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Jessica glared at him for a full minute.
The office was so quiet only their breathing could be heard.
Jessica suddenly felt… a strange flutter.
Love… what the f*** is love… This is ridiculous—this blond bastard actually made her feel… a hint of safety.
"F***!"
Jessica tossed back the drink.
"I'm in!"
She pointed at Anthony.
"But! I take orders from me alone. Try to control me and—"
"And?"
"And I'll tear this building down."
"Deal." Anthony flashed a victorious smile.
"Welcome to… the Super Seven, Queen Jones."
"Ding! Special popularity +15,000!"
"Ashley!" Anthony hit the speaker; Ashley walked straight in.
"Take Ms. Jones to Styling. She needs the Vought baptism."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait—" Jessica was being tugged out.
"Styling? Baptism? I don't f***ing need—"
"Yes, you do." Anthony's voice followed.
"You have to live up to that name, Queen."
"You blond bastard! F—!!"
The door shut.
Jessica Jones was "iced" by Vought.
She was thrown into a boot camp—not for power, for image.
"No, Ms. Jones! Smile! Eight teeth! Like Mr. Homelander!"
"Ms. Jones, that line's wrong! You can't tell the public 'get out of my sight'!"
"Ms. Jones, put down that whiskey! Heroes drink Vought Energy!"
Jessica felt insane—and it had only begun.
Ashley ignored her mood, swiping her tablet.
"We're polishing your origin too."
"I f***ing need an origin story?"
"Of course! You can't tell people you've been brawling with small-time punks in Hell's Kitchen." She looked at her like she was naive.
"Listen, new script: You, Jessica Jones, Columbia dropout, gained powers from… hmm… alien radiation! You were lost until… you met Homelander! He, a lighthouse, guided you to realize—with great power…"
Jessica felt last night's whiskey climbing back up.
The stylist arrived with an outfit.
Jessica Jones turned to stone.
It was a white bodysuit.
Not plain white—pearly, god-damn sparkly white. A tacky purple-gold "Q" on the chest.
"…I'll kill you," Jessica growled.
"Oh, don't!" the stylist squealed.
"You promised Mr. Starr! This, darling, is Queen's armor—Starr Group's latest memory fiber! It highlights every asset!"
"Ashley!" Jessica spun to the assistant.
"I f*** your mother!"
"Easy, Jessica." Ashley stepped back.
"This is your new look. Accept it. Six weeks of media training, expression management, combat posture."
"I don't need posture! I can f***ing fight!"
"You can brawl, sweetie," the bearded stylist lisped, "but not perform. Your moves… too dirty. Viewers want aesthetics! Ballet! Like—this!"
He struck Homelander's classic hands-on-hips pose.
"Piss off!"
"Listen," Ashley turned serious.
"Homelander's movie, Homelander: Origins, premieres in six weeks. You, Queen Jones, will debut as Vought's surprise ace—alongside the Super Seven."
"You'll be the brightest star that night—second only to him."
Jessica stared at the mirror: a woman forced into white armor, hair softened into waves.
She felt she was meeting herself for the first time.
"Well, f*** me…" she murmured.
"Yes! That look! Hold it!" The stylist snapped photos.
"A touch… of brokenness! Audiences will eat it up!"
Meanwhile, Vought PR erased "Jessica Jones" from every Hell's Kitchen record.
Before release, she had to be a "mystery."
Back in his penthouse, Anthony poured an '82 cola and flicked on the TV.
A breaking story flashed.
"…Billionaire Tony Stark's Malibu mansion attacked by unknown gunships, destroyed, plunged into the sea…"
The cliff-top home became a fireball onscreen.
"…Stark is missing; bodyguard Happy Hogan in ICU; the White House…"
"…Stark had publicly challenged terrorists, revealing his address…"
"Idiot."
Anthony shook his head.
"Tony… Tony… always the same."
He knew the plot better than anyone.
He lifted a secure Vought line.
"Ashley, draft a statement. Vought International and Homelander condemn the attack on our friend Tony Stark."
"Homelander will devote all resources to finding Stark and declares war on this cowardly terror act!"
He hung up.
His blood began to burn—another popularity surge.
"Ding-a-ling… ding-a-ling…"
Nick Fury's phone rang.
He answered.
"Director Fury," he said, voice dripping sorrow and rage.
"I just saw the news… Tony… I can't believe it!"
"I need S.H.I.E.L.D. authorization! I must… must do something! Those terrorists will pay!"
Fury paused.
"…Starr, calm down. We're assessing—"
"Assess?! Tony's my friend!" Anthony's Oscar-mode kicked in, voice shaking.
"Give me everything on those terrorists! Now!"
"…We'll share intel. But be careful, Stark. These people… dangerous."
"I was born for danger, Director."
He hung up; the grief vanished from his face.
He had his legitimate ticket in.
"Good."
"Dr. Killian… don't disappoint me."