Part 16 – Interlude 2

J. Jonah Jameson was just about to close up shop for the day at the Daily Bugle. It had been an exhausting day and the commute home would be a long one. Things were still a mess from the attacks in Greenwich Village earlier that week and probably would be for a long time. The subway system and streets had been ripped apart by the crazed mobs running around destroying anything they could find—not to mention the damage done by the dozens of masked vigilantes that had run to the scene to supposedly take care of the situation.

In J. Jameson's opinion, they had only made the situation worse. He didn't really have anything against mutants as a rule, but they did have a tendency to be around whenever some disaster in the city happened. His paper reported the facts, but sometimes there were gaps between those facts and so he did his best to fill those gaps. The public liked explanations for things, not plot holes.

And perhaps more than the public, J. Jameson hated plot holes. But this violence in Greenwich was nothing but one big plot hole. Thousands of people suddenly acquire a berserker rage and start attacking each other? The natural inclination was to blame mutants, but how? Those people weren't mutants, and if a mutant was controlling them all, who was that mutant, and why did he stop doing whatever it was he was doing?
There were too many theories floating around and J. Jameson was tired of publishing theories in his newspaper. He wanted facts.

He had just finished packing up his briefcase and was picking it up when the phone rang. He considered leaving anyway without answering it but decided if his secretary had decided to transfer it to him at 6:55pm, five minutes before he usually left the office, it must be important. He put down his briefcase and picked up the phone.

"Jameson here."

"Good evening Mr. Jameson. I'd like to offer you an article for your paper." The voice was deep and even, every tone measured to precision.

"Would you now? How about that." His sarcasm was his trademark.

"Yes. It's about the recent uprisings in Greenwich. I know what caused it."

Jameson sat down suddenly. Hard. His 6th reporter sense told him this guy wasn't a phony. "I'm listening."

"I'd be glad to share this information with you on the condition that you print an article I have written. I'm a geneticist who has studied mutants for longer than you can imagine. I want to share some of what I've found with the public."

Jameson paused a moment. Something in that voice advised caution. "And what have you found?"

"That there are ways that the public—the human public—can identify who the mutants are among them once the Mutant Registration Bill passes."

"The vote has been postponed until next week. You really think it will pass?"

"I'm sure of it. How can you think otherwise after what happened in Greenwich?"

Jameson exhaled heavily. "So mutants are to blame."

"One in particular. He went by the name of Shadow King."

Jameson grabbed a pen from the pile on his desk and began taking notes on the closest thing he could find. It happened to be a napkin left over from his lunch earlier. "Go on."

"Shadow King was a being of pure energy that fed on the negative emotions of others. Among his powers were the ability to influence the thoughts of others to produce those negative emotions. He often would possess the body of someone, taking over their mind and sucking their life energy dry. At the time of the attacks he occupied the body of a Mafia affiliate who went by the name New Son."

"And you're sure of this?" Jameson pressed.

"Positive."

"Wow."

"I will send my article for you to print within the next day. It will come to you by email." The voice was still as even and measured as when the conversation had started. It was incredibly disconcerting to Jameson. Jameson liked when people showed emotions he could possibly control. Stoicism left him nothing to work with.

"Wait. How can I contact you?"

"You don't. If we need to talk, I'll contact you."

"Sorry, I don't work that way," Jameson replied quickly. "Who do I name as my informant?"

"You have no choice but to work that way. As for the information, credit it to Nathanial Essex. E-S-S-E-X. Enjoy your evening Mr. Jameson."

There was a click, and that maddeningly controlled voice was gone. Jameson hung up slowly, blinking. He'd just been handed a gift as a headline, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach that made him wonder at what price. He put the pen he'd been writing with down and re-read his notes. There would be research to do, background checks to run on those names. No doubt the government already knew this. He was convinced that S.H.I.E.L.D. had the answers to every mystery he reported on. They wouldn't be happy about him printing their top secret information. There would be at least a few people pissed off about it. J. Jameson loved pissing people off.

He picked up his phone again and dialed the extension for his secretary.

"Call my wife. Tell her I'll be home late tonight."

Jameson had a story to write.

End Part 16