Sorry, I know it's been a hot minute since I last updated. Remember when I made a plan for the entire season? Yeah, well, while I was writing this chapter I was continuously struck by new ideas that threw that plan off. Should've anticipated this story having a life of its own, but we'll see where it goes! I've also gone back to working in the office instead of at home this week and that's been a Change, to say the least.
But, anyway. Enough excuses. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! It's covering the rest of episode one but there are a couple of minor changes to dialogue and stuff.
Finding Hope
A year ago, Jessica had been completely and inescapably at the mercy of another person. Her body was not her own. Her voice, her powers, and her mind weren't either. What she said and did, what she wanted, was planted in her mind by someone else. She was reduced to a submissive shell, waiting for new thoughts and desires to be given to her so that she could fulfill. It was all she could focus on.
She would hear "Come with me," and all she could think about was keeping step with him, turning where he turned, crossing where he crossed. She wouldn't wonder where they were going, wouldn't think about how far they'd walked, and she'd never take note of the street names they passed - "Oh, come on. You don't want to look around - why would you want to do that? You want to look at me."
When she'd come back to herself, when she'd felt that rush of euphoric horror upon realising that she was finally free, she'd had no idea when and where she'd stumble across the places he'd taken her. He'd made it so that they were hidden memory-bombs in the city that she couldn't anticipate, that she'd happen upon and be ambushed by, and the flashbacks would undo any of the progress she'd made in moving on.
There are a couple of sites that she would have been able to locate had she summoned the courage, like this one. She knew the name of the restaurant - he took her enough times that the name finally began to sink in until it was firmly lodged in her memory, same as the hotel. Maybe she just couldn't bear the thought of looking at them again, even if it was just on Google Maps to find out the streets they were on so that she could avoid them.
The familiarity of the building, despite the change in name and design, the way it almost makes her dizzy with the threat of countless suppressed memories fighting to be relived, is enough to prove to her that avoiding the addresses was the smart thing to do.
"No," she breathes when the disbelief flares, a tremor in her fingers as she closes her notebook and hides it away. "No way."
Her gut is churning agitatedly, sending rippling waves of apprehension across her body with a threat of paralysis. Her paranoia had been instigated by the shitstorm with Thomas King, but standing outside of this restaurant, having only just now considered the horrifying familiarity of the lingerie and the expensive gifts, she's starting to fear that the paranoia isn't just the lingering effects of PTSD. The culmination of clues were sitting funny with her even before finding the restaurant, but now all the pieces of the puzzle have settled along the line of her shoulders, the whispers worming their way in and through and around the clues like a snake through its prey. This feels real. Too real. And it makes her want to run.
But she forces the instinct aside and pushes into the restaurant.
Every lift of her foot up onto the next step feels like wading through something cold and heavy and thick. She feels like she's moving in slow motion and moving too fast at the same time. It hasn't changed much since she was last here, not the entrance, at least, and the familiarity of it makes her blood run cold. She can hear his voice in the whispers on her skin, coiling up her neck and through her hair, winding round her ears as if preparing to slice them off - the puckered skin of her scar tingles uncomfortably.
The restaurant itself has a new decor with the new ownership, but her memory of the previous layout and design sits like a half-there vision on top of the reality she scans across.
One of the new staff notices her, adopting a professional stance while he not-so-subtly appraises her outfit. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We're not open for dinner yet."
"Didn't this used to be Il Rosso?" she asks, struggling to keep her voice steady.
"Yes," he answers, nonplussed. "Niku opened eight months ago. Can I make a reservation for you?"
Jessica is already pulling the photograph of Hope from her pocket, ignoring the trembling of her fingers. All day she has been following the breadcrumbs left by Hope's card - a surefire way for the girl to be tracked despite apparently wanting to break away for a while - and she knows the photo will be recognised again here like every other store, but this time it is going to mean something. Something awful.
This is no longer just paranoia.
Hope hasn't simply been careless. Jessica has been left clues. On purpose. By someone who knows.
"Have you seen this girl?"
She sees it on his face as soon as his eyes drop to the photograph. She sees the shock, the fear glossed over by forced-indifference. It's the face of someone who experienced something profoundly bewildering and disconcerting and has chosen to chalk it up to a weird day.
"May I ask why?" he deflects.
"I'm a private investigator," Jessica answers. She lets the photograph fold in on itself again, because she knows his answer. She knows his story.
And, fuck, does she want to turn and run before he tells it.
"I don't want any more trouble-" he assures placatingly.
"Any more? So, she was here?"
"Last Tuesday."
The whispers hiss at her ears and Jessica swallows to break the ones that have wound around her throat to squeeze. "Was she alone?" she bites out.
"You should really speak to my manager," he advises uncomfortably.
But Jessica is tired. As if the paranoia alone wasn't enough, she has a feeling she's on the verge of discovering it was all for good fucking reason, and that terrifies her. "Just tell me what happened," she snaps.
The man shrinks in on himself a little. It's likely he has forced himself to stop reliving the moment he's about to describe to her. "Her companion wanted a particular table in the back. There was a couple already seated there. But I lost my mind or something - I told them to leave."
No. No. She saw him die. She saw the bus hit him.
"No, that's not possible." It hisses out of her in a whisper, frail and pathetic.
"What's not possible is our sommelier comping him a $500 bottle. And when he ordered his favourite dish from Il Rosso, our chef actually hunted down the recipe from Il Rosso's old chef."
It seems like Jessica's recognition of the situation is enough to spur him on, encouraging more ramblings about impossibilities being willingly and nonchalantly made possible. But his words go fuzzy in her mind, disassembling before she can make sense of them and floating around aimlessly in the darkness. The whispers curve round the shell of her ear, wind over the cartilage, and trickle in towards her eardrum, bringing with them the bustling atmosphere of Il Rosso.
She manages not to stumble when her feet start moving, carrying her past the man and over to the back of the restaurant. The memories she has spent so long running from leak into her vision, blanketing reality with her past with a suffocating weight. Her heart is hammering erratically against her ribcage, a frantic tempo battering to escape.
But she moves. Striding between tables and phantom waiters, she moves as if she isn't desperately begging herself to stop and hide. She's only asking to lose herself deeper in her memories, only asking to relive and suffer all over again. But she keeps moving.
"To our anniversary. You'll love it."
"I will love it."
"Then smile."
Her back is painfully rigid, remembering the dinner and the dress and the sickening helplessness.
She had seen the bus hit, seen the body knocked through the air. But she hadn't checked.
The guilt nearly knocks the breath out of her, but it clears her vision and wipes the sounds of her memory from her ears.
"I can't imagine why he came to an Asian fusion restaurant to order classic Italian pasta-"
"Amatriciana," she mutters over him, and then the terror truly sets in.
She takes a shaking breath that doesn't fill her lungs as much as they need, and she finally gives in to the urge thrumming through her entire body. She turns and leaves the man calling out to her, but his words are fuzzy again and her head is spinning and all she can do is stumble into a jog to flee the building quicker.
The world is turning on its axis, the air around her thick and suffocating. She searches the street with eyes that can't focus and a vision that pulses and writhes. Her thoughts are scrambling and clawing, questions of how and where and what if battering around inside her skull in a deafening clamour. The terror is painful in its intensity, the guilt like bile at the back of her throat, acidic and poisonous.
What little control she had left on her mental state is slipping through her fingers.
"Birch Street. Higgins Drive."
Her words are muffled and pathetic even to her own ears. They don't make a dent in her panic in the slightest, and her concentration slips as she struggles to stay afloat in the carnage in her mind.
Phone someone. She should phone someone. But who? The cops? They won't believe her. Trish? Too raw. Tony? She'd have to tell him everything.
Her vision is still swimming and she can't make anything out on her phone anyway and her heart is about to hammer its way up her throat. There's a frenzied restlessness under her skin, paranoia turned terror turned near-hysteria.
"Shit," she hisses, in a gross understatement of the situation.
There's a ringing in her ears, steadily screeching louder and more insistent as she concedes to her body's desperate urge to move, striding along the sidewalk. The ringing reaches an agonising crescendo as the restlessness in her skin crackles, and she pushes into a run to try and escape the feeling, the wailing in her ears, the whispers tangled in her hair and skin and soul.
She sprints like her life depends on it - and it feels like it does. The ringing fades out but leaves a muffled deafness in its wake, the only noises piercing the barrier registering as her frantic, heaving breaths and the slap of her boots on the sidewalk. She shoulders her way through the crowds on the street without feeling the impact, weaves through the startled traffic without thought, bolting towards a destination she hasn't consciously planned.
She demands answers from the Shlottmans with a tenuous stability, somehow managing coherent questions when her mind is cycling through worst-case scenarios, managing to understand the answers even when she can't hear them over the memories echoing in her skull.
"He had a nice accent - English."
"You'd like to come home with me."
"I lost my mind or something - I told them to leave."
"I know you're happy here. Tell me you're happy."
She's running again. She doesn't remember leaving the Shlottmans' hotel, but she's back on the street and her arms are pumping at her sides, wind slicing at her skin and tearing at her hair. Her mantra is panting out of her dry throat, sticking on the roof of her mouth, choking at the back of her tongue.
By the time she reaches her apartment, shouldering through her door and barely taking the time to slam it behind her, the frenzied restlessness has calmed somewhat, her vision stabilising and clearing enough that she can actually read her phone screen.
Stark
I caught his face. J enhanced it.
Stark sent a photo
She knows the face waiting for her in the message. She remembers it as clearly as she can see her own reflected in the mirror.
Jessica swipes the notifications away and finds a different number. She moves around her apartment like a crazed hurricane, snatching up possessions and clothing and toiletries and jamming them all into her duffle bag as she dials the number. She doesn't have enough money to get as far away as she needs to go - the cash Thomas King gave her went to rent and whiskey and there isn't enough of it left to cover the ticket - but she does have the details for Hope's emergency card.
Maybe if Jessica flees the country, he'll leave Hope alone. This is all only happening for Jessica - she's sure of it, as much as it terrifies her.
Hope's card gets declined, and the panic flares in Jessica's chest again. The airport won't hold the ticket. She needs money in her own bank.
She dials the next number.
"Yes?" Hogarth answers.
"I need to get paid for the Spheeris job now," Jessica says bluntly. She doesn't have time.
"I put it through payroll. It takes a few days. You know that."
"Okay, then I need a loan."
"That's not how I conduct business. You will have to ask a friend."
"I don't have any goddamn friends," Jessica snaps.
She hangs up as soon as she hears Hogarth's scoff.
Friends. People who could transfer money to her fast. She knows two people who would have that kind of money on-hand and would be willing to give it to her - with an explanation. One she has pushed away and hurt and ignored, one she has tried and failed to keep at arm's-length.
She opens the messages Stark sent. Her expression twists pitifully with distress at the tiny, pixelated face peeking at her from just above the cut of the bottom of her screen. The image has been taken from a camera at a distance from him, but his features are agonisingly familiar and her stomach convulses at the sight. She almost doesn't manage to keep the bile down.
She lifts her phone to her ear, biting at her lip as the ringing starts. But what is she going to say to him? Hey, Stark, there's a guy after me who can make you do anything he wants by the power of his voice alone and he's already made me kill someone so I don't really want to stick around - can you give me money so I can run away? That'd just be asking Stark to take things into his own hands and he'd wind up doing something stupid that would lead to an absolute shitstorm of consequences.
Jessica hangs up. She knows if she leaves it like this, Stark will call her back, so she sends him a simple message in reply: "Please stop."
She goes into her contacts and her finger hovers over Trish's name, but her conscience pipes up again and considers the fact that her adoptive-sister probably deserves more than a desperate phone call if Jessica's about to flee the country and potentially live the rest of her life in hiding.
She snatches her jacket and a scarf from the floor and locks her apartment behind her, barely sparing a glance for the flimsy cardboard replacing her shattered window. In the time it takes her to stride down the hallway, Jessica endeavours to stuff every panicked thought deep into the shadows of her mind, imagining every footstep as a nail hammered into a box she desperately wants to keep closed. She tells herself this isn't any different from her usual process of boxing every trauma and upset away in the recesses of her mind, and prays her subconscious will believe the lie even if her heart doesn't.
The elevator is on her level - maybe the one thing in her favour today - and Malcolm catches the door just before it clangs shut. At least it's someone familiar; she isn't sure she'd be able to handle being trapped in an enclosed space with someone she doesn't know.
Malcolm clears his throat and slumps against the wall at her side, watching her with those half-lidded eyes. "You look bad."
She supposes they have that in common. "I need money." That, too.
"You can have my TV," he offers.
She realises he sounds more coherent than usual and looks up at his eyes, dazed but earnest. Maybe this is a glimpse of the Malcolm before the drugs - she thinks she's seen it a couple times now, and it's so sincere it hurts. Under the disorientation and lethargy, Malcolm has kindness and generosity, a desire to help. She's not the only person who has been warped and ruined into a mockery of who she used to be.
"Thanks, Malcolm. You keep it," she answers.
He's quiet for a beat. Then, "I stole it."
"I figured." The sentiment still counts.
Jessica takes a cab as far as the crumpled notes in her pocket can get her and then walks the rest of the way. There's a building low enough for her to summon her drained energy and use it as a stepping stone between the ground and Trish's balcony, so she finds a quiet alleyway and launches herself into the air to start the climb. Dread claws at her throat, anticipation crackling over her skin, but Trish is her only option.
Grace has never been in her vocabulary, but she still feels a little shame when she catches Trish's eyes through the glass as she hauls herself over the balcony wall. It's been a while since she was last here, longer still since she was here and happy. Maybe once it could have felt like home, but Jessica only lived here after she broke free and at that point she was already drowning in a guilt that seeped into everything and everyone around her. She was too far into the self-hatred and the general mindset of not deserving a single nice thing to appreciate where she was and who she was with. Trish had given her space after she left, but she always made sure Jessica knew she was still within reach.
The frustration of it all, and of Jessica showing up unannounced after a six-month absence and bitter phone calls, is plain to see on Trish's face. She sees her guests out and picks up a scarf before she opens the door to her balcony, lingering in the doorway with the handle in her grip.
"You could've used the door," Trish says.
"I wasn't sure you'd answer. It's important."
Trish's eyebrows quirk bitterly. "It must be."
Jessica had come here planning to tell Trish the truth. But Trish is angry with her, and she doesn't want to invalidate that by making her feel obligated to feel worried instead. It's also just more difficult than she thought it'd be to actually say the words out loud. So she says, "It's for a case," instead.
"Right," Trish mutters, eyes closing with irritation. She shifts on her feet as she takes a deep breath, and then lifts her eyes back up to meet Jessica's. "So, you're maintaining the pushing-me-away thing, then, and using me for.. what, exactly?"
"I need money," Jessica admits uncomfortably, the restlessness under her skin starting to buzz again.
Trish scoffs and leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "Wow. Way to fix the damage," she says quietly, her voice solid in a way that Jessica recognises as concealing hurt. "Don't you have a billionaire for a friend, now?"
"He's not my friend," Jessica frowns.
"Last I checked, you didn't want me to be, either," Trish retorts. "You shut me out. You told me to back off of your shit. And now you show up here asking for money? When you could easily get it from someone else?" She pauses, her expression softening from annoyed confusion to something more vulnerable. "Why even come here, Jess?"
The restlessness under Jessica's skin crackles again and she shakes her head, turning away. "You're right. This was a bad idea." She'll have to try her luck with Stark.
"No, you talk to me!" Trish snaps. "You tell me what the hell is so important that you had to come to me to get the money before you even attempted to repair the shit between us."
There's anger in her voice, exasperation at a level that makes shame swirl in Jessica's stomach; but there's also a hopelessness that hits Jessica like a punch in the gut. She recognises that kind of hopelessness, born out of love for someone and an inability to help them because they don't want to be helped. That hopelessness has coated her voice before, when she pleaded and bargained with Trish to try and steer her away from drugs. She remembers the frustration and anger, the temptation to say "screw it" and leave her to her own self-destructive devices - and she remembers feeling unable to abandon her sister.
Jessica turns away from the balcony and faces Trish again, summoning all of the courage she has. "He's back."
She's pretty sure you're supposed to feel some kind of relief when you voice something that's been weighing on you for weeks; but all it does is make everything feel more real than it already did. It makes her blood run cold, the whispers hissing mockingly in her ears. The box barely-containing her terror rattles threateningly.
And Trish responds with pity. "It's been a year, Jess. You saw him die. You saw his death certificate. This is just your PTSD-"
"It is not my goddamn PTSD!" Jessica counters wildly, anger blazing in her chest. It's almost impressive how quickly she has gone from denial to vehement belief.
"Are you still having nightmares? Flashbacks?" Trish asks patiently. She understands the affirmation in Jessica's silence and sighs. "You need to go back to that therapist."
"That quack that had me reciting street names from back home?"
"A proven method for managing PTSD."
Their voices start to overlap, the familiarity of the argument allowing them to anticipate the other's responses.
"Two hundred bucks for 'Birch Street, Cobalt Lane, Bullshit Drive!'"
"I told you I'd pay for it."
"Jesus christ, Trish!" Jessica cuts in desperately, her expression twisting. "He's back." Trish pauses long enough for Jessica to justify her assertion. "He sent clients to me, a guy wanting dirt on Stark, and this couple from Omaha. He took their daughter. Stark sent me footage of him with the first client!" she snaps, her volume climbing again at the reminder of the image of him in her phone, recent and absolutely not dead.
Trish's expression sombered through Jessica's explanation, and the wheels are clearly turning behind her eyes now even as she speaks softly to calm Jessica down. "Okay, Jess. Alright. The girl - why her? Is she gifted?"
Jessica doesn't have time to feel relieved that Trish believes her. "A gifted athlete, maybe. Next best thing? I dunno. But remember I told you he had that one month anniversary night? And now one month from the day he took Hope, he's doing-" Jessica has to coax the words, the memories, the truth out of her throat again, "-the lingerie, the gift, the restaurant."
"The hotel?" Trish asks. Jessica doesn't know how to tell her that she was too scared to check. Trish at least shares that fear, but she frowns and shakes her head once. "What about this guy looking for dirt on Stark?"
"Thomas King. He came by my office twice, didn't take the bait we gave him. He made King kill himself."
Trish's scoff is born this time from fear, from feeling out of her depth and worried for Jessica. "I'm calling the police," she says, turning to go back inside.
"They can't help, Trish," Jessica insists, lurching forward to grab Trish's arm and stop her. "They questioned me about King before they ruled it as a suicide. They'd never believe the truth."
Trish is silent as she watches her, her eyebrows twisted expectantly. She's waiting to hear Jessica's plan B, waiting for a solution, waiting for a hero.
"You know what he can do. You know what he made me do," Jessica says quietly, a twinge of desperation in her words.
"So, you're running." The disappointment is palpable.
"Yeah, I sure as hell am. If he gets a hold of me again.." Jessica retorts, trailing off as a fresh wave of what ifs hit her in the chest. She's terrified of what he can make her do, but she's also plain terrified of losing herself like that again - she can't put herself through it another time. She knows she wouldn't survive. "Trish," she breathes, almost-pleadingly.
"If you leave that girl with him-"
"What would you have me do? What exactly should I do?" Jessica demands loudly, anger flaring again.
"We'll figure out a way to protect you-" Trish insists. She sounds dangerously naive.
"We? He's coming for me, not you."
"I know!"
Jessica shakes her head. "You don't." Because Trish doesn't know. She doesn't know what it feels like to be used like Jessica was. To be violated at such an intimate, unreachable level. To be so nauseatingly defiled and not even be able to fight back, physically or verbally - to be forced to say and do things that went against everything she was. To be used as a weapon.
Maybe Trish sees and understands, but she doesn't know. She doesn't realise that Jessica can't come back from that and be good.
But she continues, regardless, and Jessica has to turn away from the hope in her eyes. The faith. "I know one thing: you are far better equipped to deal with that animal than some innocent girl from Omaha. You helped the Avengers fight off an alien army, Jess, I'm sure if you asked-"
Jessica whirls around again, her expression twisted incredulously. "I told you we're not friends!" she snaps. "Even if we were, can you even imagine the horrors he could make them do? If he told the Hulk to go decimate a children's hospital? There's no fighting this."
"You're still the person who tried to do something," Trish says quietly, her eyes shining and slowly reddening. After everything Jessica has done, everything she's said, Trish still believes.
And it threatens to tear Jessica apart at the seams. "Tried and failed," she counters, unwavering. "That's what started this. I was never the hero that you wanted me to be."
Trish gives her a look of exhausted disbelief like she thinks Jessica is being a coward, claiming she has never once deserved the faith Trish bestowed upon her. Like she thinks Jessica is taking the easy way out in not only giving up, but denouncing all the potential she might have had at a stage in her life far enough from the trauma of her family's death and not yet touched by the trauma of him. Like she's disappointed that Jessica has pinned the blame of unattainable pedestals and the responsibility for not achieving said-pedestal on Trish as a way to escape the truth. Like she thinks Jessica is letting the both of them down by refusing to try again, and by invalidating everything she had managed to do before.
Or maybe Trish is just giving her the look of a person let down by their personal hero upon meeting them in real life and realising they're actually as shitty as everyone else, and maybe Jessica is just projecting her own subconscious self-analysis onto Trish.
Either way, Trish mutters, "I'll get your money," and turns to walk into her apartment.
And Jessica tries to batter the conversation and the fresh onslaught of guilt and shame into another box in the shadowed depths of her mind. But the boxes are all overflowing already, and there isn't enough space for a new one.
xXx
Knocking Hope out had been a mercy. For the both of them.
The noise of the young woman's desperate, feral screams had hit too close to home. Jessica knew the enraged anguish Hope had been suffering, knew that she'd rather harm herself and everyone around her than defy the commands he gave. At least unconscious, Hope would be saved from experiencing that any longer as she slept out the remaining time his commands had effect. And it meant that Jessica could stop hearing the echoes of her own mind screaming and screaming and screaming to be freed.
She had thought returning to the restaurant was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to the hotel. The recognition from the staff, the memories guiding her into the elevator, to the right floor, to the right room. Even the smell of him clinging to the air, stale and acrid wrapped up in an expensive cologne. She had tried to tell herself that at least she knew what was waiting for her this time, but the issue was that she knew what was waiting for her. The terror had been like a physical force coiling around her from behind, twisting over her arms and legs and around her neck, pulling her back and away from the scene that would be so horrifyingly familiar. She only managed to go inside and find Hope by fanning the flames of her anger, her vengeance, and letting it burn the terror to ashes in her throat.
But he hadn't been there. Hope said he'd been gone for five hours.
Jessica taps the corner of her phone against her palm as she looks over at the unconscious girl, slumped on the couch in her jacket, her feet bare. She doesn't want to jinx it, doesn't want to bring any bad voodoo or whatever on herself or Hope; but it feels surreal that the girl is minutes from being whisked away by her parents to somewhere safe. It feels surreal that once they collect Hope, Jessica will be able to leave the country without feeling guilty about knowingly abandoning another victim. It feels surreal that in the space of one day, Jessica has discovered his survival, located his latest victim, and rescued them without incident. It feels surreal that Hope was able to use her own card to make purchases, which Jessica was piss-easily able to track, at places that would without-a-doubt show Jessica exactly what she was dealing with.
He had kidnapped Hope. He had sent the Shlottmans to Jessica. He had let, or told, Hope to use her own card when making the same purchases he'd had Jessica make. It had all been so orchestrated, so intentional. Jessica had followed the breadcrumbs to the hotel, and Hope had been trapped there, alone, for hours. If he had left the breadcrumbs for her, then he'd left Hope, too. The girl had been commanded to stay, to wait for Jessica to find and rescue her.
Unless his near-death experience knocked a few screws loose, Jessica knows that he wouldn't have put all of this in motion if he didn't have the plan thought-out from start to finish. He had meant for her to rescue Hope. This was all part of his plan. The question, now, is whether his plan stops here, or if there's something else waiting to ambush her.
She is certain now that he was behind the shit with Thomas King, and Thomas King died. Had that just been because Jessica broke the rules of a game she hadn't realised she was playing? Because she confronted King after he was turned away from the pursuit of finding dirt on Stark? Maybe he only died because the job was supposed to be done - maybe because Hope had been targeted instead - and Jessica went back to it against the plan. Or maybe King dying had always been part of the plan, because it had been the final whisper of a threat, the final fear of his involvement, and maybe he'd just been building up to the shit with Hope. Maybe something else is coming, with a new victim at the centre of the plan, and each plan is just going to get steadily worse and worse for Jessica and her fragile mental state.
If King died because Jessica went back to a plan that was already complete, then maybe she can prevent something similar from happening again by letting the Shlottmans walk out of her door and leaving it at that. If this was his plan, simply revealing his survival through a kidnapping that mirrored her own, then Hope returning to her family is surely the end of the plan. Maybe if Jessica tries to escort them, to protect them, or to encourage them to take him down via cops and the law, then he'll have Hope killed. She should forget them as soon as they walk out of her door.
But she's conflicted. Because if King's death had always been part of the plan, then there might be death in this plan, too. Hope's death, presumably. Maybe it makes sense - Hope's kidnapping matched a lot of Jessica's own, forcing Jessica to empathise with her, only to lose her in the end. Punishment, for leaving him for dead. In which case she should absolutely not let Hope out of her sight.
Jessica sighs quietly to herself and lifts her free hand to rub at her temple, trying to soothe the sharp pain in her skull brought on by the day's events and her current indecision. Her phone buzzes in her other hand and she flips it over to look at the screen, reading the notification.
Stark
What aren't you telling me, Jones?
If she leaves the country, will Stark continue digging into the King situation to figure it out for himself? Would he track her down, follow her, no matter where she went just so that he could get some answers? Would he come to her office and knock on the door, realise she'd abandoned the apartment, and turn to Trish when he couldn't get a hold of her? Would he lose himself in his suits and his technology and not surface again even to lure someone else into watching some film from the 70s?
Jessica's headache flares angrily and her face scrunches. Confusion, desperation, and fear clash with each other in her chest. Her skin crawls with paranoia and restlessness. Sitting here waiting is proving incredibly bad for her mental stability, she decides.
Hope is woken by the noises of Jessica moving around her apartment to finish packing her things. The girl is calmer, at least - no longer thrashing and screeching in an attempt to follow the order he gave her. Maybe knocking her out had more benefits than Jessica first thought.
"His control, whatever it is, it wears off," Jessica tells her. She's gone back to packing after she got the girl some clothes to wear under her coat. Looking at Hope for too long gives her a soul-crushing sense of dejavu, so she's focused herself on shoving as much of her shit as she can into her duffle bag. "But it takes time and distance, so we're both getting out of here."
Hope is sat up on the couch now, clutching her bag to her stomach as she rocks back and forth. The tears had started as soon as she'd realised where she was and what it meant, and they don't look like they're about to stop any time soon. Jessica can't exactly blame her.
"He made me do things that.. I didn't wanna do, but.. I wanted to," the girl says haltingly, sniffling.
Jessica looks at Hope and sees herself, struggling to explain it all to Trish and hoping desperately for her to hear and understand and believe. Because it sounded so impossible, so ridiculous, and she knows firsthand how hard it is to come to terms with it. At least Jessica had powers of her own that can't be explained, at least she was familiar with the concept; Hope doesn't have that. She's just a normal girl with a talent for sports who got stolen and trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense and everything is miserable. She has never had to rationalise impossible things before.
Hope's rocking becomes a little more erratic and she sniffs loudly, letting out a distressed noise. Jessica grits her teeth and crouches at the girl's side, ignoring the whispers on her neck that mock and taunt and ridicule her.
As much as she talked shit about that therapist Trish sent her to, Jessica can't deny the one method that has been effective in grounding her during a bad spell. "What street did you live on as a kid?" she asks, because she knows Hope's family are close and she doesn't know enough about sports to offer a mantra specific to that instead. "What was the name? Picture the sign."
For a moment, she thinks Hope will react the same way she did when the therapist first asked - lash out about what the hell relevance that had to anything - but the girl takes a breath and visibly searches her memory. "Harrison? Harrison Street," she answers.
"And the next block over?"
"Florence," she says, and Jessica can see it in her face when Hope realises the activity has calmed her. She takes a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing a little, and her eyes focus attentively on Jessica.
"You want to break his leg. Go on, then," the whispers echo.
"Listen to me," Jessica says, her voice soft in an attempt to connect with and reassure Hope, striving to ignore the memories that seek to undo all the progress she's made since she was the one feeling like her entire worldview and sense of self was crumbling to dust in her hands. "None of it is your fault."
"You don't know," Hope shakes her head, her voice hollow and haunted, a perfect echo of Jessica's words to Trish.
"I know," Jessica replies, and she feels more drained than she ever has in her entire life. "Okay? I know."
Hope's expression changes from a gentle shock, to a quiet awe, a flash of relief, and settles on something upset and pitying and empathetic.
"Take care of her," the whispers recite.
"I want you to say it," Jessica tells her. "'None of it is my fault'. Say it back to me."
Hope sniffs. "It's not my.." she trails off, her face crumpling. She makes several attempts at steadying breaths, sniffing again. "It's-" she tries weakly. Jessica can feel her heart twisting painfully in her chest, but then Hope meets her gaze resolutely. "It's not my fault," she says, as firmly as she can.
Something warm and light floods Jessica's body. Hope did better than she did anyway, and the girl's years younger than she was. "Good. That was good," she smiles up at her.
Maybe he will leave Hope alone, now. He's effectively won Jessica's attention - there's no way she can ignore his survival after this and that's clearly what he wants. Now that the job's done, he has no more use for Hope. Unlike Jessica, there's nothing criminal that Hope has done to get tangled up with the law, so the Shlottmans can just leave New York and take care of their daughter far away from him. There's no prosecuting someone with that kind of power, so the only option for them is to leave, which means they'll be safe. If he follows anyone, it'll be Jessica, not Hope.
As if summoned by Jessica's train of thought, her door bangs open and Hope's parents rush in.
"My little girl," Bob says, his voice rigid with contained emotion.
"Oh, thank god. Thank god," Barbara cries.
Hope runs into their embrace. "It's not my fault!"
"I know, sweetheart."
Jessica's hands rub together awkwardly. She's not had a case this close to the attempt at hero shit she'd stumbled through over a year ago, and it invites a tainted sense of nostalgia that she isn't exactly crazy about. "She'll be okay," she tries to assure the Shlottmans. "You just have to keep her away from the man who took her."
Bob looks at her sharply. "Took her?" he repeats.
Jessica knows she needs to steer him away from the anger. "He.. escaped," she says, deciding against focusing the conversation on him. "And right now your only concern is putting Hope in a car and driving west, and don't stop until you hit Omaha."
Barbara pulls away from Hope to join the conversation. "We're taking our baby home," she assures firmly. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Miss Jones," Bob parrots earnestly.
Jessica dismisses them awkwardly. "It's fine," she murmurs.
Hope hesitates behind her parents when they move to leave, and she turns to look at Jessica with such a vulnerable expression it'd break her heart if it was whole to begin with. The girl moves towards her quickly, wrapping her arms around Jessica's shoulders in a tight embrace. Her head tucks in against Jessica's and she speaks quietly to her, gratitude exuding from every word.
"You saved my life."
It's been roughly six months, maybe more, since Jessica was last hugged. Longer since the hug meant something other than sympathy or an attempt to comfort her. Hope is anything but hesitant in her effort to convey her appreciation, reaching out and wrapping around Jessica as if this isn't something far beyond what Jessica deserves. She thinks of Reva, and the feeling of the woman's ribs snapping under her knuckles, and she worries that the darkness in her will reach out and coil around Hope's warmth.
"You're still the person who tried to do something."
Jessica isn't strong enough to not take this moment. Just for once, she lets Hope's words and sentiment wash over her and shine some light into the darkness, momentarily chasing away the whispers. She remembers Trish's excitement when Jessica finally gave the hero thing a try, the ecstatic praise she'd laugh out when Jessica regaled her with stories. Maybe she can tell Trish about this one, too.
But she still can't look at Hope for too long - it's like looking at the sun.
"Go," she laughs uncomfortably, urging Hope to follow her parents. "I'm right behind you."
And she watches the family leave. There's another gut-twisting moment of indecision, then, about whether Jessica should stay at their sides until she knows for certain they've escaped, or if it's safest for them if she leaves them alone, now. Maybe he'll be back at the hotel, or sitting at his table in what used to be Il Rosso, waiting for her to show up now that she has proof of his survival. Maybe they'll all have escaped before he realises she's not going to give him what he wants.
Jessica turns and grabs her jacket, threading her arms through the sleeves. She wraps her scarf around her neck and pulls the straps of her bags over her shoulders. She hasn't exactly lived in this apartment long - not as long as the one that was destroyed in the Incident - but it somehow feels more significant to her than the last one. She can remember sitting at her desk, Malcolm hovering at her side. She can remember storming through the rooms, snapping down the phone at Trish to ward off another attempt at caring. She can remember sharing a container of waffles with Tony Stark, perched on the corner of her desk.
She backs out of the apartment slowly, considering the achievement, at least, of creating and running her own business for a short while. Alias Investigations. Carrying on the name of another lost life. Taking something tragic and honouring it the only way she knew how. There might be a shred of pride in her last look, some kind of satisfaction, but it tastes bitter in the back of her throat and turns to ashes on her tongue.
Because it's just another life ruined by him.
The Shlottmans may be safe now, may be escaping his clutches, but they'll never escape the memories and the trauma. It'll linger there in the back of their minds, haunting their steps, until they get too old to remember anything anymore - and even then it'll be an indefinable shadow on their soul, unexplained and unknowable. And now it's happened to Jessica a second time.
The paranoia is going to follow her no matter where she goes. Maybe it's not going to be much of a life for her, after this.
But she can see Hope, smiling up at her parents, and she thinks that maybe there's a life still there for the girl to enjoy. And maybe that's all that matters.
Hope turns to look down the hallway and the smile drops from her face. Her expression goes slack, her eyes hollow, and Jessica realises the other about it all. Because the face looking back at her is not Hope, not really. She remembers seeing that same expression on her own face in the reflection of passing windows, in mirrors when he made her look at them together.
And just before the door slides across Jessica's view of the elevator, she sees Hope pull a gun from her bag.
"No!" Jessica yells, bursting into a sprint.
She can hear their screams. The echoing, piercing crack of a gunshot.
Her fingers scrabble around the edge of the door and pull it open, but the elevator has already begun its descent. Her heart is hammering in her ears, battering against her ribcage again.
The gunshots keep coming. Jessica throws herself through the door to the stairwell and bolts down the flights of stairs, the world slowly tilting on its axis again. It had been a choice between staying with them and risking his wrath, or letting them go and risking an unknown step in his plan.
Jessica chose wrong.
She soars down the stairs faster than she can process, but when she bursts into the lobby everything seems to slow down. The air turns to sludge and she wades through it to the best of her ability, her blood searing through her veins like ice. Her heartbeat is suddenly lethargic and delayed, and she heaves in a breath that seems to last for minutes, hissing and shaking like a wild animal in a frenzied panic.
She rips open the door to the elevator and Bob Shlottman slumps to the floor at her feet, dead-eyed and covered in blood. Barbara is against the wall, crimson seeped into her white shirt.
"Thank you, Miss Jones."
Hope is stood above them, uselessly pulling the trigger again and again despite the empty clicking noise. The ringing in Jessica's ears starts to screech again and her stomach lurches when Hope's gaze flicks to Jessica. There's blood in her blonde hair, an emptiness in her eyes, and her lips quirk in the most disturbing mockery of a smile Jessica's ever seen.
"Smile," Hope says encouragingly.
Jessica's eyes sting. The churning in her stomach starts to crawl up to her throat and she backs away from the elevator, shock and guilt and horror writhing under her skin. Hope's face starts to somber again, her head twisting as she looks down at her murdered parents. Jessica turns away when the girl starts to sink to her knees, but she can't block out the desperate, horrified, anguished screams.
Reva Connors. Thomas King. Bob Shlottman. Barbara Shlottman. All dead, because of her. Luke left widowed, Hope's life ruined, because of Jessica.
She stumbles to the wall and slaps a hand against it to try and keep herself upright, but her head is spinning - or maybe it's the world spinning around her - and she feels like she's about to fall into a whirling, churning, black hole of utter despair. Bile surges up her throat and she vomits onto the floor, coughing and spitting and groaning hopelessly. Hope's agonised wails echo through the lobby and add to the screeching in Jessica's ears. There are people, now, crowding around to see what's happened and then stumbling away in horror upon realising, and the exposed consequences of Jessica's failures prove almost too much to bear.
But then she hears someone say, "She killed them," and she squeezes her eyes shut, her expression twisting desperately.
The restlessness under her skin, the frenzied urge to run and run and run, suddenly channels into a red-hot anger. The boxes poorly-containing her pent-up paranoia and trauma, her horror from the full day's revelations, up-end on top of the burning inferno and it writhes hotter and wilder in her chest, spreading through her entire body.
Reva Connors. Thomas King. Bob and Barbara Shlottman. Luke Cage. Hope Shlottman.
"You saved my life."
The girl will go to prison for the murder of her parents. Jessica can't leave her to that fate. There's only one person on Earth who can provide evidence to prove her innocence.
Reva Connors. Thomas King. Bob and Barbara Shlottman. Luke Cage. Hope Shlottman.
If Jessica leaves now, the list will only grow. What is she going to do, let him add new names without even trying to prevent it? Who will she add next? Malcolm Ducasse? Trish Walker? Tony Stark?
Reva Connors. Thomas King. Bob and Barbara Shlottman. Luke Cage. Hope Shlottman.
He thinks he's untouchable. He thinks he can just keep destroying people's lives and avoid any semblance of a consequence. He thinks he'll be able to manipulate Jessica back into his control by making her feel helpless, and then use her again the way he had done before.
Jessica opens her eyes and finds the world perfectly level. Her mind is clear and sharp, her vision focused. The screeching in her ears has quietened and the hammering of her heart has settled.
She's done with feeling weak and useless. She's done with being too late and not enough. She's so fucking done with him doing whatever the fuck he wants and avoiding any and all ramifications for obliterating people's lives. She's done with being a victim.
It's time to make him pay. It's time to set things right.
It's time to fucking fight back against Kilgrave.
xXx
Shit has officially hit the fan! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. The next one will have more original content and more Tony! Yay!
Onto review replies:
kenriot1214: I'm glad you're still enjoying! Thank you for reading and taking the time to review :)
Hearteyesmf: Sorry there was a lot less Tony/Jessica content this chapter and more canon stuff - I hope you still enjoyed! I promise next chapter we'll get more of that juicy dynamic. I know, I enjoy what I've seen of Luke and Jessica's relationship in the comments, and I did really like their dynamic; but the whole Reva thing just makes things so morbid and grim.. definitely complicates it, to say the least lmao. Yes, Tony and Jessica definitely need that strong foundation to enjoy anything successful! Hopefully I'm doing a decent job of building that up in the readers' eyes. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, it really means a lot!
EmyEnna: Honestly, as long as it's feedback, repeat yourself all you want, bro! It's seriously uplifting and motivating to hear that you continue to enjoy the tension. I really hope that I did the climactic revelation in this chapter justice and didn't make it flop after that tension-building! I'm glad you appreciated my choice to cover the Luke/Jess thing - it's definitely a bad, bad thing that she does, sleeping with him, and I know that those kind of flaws are so important in this characterisation of her so I didn't want to miss it out; but, at the same time, writing her thought process just made it feel like this could only be a one-time thing. I'm not sure how I could make her justify doing it again without making her repeat the exact same thought process, y'know? Anyway, in this rendition of season 1, there will be other ways for her to relieve tension and an extra force to ground her! Sorry there was less Tony content in this chapter (and no Tony POV), but I have things in store for the next chapter! We'll maybe get to see his side of things, why he couldn't leave it alone etc., so fingers crossed you'll enjoy that. I hope you liked this chapter anyway and thank you for taking the time to engage with this story so much, it's honestly so motivating for me and means so much!
Thanks again to those who reviewed, favourited, and followed! Feedback is super-duper helpful for me and really inspires me when I'm writing, so please don't be shy! Hope you guys are all safe and well and fingers crossed we escape this lockdown soon x