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Anthony stepped up to the screen, back to the crowd, watching the endless clips roll by.
"If we don't find them, if we don't put them under the spotlight…"
"That silver kid might rob a bank. That self-healing psycho could turn into a hitman."
"And now…" Anthony turned, arms spread as if embracing the coming storm, "they're on my show, bound by my rules."
"In this game, only the rule-followers climb the ladder."
"It's called… 'Entertainment Conscription'."
Tony Stark studied Anthony, eyes unreadable. He lifted the bottle and refilled the glass.
"But here's a warning, Anthony."
Tony's gaze sharpened.
"When you stare into the abyss, it stares back. You'd better keep this crew on a leash."
"If they ever go rogue," Tony pointed to himself, then to Steve, "we'll come for you—friends or not."
Anthony raised his glass toward Tony.
"I look forward to that day, Tony. But it… will never come."
…The party raged until two a.m.
Pepper helped a tipsy Tony to his room.
Steve said a polite goodbye and rode his Harley into the wind-driven snow.
Anthony had his driver take them back to Jessica's place.
Jessica stood at the door, eyeing the still-bright street.
"I've got to go," she said.
"Training tomorrow."
"No rush."
Anthony moved beside her and handed her something.
A small gift box.
Jessica blinked. "What's this?"
"Open it."
Suspicious, she took the box and lifted the lid.
A key lay inside.
A plain brass key on a logo-less leather fob.
"Meaning?"
"A brownstone in Brooklyn," Anthony said quietly, eyes on the window.
"Top floor, roof deck. Great view of the bridge."
"And… close to where you grew up, but brand-new."
"I can't—"
"Don't refuse yet." Anthony cut in.
"This isn't a boss-to-employee perk."
He turned, meeting her gaze.
"Your dump has one mattress and a sea of bottles. That's not a home, Jessica. That's a bunker."
"You need somewhere you can sleep. Windows, sunlight, no mildew."
"Think of it as… funding for your indie film. Queen Jones can't live in a dump—paparazzi shots kill box office."
Jessica fingered the key.
Its edges dug into her palm, yet felt solid—real.
She wanted to snarl, to say she didn't need charity, that she could buy her own place.
But looking into those casually caring eyes, the words jammed in her throat.
Tonight's party, the orphan talk, the eggnog warmth, this key—her once-iron heart felt wrapped in cotton.
"…What's the rent?" was all she managed.
Anthony smiled.
"Deducted from your appearance fee. Relax, you're high-income; you can afford it."
"Hmph."
Jessica pocketed the key, fingers tight around it.
"Thanks… boss."
She walked to her door; it was almost shut when—
"Hey, Jessica."
Anthony called after her.
She glanced back, a flicker of hope in her eyes.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
Jessica's mouth curved—an effortless smile.
"Merry Christmas, Anthony."
The door closed.
Anthony stood alone in the empty street.
System alert!
Ding! +20 000 Special Popularity (from Jessica Jones)
Current Special Popularity: 59 500
"Heh! Perfect! Jessica's a real treasure." Anthony's grin turned wicked… Far above, an invisible Quinjet hovered in the clouds.
Nick Fury lowered his telescope, single eye dark as he watched the heated sign-ups.
"Sir, applicants just broke one-hundred-fifty thousand," Hill's voice crackled.
"At least a hundred of them are bona-fide Supes."
"He's building an army," Fury muttered, stowing the scope.
"We have to move faster."
Fury glanced at the ever-climbing number on the screen.
"Initiate Avengers expansion protocol."
"We need more bodies. If he wants a numbers war…"
"…then we'll give him one."
…January in New York smells of wet rust.
Half-melted snow, exhaust fumes, and sour trash turn the streets into black sludge.
For most New Yorkers, it's the bleakest season.
For the newly-minted "Queen Jones," it's just another backdrop in her hellish schedule.
Six a.m.: damned alarm. Six-thirty: Vought Elite Training Center.
"Listen up, Queen. For the next month your calendar's tighter than the President's."
Ashley shoved a tablet at Jessica, words rapid-fire: "Mon-Wed-Fri: combat training a.m., media class p.m. Tue-Thu: joint ops with NYPD ESU and FBI hunting Supe crime. Saturday: fan meet. Sunday—half-day off, courtesy of Mr. Homelander, for spa and skin care."
"I don't need skin care, I need sleep," Jessica muttered, tossing the tablet back… Vought International, R&D Department.
"Looks like theater props."
Jessica Jones eyed the silver-white vambraces on her forearms under the lights.
Feather-light, forged from a special titanium alloy, their surface bore flowing honeycomb grooves while memory-gel lined the inner skin.
"Mind your words, Queen."
Anthony leaned against the rack, espresso in hand, skimming data on a tablet. "This is your signature gear."
He stepped forward and tapped her forearm.
Clack—!
The brace sensed the micro-current of her muscle.
A crisp mechanical bite rang out as the vambrace unfolded and re-shaped.
Countless tiny scales snapped alive, interlocking across Jessica's body in a flash.