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It didn't take a lot of effort to find out where Jessica Jones could be found during the day. She's not the only one with crack private investigative skills, it seems. Longshot steps up to the door to Alias Investigations, and knocks lightly, "Jessica?" He calls her name not too loudly, before making an effort to open the door, be it open, broken, or otherwise.
*
The door is in a state of CONSTANT disrepair, meaning it opens easily when Longshot events on it. The creak of the opening door causes the woman passed out on the desk to perk. She straightens as the man enters her gaze. She rubs her eyes, causing the fuzziness of the world to sharpen underneath the pressure.
She combs her hair into a ponytail with her fingers and groggily, she shakes her head trying to remove the haze from her sights. "…Longshot…?" a glance is given to the now-empty whiskey bottle beside her, and the notepad covered in nonsensical scribblings beside her. Her lips purse and she reaches into her pocket to take out a gold watch and a very pretty clip on earring. She frowns. "What days is it?" her voice scratches with the remnants of sleep.
*
"It's Sunday," Longshot says a bit tersely, stepping inside and taking stock of the place, and of Jessica. "Jesus," he says quietly, moving to pick up the empty bottle and smell what remains. He doesn't look too happy, and the reason why is painted all over his face. He didn't have a moustache when Jessica met him last, and the one he has now isn't natural. In fact, it looks like he's tried to scrub it off, but permanent marker doesn't wash off so cleanly. "I'm the last one who should talk, but you're kind of a fuckin' mess, aren't you? Thanks for this, by the way," he says, motioning to her artwork adorning his otherwise beautiful face.
*
"Takes one to know one," Jessica replies coldly as her face sours (if at all possible for it to sour more). Smugly, her lips turn up in admiration of the man's moustache, "What're you complaining 'bout anyways? Suits you," she waves a hand flippantly. "'Sides, artists gotta art~" Jessica Jones has never been referred to as an artist. Her sneer is palpable as she pushes herself from her desk chair to tread back to the cupboards in the office (her apartment?) kitchen. She opens one and takes out a bottle that is brought to her lips to pull out the cork with her teeth. The cork is promptly spat on the counter. "Drink?" she asks cheekily with a tight-lipped smile.
*
No argument there. Longshot hasn't exactly had his left together lately either. And by lately, of course, we mean any time in the last decade and a half. "Yeah, why not," he concedes when offered a drink. He's not /really/ mad about the moustache. He's not happy about it, don't get it wrong, but he at least has the wherewithal to realize he put himself in the position. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson, drinking with a woman who is clearly in the professional arena of mostly-functional alcoholism, while Longshot is still playing in the minors. And really, it's probably the closest thing to actual hair his face has seen since.. well, ever. "Wouldn't have guessed you'd be a private eye. Guess you're just full of surprises," Longshot states, waiting for her to pass the bottle over.
*
The bottle is easily passed over and she reaches into the cupboard to take out two mismatched glasses. She admires the pair before setting them on the counter. She smirks at the observation and then cants her head to the side, "It's new. I have coworkers who are men. So. Shouldn't be too much of a surprise. Besides, I'm fucking good at finding things. May as well get paid for it. Plus a gal's gotta pay for the liquor somehow…"
*
Longshot takes the bottle from Jessica, and then seeing as she's actually going to bother with glasses, doesn't just take a drink directly. If she's going to make a token effort at propriety, he supposes he should too. "Fair enough," he says in reply to her assertion. "Least you've got your own place. I'm still livin' out of motels." Once the glasses are down, he hands the bottle back so she can pour. "What makes you so good at findin' shit," he asks casually. He met her in a mutant bar, so he feels pretty safe in the assumption that she's got some kind of power that helps her with all that, but he really has no idea.
*
Two large tumblerfuls are pour and Jessica takes a swig of hers. She smirks at the question and issues Longshot a one-shouldered shrug. "Not sure. Just always been good at finding shit. Dishonesty, probably." A glimmer of mischief lights in her eyes. "'Magine it. Not everyone asks the right questions. Secret gifts." Her lips curve into an easier smile that fades as her eyes flicker towards her desk and the trinkets left atop it. "Sometimes I'm too good at finding shit," her voice lowers and she strolls back to the desk to peer at the nonsense she'd scribbled across her notepad.
*
Longshot drinks. "Figured it was something a bit more entertaining," he says with a smirk, and then a shrug. "Anybody can be dishonest. In fact, most people are. Not exactly a claim to fame. From what I've seen, your claim to fame is the power to consume enough liquor to drown a small midwestern town. That and your artistic skill with a permanent marker, which I'm sure is the stuff of legend," he says, cracking a wry grin. "Don't suppose you have any neat tricks for getting this shit off?"
*
Jessica shoots Longshot a long even stare. "We all have neat tricks." Her gaze turns feline and she tugs the top sheet of the notepad before pocketing it in her back jean's pockets. "I'm talented in a lot of ways," she states evenly. "My talents with a permanent marker already demonstrated — " she gestures towards the moustache she'd given Longshot just days before. " — although," her eyebrows lift, "could've made the line deeper. Feel like a thicker 'state would've suited you better."
She takes another long swing of the amber fluid. "Can't say any of them helped me the other day." Bitterly, her nose wrinkles. "Got hired by some rich snot to investigate who robbed his mother's grave. Didn't go well. Hence," the liquor. Because that's why she's drinking, right?
*
"If at first you don't succeed, down a 26er and try again, huh?" Again, no judgement, just trying to get the sequence right. Longshot drinks again. As before, this stuff goes to his head pretty quickly. He usually sticks to beer, for just this reason. But hell, if you can't get day drunk on a Sunday with a girl who draws moustaches on your face with indelible ink, why do we even bother? "Didn't find who did it? Or something else happen?" Longshot suspects the latter. "Not like I'm doing anything important with my life these days, if you wanted a hand with shit like that," he says. "Thinkin' you could use a bit of luck." Which just happens to be Longshot's specialty.
*
EIGHTEEN HOURS AGO
The water ran hot; hot enough to steam up the mirror and bring condensation to the ceiling. The bathwater was filthy, and this was round two; one for each year of accumulated junk Matt earned while stuck within the hellmouth.
With scissors he snipped away dead clumps of hair, leaving them to fall into the bathwater. It wouldn't be a good haircut, and his landlord is likely to take the plumbers bill right out of his ass, but with every snip, he slowly felt more himself, and less the animal he became in hell.
With a satisfied sigh, he dropped the scissors over the lip of the claw foot tub, then reached blindly for his razor.
NOW:
The busted door means that Matt won't have to knock. Which, in a way, is a good sign. He knew Jessica was okay before he even got near her building, but she would likely be happy to know that he made it out. There were also… questions.
When he pries open the door, he's dressed in clothing that he hasn't bothered to press. His haircut is… terrible, to say the least, and there's a newspaper tucked under his cane-free arm.
*
"It was fucked," Jessica states lowly towards Marcus as she takes another swig of the amber fluid. "The bodies had come out of the graves. The guard at the cemetery said as much based on how the soil was moved." Her lips edge downwards. "But more than that, they —" her eyes turn upwards " — attacked me. The corpses. They were rotten. Different degrees of decay and they all clawed, bit, and — " she shudders.
The thought is interrupted by another presence in her midst. "Speaking of corpses," she mutters to herself. "Murdock," she states. It's not bland, and it's certainly not her detached usual self. In fact, Matt can detect something not often heard in Jessica's tone: relief.
*
"That's a whole bunch of fucked up," Longshot agrees, setting his tumbler down for the moment. Head starting to spin just a little bit, maybe take a short break. "But considering we just had a rash of vampires, a zombie invasion doesn't seem too much of a stretch," he muses, frowning. This is apparently 'normal' now? Longshot doesn't so much notice the door being opened, but Jessica's announcement of Matt's arrival causes him to turn his neck to look, regarding the man for a moment. "Hi," he says, his tone non-committal. "Just in time for happy hour, pull up a chair."
*
Normal human interaction. Seems weird. Matt hesitates before entering fully. He's wearing his sunglasses, so, there likely won't be any need to explain for Jessica's visitor why he isn't really looking at anyone directly. "Hey," he tells Longshot. "Friend of hers."
At this point, he looks more or less in Jessica's direction. There is a moment where his head tips oddly, more like a twitch of sorts, before he leans the cane up against a wall and reaches for the table they're seated at. "Got a spare chair?" he asks.
Interestingly, Murdock's tone is more dry than it usually is. It's detached. If you've ever met a dropship pilot who worked D-Day… well, there you go.
He doesn't smell that great, either. There's a faint odor of sulfur that lingers with him.
*
Jessica pulls her chair around and reaches out for Matt's hand to guide him to the seat. "Right here," she says blandly. "I'll sit on the table." Or the counter. Whichever seems easier once everyone is settled. Because that is Jessica's reality.
"It is a bunch of fucked up," Jessica agrees. "The bodies literally came out of the ground. It was fine until the child skeletons attacked me. That was the fucking awful." The frown can be heard in her tone, and the fact she reaches for her glass again, prompting her to remember. "Want a glass, Murdock?" She swallows hard, "You look like hell," and they both should know.
And then finally, like someone just remembering their manners, she states, "Longshot, Murdock. Murdock, Longshot. Longshot is from the circus. Or I made that up," she squints. "Murdock is a lawyer." There. Everyone knows each other. Hostess duties OVER.
*
Must be one of those male co-workers she mentioned. "Murdock," Longshot echoes, with a nod (a fat lot of good that does?) to the man. "Actually, I'm from Brooklyn. Just spent some time in the circus," he says. "You smell like hell, too, my man. No offense. Rotten eggs." He makes a face, and in an effort to drown it out, takes a swig from his glass. Now he smells whiskey and rotten eggs, which is not any more pleasant an aroma. "So you got away from the zombie children, and then what? I mean, you ended up here, but.. now there's what, dead people wandering the city?" Maybe that should be 'more' dead people wandering the city?
*
Its hard to describe what's happened to Matt. He's certainly lost weight; mostly what he lost was replaced by muscle, and not the kind of muscle you grow in a healthy way. The kind of muscle that is grown from necessity; from a body that's forcing itself to burn anything it can in order to just keep running.
Jessica's offer is answered silently. He reaches for a spare glass and slides it in her direction. It stops just short of falling off the table. "Longshot," he answers the introduction, and waits patiently for Jessica to pour him that drink. "Hell's Kitchen, born and raised," he answers. The remark about his odor earns a slight turn of his head in Longshot's direction.
Without warning, Matt turns the newspaper out and sets it down, face up, on the table.
"Newsie said it reads, 'Sunday, October 16th, 1963.' Thought he was fucking with me. Til the cop, the passerby, even the tourist told me the same." He turns the newspaper around so that the others can read it. Then, with an uncharacteristically harsh tone, he demands, "What does it say?"
*
"I don't know," she admits towards Longshot. "Probably." Her jaw tightens. "There were twenty or thirty of them. And they were strong. Not like Vamps. Unsettling. Angry." Her eyes train on her glass. "It was fucking ridiculous."
Jessica complies and pours the whiskey into the third glass. Her jaw tightens and her fingers drum lightly against the base of her glass. "It says Sunday, October 16th, 1963," she confirms solemnly. There's no humour in her voice. Just that distinct bitterness that flows from her words and tone.
*
This office needs a calendar. "No wonder you two work together," Longshot mutters into his glass before drinking the remainder of its contents. He sets the glass down, and reaches for the bottle. "16th, October. Sunday. Sixty-three. You havin' a tough time with the day, month, or year there, man?" A few days confusion he can understand, if Murdock's been on a bender, but much more than that, and you've got real problems my friend.
*
Matt sits back slowly. There's a long, drawn out moment where he just sits there, blank and dumb. Then, finally, he shakes his head. "Shit."
The glass is snatched up, and its contents are taken in one gulp. Jessica has seen him drink before (not like this), but he hacks and coughs as if he hasn't had a drink in years.
Once the fit is done, he goes silent again. The chair creaks a bit as he reclines against it, then let's loose a long, long sigh. The glass is shoved slightly in Jessica's direction. Seems he's looking for another.
*
Jessica's jaw tightens at the curse. And she nods firmly once. Solemnly. It's not clear why he's cursing, but she can, certainly identify with the sentiment regardless. With Longshot here, she's not entirely sure whether she should bring up where things left off. And so, she goes ahead and pours him another glass.
She finishes her own glass and pours herself another. Liquor is her modus operandi. Has been for a month now. Time away from Kilgrave meant trying to forget time with him.
"What happened?" she finally settles on. Because she can't exactly establish anything besides the question.
*
Longshot isn't stupid, and can tell that there's more going on here than he really has a right to be privy to. He quickly downs the glass he had refilled for himself, and sets the tumbler back down. That was a mistake. He was going to try to make his exit, but the liquor has pretty much gone to his head now, and if he tries to stand, he'll probably end up on his face. So he sits, quietly, letting the two talk around him, for now, eyes moving from one to the other, slowly, depending on who is speaking.
*
"I can't remember what date it was when we left," he tells Jessica. "It was hot. Summer, maybe, August? But it was '63. It shouldn't be '63."
He reaches across the table and takes the glass, bringing it back toward him slowly. "I lost count after three months. We were in there… a lot longer than that."
The glass is raised, and it's smelled. Such a good smell, and the affect? Well, suffice it to say that two years in the hellmouth and Matt hasn't had the luxury of booze. It's taking its effect, and quickly.
He doesn't drink yet, instead turning his head somewhat toward Longshot. "So… there are still… creatures roaming around?"
*
"It was September," Jessica returns. "End of September. I remember because — " she also lost a bunch of time in coming back. She'd assumed that was related to a Kilgrave bender. "It was '63," she confirms quietly as she takes a long swig of her liquor.
She nods slowly. "Yeah, lots of shit around still. And it's getting worse not better. For a fucking second seemed like we were getting a handle on it," her head shakes. "It was bullshit. We make progress just to get the smackdown."
"Thought we were making real progress and then. The cemetery. Got hired to investigate the grave robberies. It's in the paper." Her fingers drum at her glass again. "Marcus pulled me out," she offers. "I," probably would've died in there thanks to her insistence to bleach her mind with booze, "wasn't okay," she settles on. "Was trying to find a way to get you out." And hadn't given up yet.
*
"Creatures a'plenty," Longshot echoes Jessica's confirmation. "Some of the more civic-minded folks in the Kitchen put together a bit of a posse," is that the right word? Guess so. "To try to fight them back, and keep the residents from getting, I dunno, eaten?" Yeah, that's accurate. Vampires, man. "Bunch of powered folks. Seemed to help, not sure how much good it's done toward fixin' the source of the problem. Guessin' not much, since, you know, zombies now." The hits just keep on coming. Foolishly, perhaps, Longshot decides to venture the question on his mind. "Where did you two go?"
*
Matt finally downs the shot. The double, as it were. Longshot receives a wry smirk. "Yeah, I was… gonna be a part of setting that up. St. Anthony's?" That was the plan, at least, as far as he can remember it.
"We found a way out," he tells Jessica. "It almost didn't happen. We were there for… Sweet Jesus. I don't know. I, I lost track."
Already said that, Murdock.
*
Jessica's lips purse at Longshot's question. Her lips press together firmly and her head wobbles ambivalently. "Hell. We were in the thing in the Park." Her eyes roll. She doesn't need anyone else to feel sorry for her, "We got out." Considering Matt is here, she's speaking matter-of-factly. "And yeah, zombies now. Something was driving them. A voice. A whisper." She shivers. It's instinctive instead of real.
"Marcus was glowing," she offers back to Matt. "I watched. Deduced the momentum thing. We busted out." Her cheeks puff out with a long breath. "Shit." She pours Murdock another. Some things don't need to be requested. Liquor is one of them for Jessica Jones.
*
"Christ," Longshot says. Seems to be the appropriate expletive. He doesn't press for further details, since the explanation of 'hell' kind of speaks for itself. He pushes his glass toward Jessica again, expecting another refill, ill-advised though that might be. "So now that you're back, what's your plan?" Longshot assumes the plan involves not getting sucked back into the Hellmouth, somehow. Assumes. Hopes. Won't want to be a part of it if that's they're planning to make a return trip.
*
"Huh." Marcus was glowing. It might be expected that Murdock would have had a more animated reaction, but he's clearly changed. Not in the way one might expect for being gone two weeks in hell.
Well, even two weeks would have changed someone.
"You could help," he answers Longshot, when asked to explain his plan. "Can you put us in contact with any of the powered types who've formed a resistance?"
He looks back to Jessica. "I don't ever want to go in that place again. But… it's got to be shut down. There are… millions of them."
A pause, as he reaches for the glass. "Creatures. Millions of them."
*
ROLL: Jessica +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 9
*
"But the ones out here aren't like the ones in there," Jessica replies as she refills Longshot's glass. "They can thrive there." Her eyebrows stitch upwards. She cringes at the question. Her plan was to get Murdock out. Now? Her lips edge downwards. A glance is given to the broken door that Trish pledged to fix.
Something breaks. She can feel it when it does. It might be the sheer amount of liquor she's already consumed today. It might be getting run down by an army of corpses just yesterday. It might be the fact that she failed so horribly at being a hero in the past. "I'm minding my fucking business and clearing out the streets where I can." Her gaze sets on solidly on Murdock, even if he can't see it, "Look Matt," first names are never a good thing from Jones, "I'm fucking strong, but that's all I got! And those fucking things can bend will on a whim! Christ's sake I'm not fucking doing that again. I can't. Do you understand that?" Probably not because she never explained Kilgrave. She finishes the glass of liquor.
"What I did — That isn't fucking forgivable. You ned an actual hero on this! Find fucking Captain America to close the damned thing and call it a day. I investigate. I threaten when I have to. I can't fucking do the hero thing. Don't you see that's where things got fucked up in the first place? Jesus."
*
Longshot is silent while Jessica goes off, and simply drinks. Because he doesn't know much about what she's talking about. He's just a grunt, in this little turf war between Hell and Earth, fighting the ones on the street where he can. When she's done, he gives a nod to Murdock. "Yeah, I can put you in touch with her. Iron Fist, she calls herself." He looks toward Jessica. "I'll make sure to leave you out of it," he says, as if his assurance would somehow help.
*
Murdock is about to take his last drink (for the night), when Jessica snaps. He stops lifting the glass, and sits there stoically. It's what makes him a good lawyer; how he listens, waits to prompt when the time is right. He's beginning to remember it now, perhaps even such that he's embarrassed at how he approached the newspaper debacle.
"Nobody drug you in, kicking and screaming." His memory is blurry, but being here? It's at least coming back, that night before he and Raven became lost on the other side. It'll be gone by morning, because once he leaves this place? This won't be his last drink for the night.
One sip, then a look to Longshot. He focuses on the man for a moment, listening to his heartbeat; his breathing. The way his clothing moves against his flesh. His scent. Yes, even beyond the stink of hell, Matt can pick out and lock in on a smell.
Eyebrows rise. "Iron Fist." He raises the glass. "I'll find you in short time."
The rest of the glass is downed, and Matt scoots his chair back against the hardwood floor. He turns away, but stops for a moment next to Jessica. He reaches to put a hand on her upper arm, should she let him. It's a friendly thing. "I'm glad you didn't have to go back in there, after us."
That being said, he turns his head in Longshot's direction one more time, giving the fellow a brief nod. Then he walks away, reaching for his cane. "Oh. Don't worry. I'm not driving."
Yes, it's dry, and yes, it's loaded. Two years in hell, and Matt Murdock can still crack a dry pun sure to make the eyes roll.
*
"No one dragged me in," Jessica agrees. "But having me involved in the first place — I'm not a hero. That dream died with Jewel. I burnt her costume for fuck's sake," it's an admission she hasn't made to anyone. Not even Trish, but then stalker-sister only just got an invite into the apartment. She scrubs her face. "Pieces die and move on. This is what's left."
Jones flinches when Matt reaches for her arm, and Matt can easily identify the spike in her heartbeat, but she still lets the motion happen. A sage nod follows the words. "Me too," she states dryly, locking her temper down once more.
She nods at Longshot, "I don't do that anymore. PI now. Just for the money and liquor." Because those are two things she needs in her life. "Someone else thought I should be a hero. It was a pipe dream at the best of times."
She shudders and pours herself another shot which is immediately downed.
*
Longshot nods to Murdock. The guy might be blind, but it's a habit. He gives a very slight chuckle at the blind man's joke. Okay, you get points for that one. His attention goes to Jessica again, "I'm not trying to be a hero either. Just trying to get through the day, same as anyone. Don't need to put on a costume and a mask to help keep the monsters from killing more people than necessary," he says. "Not like anything seems to make much of a difference, anyway," he states, depressively. Ever the pessimist.
*
Killing the monsters. Now that's something Matt has become quite… chillingly good at doing. He needs to get himself sorted, honestly, because there's a bloodbath coming to the city; a bloodbath in sulfur and ichor, and it will be at his hands.
"None of us are heroes," he agrees, then presents a counterpoint. "But we all make a difference."
The tapping of his cane signifies his departure. Nothing stylistic this time… this time he'll walk all the way back home, while killing anything that isn't of this world.
*