this go. Dammit.
"I'm not a cop," Jessica insisted. "You know I'm not cop material. They wouldn't want me as a police."
"This city needs good police," Trish countered, getting into her 'crusader' tone of voice. There was no arguing with her after that. "You could make a difference."
Jessica broke out her best eye-roll for the occasion. "Oh not this again."
"This again," Trish confirmed grimly. "You're strong, you're smart, who cares what you did when you were a teenager? And they'll probably be taking more applicants for the NYPD after everything that's happened. The throw-down in Harlem, the Incident..?"
"Who would be stupid enough to want to be in the middle of that?" Jessica scoffed.
"Heroes," said Trish, flatly. "The cops you hate?"
"I didn't say I hate cops," Jessica denied reflexively.
"Yes you did," insisted Trish. "Less than half a minute ago."
"Well I didn't mean it," Jessica waved her off, sadly noting her drink was empty now. When did that happen? "I say things I don't mean all the time, like 'I love you' or 'I'm never drinking again', it's just words."
"You've never said 'I love you'," said Trish, having the temerity to sound hurt. Where did she get off?
"Not to you anyway," Jessica teased, hoping to deflect and deflect this conversation away.
No such luck. "You always say you don't know what to do with your life, that you're sick of jobs that don't make a difference. And I'm always telling you you'd be making a difference if you used your... gifts to help people. And you tell me you don't want a costume, you could make all that difference in uniform."
"I don't want to wear uniforms," Jessica complained. She knew she was whining now. "And I never said I wanted to make a difference, I was tired of 'pointless' jobs. There's a difference."
"You'd be making a difference," Trish repeated, like a broken record, "if you used your powers in a position where you could help people. Normal cops do it whenever something freaky happens like aliens or hovercrafts or Avengers level shit spills all over, and those are normal men and women-"
"Or however they identify," said Jessica, still hoping she could nip this whole thing in the bud. And again, no luck, the idea stuck in Trish's head like a weed.
"-all those normal men and women," Trish continued, undeterred, "without the things you can do face things that make ordinary people run, make them have to run. You don't have to run though. You could be a hero."
"You want to see how to be a hero? Drinks on Trish Walker everybody!" Jessica called out, waving that roll of bills in the air happily. The cheers drowned out Trish's righteous tirade for a little bit, but Jessica knew that wouldn't last.
Truthfully it was more a relief than anything else when Trish came to her later in the week with an application instead of a latex costume she probably got at a sex-shop.
And then the rest was history... and a changed future.