[49] The Intervention

Chapter 49: The Intervention

—

I received the Cannonbolt transformation two days ago. Today, I received Wildvine. Wasn’t that a bit too fast? And I’d really, carefully, clicked at Four Arms.

Was this because of the experiment I did with the watch?

Thankfully, nothing majorly bad had happened. Although new transformations during emergency times might cause problems, I think I can handle it… Even if that Simpson guy managed to flee.

I took care of the cameras in the station and the hallway using Upgrade, but this time I “edited” the video rather than deleting it all. After all, many people had seen me and Jessica in the building, so if the report and CCTV went against one another, it’d be more suspicious. Instead, I just replaced Wildvine with a frame of my human body and had that fight out with Simpson. Of course, I also edited my face just a little so that I wouldn’t be easily recognized.

Nobody saw me in Wildvine form other than Trish, so this was a good enough plan.

We were in the police station now which smelled like burnt coffee and desperation, a combination that made my nose wrinkle as I held the door open for the Walker sisters. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across Trish's pale face as she clutched her purse like a lifeline.

"This is bullshit," Trish muttered, her voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "I'm not some damsel who needs to be stashed away while you two play superhero."

Jessica's jaw clenched, that telltale sign that she was about to say something she'd probably regret. I caught her eye and shook my head slightly. The last thing we needed was a full-blown sister argument in the middle of the NYPD's lobby.

"Trish, please," Jessica said, her tone softer than I expected. "This guy's enhanced. Military trained. He threw me through a wall like I was made of paper. Even Ben was having trouble."

"And I'm supposed to feel better sitting here, waiting to hear if my sister's been turned into paste?" Trish's laugh was bitter, nothing like her usual radio personality charm. "At least if I'm with you, I can—"

"What? Get taken hostage?" Jessica's control slipped for just a second. "Give him exactly what he wants? No. You're staying here where there's a dozen cops between you and him."

By then we’d walked near the desk sergeant, where a heavyset man who looked like he'd seen too much of New York's weird side, cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we've got a secure room in the back. Officer Chen will stay with you until this is resolved."

Trish's shoulders sagged in defeat, but her eyes blazed with something I recognized. The same look Gwen got when she felt useless before she’d received the charms and the book, when the world moved around her instead of with her. It was the curse of being normal in an abnormal world.

"Fine," she said, the word sharp as broken glass. "But when this is over, we're having a long talk about treating me like I'm made of tissue paper."

Jessica winced but nodded. As Officer Chen led Trish away, I caught a glimpse of her face in profile. Fear, yes, but also resolute. The kind that either made someone stronger or broke them entirely.

****

"She'll be okay," I said once we were back on the street. The afternoon sun did nothing to warm the chill that had settled between us.

"Will she?" Jessica's voice was raw. "She hates her Patsy era, you know? There’s a lot of… family drama there that you’re better not knowing, Ben. It’s all so gross and just generally traumatic. And that childhood nightmare just came back through some roided-up guy on military drugs. That's not something you just bounce back from."

I wanted to argue, to point out that people survived worse every day in our world. But I'd seen enough to know that physical survival and mental survival were two very different beasts. Instead, I pulled out my phone, cycling through the tracker I'd installed on his body.

While I put up an embarrassing fight as Wildvine, I did manage to put on the tracker I made earlier using Greymatter.

"His apartment's about twelve blocks north," I said, showing her the screen. "He’s not very bright, I think. When I installed the tracker on his clothes, I thought he’d lose it halfway, but it’s still on him. Guy's not exactly covering his tracks."

"Probably doesn't think he needs to." Jessica cracked her knuckles, the sound like small gunshots in the busy street. "In his mind, he's the hero of this story."

We moved through the city quickly, Jessica on foot while I kept pace beside her. I could have transformed and been there in seconds, but something told me she needed this. The walk and the slow buildup. The chance to prepare herself for whatever came next.

The building was exactly what I expected – a pre-war walkup that had seen better decades, the kind of place where people went to disappear or die slowly. The front door hung off its hinges, and the stairwell reeked of piss and broken dreams.

"Third floor," I said, checking my phone again. "Apartment 3B."

We climbed in silence, Jessica's footsteps heavy with intent while I moved like a ghost. All these alien transformations were teaching me stuff. When we reached the door, Jessica raised her fist to knock it down, but I caught her wrist.

"Wait," I whispered, ear pressed against the wood. "He's in there. Talking to someone."

Jessica leaned in, and we both heard it. Simpson's voice was low and reverent, like a priest at prayer.

"—should have worn the blue dress, Patsy. You always looked best in blue. Matched your eyes. Not like that trash they put you in now. Those people, they don't understand. They don't see what I see."

We exchanged glances. There was no one else in there. He was talking to himself. Or to something, maybe.

Jessica stepped back, ready to kick the door in, but I held up a hand. "Hold up. New plan."

"New plan?" Jessica's eyebrows shot up. "Since when do we do plans? I thought we just punch things until they stop moving."

"That's your plan. Mine's different." I raised the Omnitrix, scrolling through options with practiced ease. "You're gonna fight him."

"I'm gonna– what?" Jessica's voice cracked slightly. "In case you missed it, he kicked my ass back at the station. And that was with you helping."

"That was before." The Omnitrix face popped up, showing a familiar grey figure. "This is after. Time for that training we talked about."

"We talked about it! Talked! As in theoretical discussion over Chinese food!" Jessica's hands flailed in exasperation. "You can't seriously expect me to—"

"I seriously do." I gently pressed down on the watch face, feeling the familiar tingle of transformation. My body compressed, bones reshaping, brain expanding to fill a cranium that could house an intellect that dwarfed most supercomputers. When the green light faded, Grey Matter stood on Jessica's shoulder, pulling out a tiny earpiece from my pockets.

"Put this in your ear," I said, my voice high-pitched but carrying an authority that came from absolute certainty. "Trust me."

Jessica stared at the tiny alien on her shoulder like I'd grown a second head. Which, given some of my transformations, wasn't outside the realm of possibility. But she took the earpiece, fitting it carefully.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"This is training." Normally, Four Arms might be a better instructor in martial arts and fighting choreography, but Jessica needed help with her ‘superpowers,’ not just when to throw a punch and when to dodge. I think Greymatter was a better option for that.

I scampered down her arm and onto a nearby pipe, positioning myself with clear sightlines to the door. "Now, when you go in there, don't lead with a haymaker. That's what he's expecting. What you're going to do is—"

The door exploded outward before I could finish. Simpson stood in the doorway, eyes wild, pupils dilated from whatever cocktail he'd swallowed. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of the apartment's interior and immediately wished I hadn't.

No fucking way. Every wall was covered in Patsy Walker memorabilia. Posters, magazine covers, and screenshots printed from social media. But it was the mannequins that made my alien skin crawl. Dozens of them, all dressed in replica Patsy outfits, positioned around the apartment like an audience. In the center, a dinner table is set for two, with one seat occupied by a mannequin wearing a blue dress.

"Jessica Jones," Simpson growled, his muscles visibly twitching under his skin. "Where is she? Where's my Patsy?"

"Safe from you, psycho." Jessica's stance shifted, and I could see her processing my earlier words. Not a haymaker. Something else.

"Jessica," I said through the earpiece, calm and clinical. "He's favoring his left side. Maybe an old injury, probably Afghanistan. When he charges – and he will charge – step into it. Use his momentum."

Simpson lunged exactly as predicted. But instead of meeting force with force, Jessica pivoted, grabbed his extended arm, and used his own momentum to send him crashing into the wall. The plaster cracked under the impact.

"Good," I continued. "But don't stop to admire. He seems to have enhanced recovery. Press the advantage."

Jessica moved before Simpson could fully turn, driving her knee into his lower back right where I indicated. The ex-soldier howled, more in rage than pain, and spun with a backhand that would have taken her head off if she hadn't already been moving.

"Your flight," I said quickly. "You think of it as jumping really hard, but it's not. It's localized gravitational manipulation. You can change direction mid-air. Try it."

"Are you insane?" Jessica hissed, barely dodging another wild swing. "I’m not a damn drone!"

"Yeah, well… pretend you are!" I said. "Jessica, your body isn’t leaping, it’s floating with force. Think of yourself like... like a magnet repelling off the Earth for a second, and you’re steering the field. Or better, imagine you’re a swimmer underwater. The air’s just your ocean now."

She grunted, clearly not convinced.

"Physics doesn't lie, Jessy.” As doesn’t psychology. Patterns emerge in minds, and they tell a story. Those patterns suggest that during perilous times, the body pushes itself to tap into its higher abilities. This was good training.  “Look… your center of gravity shifts when you jump, but your powers let you push off an invisible floor. It’s not about the momentum from what I understand. It’s about where you want to go. So pick a spot in the air and pull yourself toward it!”

Another punch grazed her arm. I shouted, “He’s overextending again. NOW!”

Simpson's haymaker missed by inches as Jessica pushed off, but instead of a simple jump backward, she focused on the sensation of flight like how I guided her. The shift was subtle but immediate. Instead of arcing back, she shouted and somehow changed direction mid-air, coming down behind Simpson with her elbow aimed at the base of his skull.

The hit connected solidly. Simpson staggered, and for the first time, looked genuinely surprised.

"Impossible," he slurred, red-tinged spittle flying from his lips. "You're just another weak—"

"Weak?" Jessica's laugh was dark. "Buddy, you have no idea what I am."

She came at him again, but this time with purpose. Each movement flowed into the next, guided by my rapid-fire analysis. Duck under the wild swing, strike the nerve cluster in his armpit. Use his temporary paralysis to grab his throat, then shift her flight to add angular momentum to the throw.

Simpson hit the mannequin table with a crash that sent plastic limbs flying. He tried to rise, but Jessica was already there, one hand on his throat, the other cocked back.

"Here's the thing about your pills," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "They make you strong, sure. But they also make you predictable. All rage, no strategy."

"Jessica," I cautioned. "His pupils are dilating further. He's about to—"

Simpson's hand shot to his pocket, pulling out another red pill. Or trying to. Jessica's fist connected with his jaw before he could swallow it, the impact sending teeth and pills scattering across the floor.

The fight went out of him like air from a punctured balloon. Without the chemicals, he was just a broken man in a room full of plastic women, bleeding and crying for someone who'd never loved him back.

"Please," he wheezed through broken teeth. "Just wanted... to protect her..."

"Yeah, well." Jessica stood, wiping blood from her knuckles. "Maybe next time try flowers and therapy instead of stalking and assault."

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. I scampered back up to Jessica's shoulder, tiny hands gripping her jacket.

"I already called them," I said, my voice carrying a pride that had nothing to do with my own accomplishments. "Gave them the whole rundown. They'll have inhibitor cuffs for enhanced individuals. That was awesome, Jessica."

She turned to look at me, and something soft passed over her features. "That was... I mean, I actually..."

"Kicked his ass?" I grinned, an expression that looked slightly terrifying on my alien features. "Yeah, you did. All I did was remind you how strong you really are."

The transformation ended in a flash of green, leaving me human-sized again. Without thinking, I scooped Jessica up in my arms, her surprised laugh warming something in my chest.

"My hero," I said, watching her grumble.

"You’re such an," she replied, but she didn't pull away.

We waited for the police after that, Jessica leaning against me as we chatted about dinner tonight while Simpson whimpered among his broken dolls. When the cops finally arrived, they found a scene that would make the papers.

The disturbing shrine, the enhanced veteran brought low, and the rising hero “Jewel” who'd stopped him before he could hurt anyone else.

But I wasn't thinking about headlines. I was thinking about Gwen, sick and alone in the Rust Bucket, probably cursing my name with every fevered breath. I felt quite guilty suddenly.

"Hey," Jessica said, feeling me tense. "What's wrong?"

"I need to get back," I admitted. "Gwen... I left her sick. Just ran off without explaining."

Jessica studied my face, and I saw understanding dawn in her eyes. "Go," she said simply. "I've got this. Trish needs me anyway."

We made our way back to the station, where Trish waited with Officer Chen. The reunion was cute, full of tears, recriminations, and fierce hugs that probably left bruises. But underneath it all, I saw something interesting.

The way Trish looked at Jessica, like she was seeing her for the first time. Not just as a sister or protector, but as someone with power she'd never have. The distance between them, measured not in feet but in capability.

It was the same look the magic-less Gwen sometimes got when I transformed. That mixture of awe and inadequacy that no amount of reassurance could fully erase. Until she got magic, of course.

"I should go," I said quietly, not wanting to intrude on their moment.

Jessica caught my hand before I could leave. "Thank you," she said simply.

"For teaching you how to fly? Yeah, you’re welcome, always knew you could." I squeezed her hand once before letting go. "Take care of each other."

She pulled me into a kiss, and apologized for not getting to give me a ‘proper reward’ this time around. “No idea what you mean,” I said with an innocent look. As I walked away, already reaching for the Omnitrix, I heard Trish's voice, small and uncertain.

"I wish I could have helped. I wish I wasn't so..."

"Human?" Jessica's voice was gentle. "Trish, you're the strongest person I know. Powers don't change that."

They’d be fine, even with the growing jealousy. I didn't bother to hear the rest. I was already XLR8, racing through the city toward  Yellowstone. The city faded behind me, replaced by open road and the promise of extraordinary.

**

**

**

Author Note: I love reading Marvel fanfics, but when writing marvel stories, I feel kinda ‘lost’ because there are so many stuff out there, and I’m unsure if what I’m covering is interesting enough. So let me know what you think of these two chapters!