Superheroes Jessica Jones Never Met
Fandom: Alias (comic)
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, never were, not trying to make any money.
Summary: Miss Jessica Jones and a parcel of lady superheroes that never quite came into her orbit. (Crossovers with Battlestar Galactica, Buffy, Big Love, Popular, The Shield)
1. The Astonishing TILF
It’s always the weird ones I end up babysitting for the Avengers. This time, it’s some ALIEN woman, like, mom-aged alien human, who’s got Wanda Maximoff’s powers and then some.
Genetically altered — some freak-o shot her up with hybridized baby blood — but that saved her life. Cuz unlike the Scarlet Witch, the price of using her powers, even as unconsciously and beneficially as she did, was goddamn breast cancer. Right over her heart, her tit rotting off and killing her…
…I couldn’t have dealt with it.
She’s pretty sanguine. The Avengers are freaking their shit out because they don’t know if she’s a mutant or a superhero or what or if superhero tit cancer is catching.
Though apparently not everyone is freaking their shit out about a superhero cancer epidemic because Carol swears up and down that the Captain fucked her sideways and she’s fucking with him by refusing to answer his phone calls.
“I hate this,” she says, leaning her head back against S.H.I.E.L.D.’s plate-glass observation windows. If I didn’t know better, I’d bet she was doing it to tell Fury and co to fuck off, leaving a nice smudge on their pristine environment. “It’s worse than the cancer, this whole waiting to be told, hey, congratulations, you’re the newest defender of Earth. Sorry about that whole fiftysomething superhero bit.”
“Maybe you can be The Amazing MILF,” I answer without thinking. Because it’s not like I’m wrong.
“I’m not a MILF,” she points out. “No kids. I could be The Astonishing TILF, thanks to the whole teacher gig, but I don’t know if that would work, either.”
“Mrs. Captain America?”
“I’m revising reality so that statement was never uttered,” she says with a smile. Like I said, I like the freaky alien MILF — she’s pretty low-key about the hell we’re putting her through.
“Who said I’m having an affair with Steve, anyway? Was it Carol Danvers?” she asks after a long silence. “Speaking of rumors swirling around…what about you and Carol, Miss Jones?”
The Astonishing TILF is pretty fucking good when it comes to the element of surprise and the cheerful smirk of superiority. Whether or not she’s as hardcore as the Scarlet Witch, powers-wise, she’s at least got that working for her.
“You’re Jessica Jones,” the girl says, holding a bottle of rum. That’s how I know she’s not quite ready to hit bottom yet. Rum — even the dark, pure Jamaican swill she’s wielding like a pro — is not the way to drink yourself to death. It’s a masochistic kind of alcoholism; she’s gotta be fucking ready to kill with the hangovers.
“Yeah, and you’re the Worldwalker,” I say.
“We’re using pseuds? Shit, Jewel, had I known that, I would have busted out the costume,” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. The photos I have of her are all with long hair, but I remember that her file mentions she buzzed it.
“I don’t know you well enough to use your name,” I say. I should have known this one wasn’t a formalist; we can smell our own, and she’s got a whole dead town on her head. No way she wants to go capes-and-titles.
“Fuck that,” she says. “Call me Dawn or get the hell out of my apartment.”
I can be patient with her. I know her backstory. She’s living with a vampire and a seer, her sister was a pro vampire slayer who took a leap into pure energy to save Dawn from a fate worse than death, and she’s a nasty drunk for someone who just turned nineteen.
Dawn Summers is like looking into a dark mirror, and what I see is breaking my heart and turning my stomach.
“I’m sorry, Dawn,” I say. “This shit is always awkward. I don’t fucking know what to say, even.”
“Angel likes ‘it’s not your fault, and nobody blames you,'” she says dryly.
“And the forty thousand dead people in Sunnydale you’ve got sitting over your head are clearly appeased by that Hallmark-card bullshit mantra,” I reply. Dawn shrugs.
“It makes him feel better,” she says. “He almost doesn’t blame me anymore.”
“Good for him,” I say. “So you know why I’m here, right?”
“Because I can go be a superhero in New York. Just what Mom always wanted me to do someday, but with less costuming and more full scholarships to Columbia in art history,” Dawn answers, taking a long pull from her bottle. “Tell whoever sent you to fuck the fuck off, Jessica Jones. Just because you have your dark past doesn’t mean we’re going to bond, and I’m not moving to fucking New York to get bossed around by a whole new set of do-gooders.”
“So move to Long Island,” I say. “Nobody cares, but you’re not making anyone any less dead by hanging out here and pretending you want to die.”
Dawn snarls, shoving her hair out of her face against and sticking a hand on her hip. “Pretending? I’m a lot of things, including not on a first-name basis with sane anymore, but I’m not pretending.”
I take the bottle of rum away from her, and pretend it’s not hard to drop it and let all that booze go to waste.
“Nobody drinks themselves to death on rum,” I say, looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry they’re dead. It fucking sucks. Stop acting like it’s a free pass to be a bitch forever.”
She turns her back on me. Like I said, Dawn hasn’t hit bottom yet, and until she does, nothing the Avengers or anyone can or will say will get through.
I hope that she’s alive when she’s ready, but if she’s not, she won’t be the first hero to live fast, die young, and leave a mangled corpse because everything else was just too damn hard.
“Vodka will get you there faster,” is what I say right before I close the door. “If that’s what you really want…Worldwalker.”
Something hits the door hard right after I close it.
I give her about six months before she’s dead or listening. Maybe both.
Fucking waste, man.
So whoever thought my private eye skills and status were a good mix with Utah Mormons is getting my boot so far up his ass. Steve could have talked to these people. Steve could have awed these people into letting him in and telling him all about the superheroine in their midst.
Instead, I am drinking hot cocoa with a blonde woman wearing a long-ass French braid who the entire neighborhood is pretty sure is a polygamist.
I know she’s a polygamist; what I’m trying to find out is if she’s the world’s first polygamous superhero.
Thank you SO MUCH, Steve.
Nicollette Grant. Her father is Roman Grant — yes, that Roman Grant, the one who claims if two consenting adult men want to get married, it’s perfectly natural for him to marry a thirteen-year-old girl. After all, he only has eighteen other wives, thirty-nine children, and a hundred plus grandkids.
That’s all God’s divine plan. Meanwhile, Wiccan and Hulkling can’t go out in public without being told they’re the reason America is going to hell in a handbasket.
“It’s a lifestyle,” she says. “You’re proof that you can choose not to do it, aren’t you?”
“I can choose not to wear a costume, I can choose not to use the names Jewel or Knightress, I can tell people I don’t do the world-saving stuff anymore, but it doesn’t make me not a super,” I reply. I can’t believe she’s using the ex-gay script on me. Maybe that’s why everyone knows who I am — racist anti-mutant pieces of shit use me as ‘proof’ that it’s ‘only a lifestyle’ choice. “It’s not like they make you choose a super-identity.”
“And yet,” Nicki answers. “How many of you don the cape and flaunt your unnatural, usually ill-gotten, sinful abilities? It’s an offense against God, Miss Jones.”
If I could, I would reach across the table and choke this bitch. Not to death, just enough so that she stopped patronizing me with the offense to God crap.
“So helping people offends God, but your dad’s fourteen-year-old pre-wife is fine and dandy?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s all kinds of fu–fugged up, Miss Grant.”
Ooh, that stings. She glares at me, because she’s nobody’s Miss anything. I’ve seen her kids and the big yard that she shares with her sister-wives.
I hand her my phone then, the one that I had specially destroyed for her, and she looks at me like I’ve gone nuts.
“It’s broken,” she says. “Shorted out.”
“Can you fix it?” I ask. “I don’t know anyone in Utah Valley who can fix a phone.”
Nicki snorts, and calls, “Wayne, bring mother’s toolkit.”
“Yes, mother!” a stuffy-sounding little-boy voice informs me.
“So it’s not offensive to God that Roman Grant’s daughter is a mutant?” I ask ten minutes later when she hands me my fully-working phone with an eyeroll. “You are, you know.”
“Don’t make fun of a gift that God gave to me by comparing it to you and those…deviants,” Nicki says sharply, and I really, really want to slap this bitch in the mouth.
Instead I get up and pull a cigarette out of my jacket.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I wouldn’t compare you to real heroes any day of the week.”
4. Triple B
They picked her up with a john. Not that they were exactly johns, for the most part, though NYPD told me they were still tracking down clients who said that she was the best snatch in the universe, bar none, and they’d give her more, if she’d just let them lick it one more time.
Of course, NYPD doesn’t like dealing with these kind of cases, so they asked me to track down more of her fucking johns. Knowing what the Purple Man did, they put me on the case for the Blonde Ball-Buster.
Maybe they’re not so dumb. When I heard what Triple B was up to, I was ready, willing, and able to track down her johns and send the bitch to Riker’s for as long as you can send a superpowered whore with a taste of mind-controlled fraud to prison.
I didn’t even see her until the indictment. Maybe twenty-five, if that, but she looked older.
“Nicole Julian,” the judge said. “You stand accused of sexual assault, fraud, and misuse of superpowers. How do you plead?”
Blonde Ball-Buster snorted. “Not guilty,” she said. “Clearly.”
“We drugged you, dumbass,” I muttered under my breath. “Why do the mind-control types never realize we know how to handle ’em, Luke?”
Luke laughed, clapping me on the shoulder a little.
“I can hear you,” Blonde Ball-Buster — excuse me, Nicole Julian — said, turning around. “And I’m not guilty. Even if you are chemically manipulating me, Jessy Jones. All of you losers are the same, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Losers are all alike,” Nicole said with a sneer. “They get their jollies from watching people who are better than them get brought down because they’re too chickenshit to do it themselves, thank you.”
Luke put his hand on my shoulder, holding me back from telling the skank whore about what a loser really was. I was boiling mad, ready to fly at her…and I realized that she maybe needed to have a higher dosage of those will-controlling drugs.
That, or maybe she wasn’t using her powers to get what she wanted. It might just have been natural bitchiness after all.
5. The Shadow
“He’s not worth it,” Detective Weems told me, watching me look after Detective Vic Mackey. He was the kind of guy I could definitely get next to. Big, tough, reminded me a hell of a lot of Luke Cage. Looked like he knew a thing or two about how hard it was, keeping straight in a fucked up world, even. “He might be your type, but trust me, not worth your time.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “So, Luke gave me your name. Told me about what you can do and stuff.”
Detective Weems inclined her head. “They don’t know around here,” she said. “I’m just a detective with some good instincts and too many scruples to be at the Barn.”
“I know what that’s like,” I said with a nod. “Know what it’s like, being like him, too. The world’s a hard place, you know?”
“Girl, you ain’t nothing like Mackey,” Weems told me. “What’s in him, well, it’s dark. You’re a little twisted, a little hurt, but there’s no evil lurking there.”
I knew that was her power — she could read people for good and evil, a truthsayer or a soothsayer or something classical that a genuine nerd or brain might know. I’d just never expected her to be so matter-of-fact about it.
Plus, I was half-freaked and half-comforted to hear that she didn’t see evil in me. I never really thought I was evil, of course, but I also never really was sure what it fucking meant, that I didn’t want to use my powers like the Avengers or the Fantastic Four or any of them.
“How come you do this for a living? You could be making a fortune, telling people if they were being lied to,” I said.
“Nobody would buy it,” was her answer, a curt shake of her head. “I’ve been telling the captains here for years about Mackey, and it hasn’t gotten rid of the son of a bitch. People don’t want the truth, and if they believe a lie hard enough, it gets confusing for me.”
There was some pain in the other woman’s eyes, pain that I recognized. She wanted to help the world, and she had the ability to do it, too.
But they didn’t want her. Mankind can only bear so much truth, and then it’s back to bullshit, lies, and violence.
“It’s not easy, is it?” I asked. “Like spitting in the ocean.”
“It was never easy,” Weems said. “But the reason you and I are heroes, and fucked up, is because we’ll spit a thousand times before we give in to…that.”
She gestured at Mackey and a group of cops with him.
All I could do was nod.