Mark touched down on the rooftop of his Harlem apartment building just after midnight, the city lights below a glittering sea that blurred from his high-speed descent. He had meant to get home earlier, but a multi-car pileup on I-95 demanded his attention, followed by a bank robbery in Queens where he punched the thieves out mid-escape and left them for the cops. The detours added hours, but saving lives didn't come with a schedule. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then spun at superspeed, shedding his Invincible suit in a whirl of fabric that he folded neatly into a compact bundle. Slinging the bundle over his shoulder like a gym bag, he headed down the fire escape stairs to his floor, unlocking the door with a quiet click.
Inside, the apartment was dark, lit only by the glow of the TV flickering on mute with some late-night infomercial. Jessica lay sprawled on his couch, her dark hair fanned out across the armrest, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched loosely in her hand as she snored softly, her leather jacket rumpled like she had crashed there hours ago.
Mark chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he set his bag down. "Damn alcoholic, you gotta stop breaking into my apartment," he muttered, though there was no heat in it, he didn't mind that she treated his place like a second home, especially on rough nights.
He walked over and scooped her up effortlessly, lifting her like a sleepy cat in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder without waking. She murmured something incoherent, shifting slightly as he carried her to the bedroom, then tossed her gently onto the bed. Jessica bounced once, grumbled, and blindly grabbed a pillow, hurling it at him before burrowing deeper into the covers and getting comfortable with a sigh.
Mark caught the pillow mid-air, rolling his eyes with a smirk. "Sweet dreams, Jess." He tossed it back onto the bed and closed the door softly behind him.
Back in the living room, her phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. Mark picked it up, seeing "Trish" on the display, and answered quietly to avoid waking Jessica. "Hey, Trish, it's Mark."
Trish's voice came through, laced with worry but softening at his greeting. "Mark? Oh, thank God, is Jess there? She hasn't answered my texts all night, and you know how she gets when she's in one of her moods."
"Yeah, don't worry, she's here, crashed on my couch earlier but I just moved her to the bed. She's out cold, whiskey bottle and all, but safe. I'll make sure she calls you in the morning."
Trish exhaled in relief. "You're a lifesaver, Mark—seriously, I don't know what she'd do without you watching her back. How are you holding up anyway?"
Mark leaned against the counter, glancing toward the bedroom door. "I'm fine, been busy, but fine. How about you?"
She laughed lightly, her tone shifting to something warmer. "Yeah, got invited to this celebrity bash, red carpet, champagne, the works. Just got home, actually. It was fun, but exhausting rubbing elbows with egos bigger than the room."
"Sounds like a blast," Mark said with a chuckle. "Wish I could've seen you work the crowd."
Trish's voice dropped a notch, turning playful and seductive. "You should've been there, could've been my plus-one. Speaking of... When are we grabbing that dinner? It's been too long since we... caught up properly."
Mark felt a familiar warmth creep in, his mind flashing to their last "catch-up". "I'd love to... soon, I promise. Just been slammed lately, you know how it is."
"I get it," she said understandingly, though a hint of teasing lingered. "But don't make me wait forever, Mark. Miss that smile of yours... among other things."
He chuckled softly. "Noted. Get some rest, talk soon."
"Night," she replied, the call ending with a click.
Mark set the phone down, running a hand through his hair as he headed to another room, his workshop, tucked in the back of the apartment like a hidden lair. The space blended elements of a library, lab, and garage: shelves lined with dog-eared books on physics, engineering, and mythology mingled with workbenches cluttered with circuit boards, soldering irons, and half-assembled gadgets; a pegboard held tools from wrenches to oscilloscopes, while a corner desk housed a high-end computer setup with multiple monitors glowing softly. Blueprints and sketches pinned to corkboards covered one wall, ideas for energy absorbers and flight stabilizers scribbled in his handwriting.
He flicked on the desk lamp and sat at the computer, cracking his knuckles before diving in. First, he hacked into the camera feeds from Puente Antiguo. The town security cams, a few ATMs, even a gas station's CCTV, piecing together timestamps from the juggernaut's rampage. The footage showed the armored figure bursting from an alley, buildings crumbling in his path like paper. Mark isolated the clearest frame and printed it out, the inkjet whirring as the image emerged.
He pinned it to the board on the far wall, where other photos stared back: Fred Dukes in a grainy mugshot, his massive frame barely fitting the frame; Samir captured mid-explosion from a security still; Michael Doon in a blurry photo; Alex Siska from a news clip; question marks scrawled beside Jessica Jones and Luke Cage; and now Juggernaut? with a fresh red pin.
Mutants, at least suspected mutants, that was what Mark had been investigating over the past few months. He didn't know how or why, but more and more people with powers were popping up, abilities that defied science in ways that screamed either evolution or experimentation. The mutant phenomenon was real, whispers in the news and underground forums painting them as the next step or a threat, but details were scarce. This was the second incident where he had fought one head-on—the first with Samir might have been a fluke, a lone radical, but Juggernaut's attack felt targeted, personal. If they were as powerful or in the same league as that force, he could have serious trouble on his hands, especially if organized groups were involved.
He needed to find someone who knew more about this than he did. Surely there was an expert out there—a scientist, a mutant advocate, or even SHIELD, though the thought of reaching out to Fury made his stomach turn after their last run-in. Mark leaned back in his chair, staring at the board as connections formed in his mind: Dukes and Juggernaut both unbreakable tanks, Samir with explosive powers, Doon and Siska had less dangerous powers but both were uncontrolled at the timeme. Jessica and Luke were friends, their abilities unexplained but fitting the pattern. Were they mutants too? Luke had said he got his powers in jail from some kind of experiment, but it's possible that the trauma from it had simply triggered his x gene. Jessica wasn't sure how she got hers only that they developed after the car crash that killed her family.
Pushing away from the desk, Mark paced the room, his mind whirring. Books on genetics and evolution lined one shelf but nothing concrete. He needed leads, contacts. He needed an expert that was the key.
He stopped at the window, gazing out at the Harlem lights, the city awake even at this hour. "Where do I start?" he muttered to himself.
...
Jessica woke with a pounding headache, the kind that felt like someone was drilling into her skull, and groaned as she inhaled, catching a pleasant whiff grom the sheets. The scent relaxed her into the sheets for a moment, the soft bedding tempting her to stay curled up, but she pushed against the comfort, knowing it was too easy to get lost in it. With a grunt, she shoved herself off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool hardwood as she shuffled to the bathroom, her rumpled tank top and sweatpants clinging to her from a restless night. She rummaged through Mark's medicine cabinet, popped an aspirin with a grimace, and swallowed it dry before splashing water on her face to shake off the haze.
She wandered into the next room, Mark's workshop, where he stood at a cluttered table covered with folders, loose papers, and a glowing computer screen displaying security footage stills. He was flipping through a file, his brow furrowed in concentration, but looked up when she entered. "Good morning," he said with a half-smile, leaning against the table.
"Nothing good about it," Jessica muttered, slumping into a swivel chair and kicking her legs up onto a nearby crate, the chair creaking as she spun it slowly. "When'd you get back?"
"Late last night," Mark replied, setting the file down. "When'd you break in this time?"
"Sometime in the evening," she said, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling as the chair spun lazily. "Lost track after the fifth whiskey. You been up all night again?"
Mark nodded, his eyes flicking to the board on the wall. "Yeah... got attacked yesterday."
Jessica stopped spinning abruptly, her feet hitting the floor as she sat up. "Attacked? By who?"
"Some asshole calling himself the Juggernaut," he said, gesturing to the board where a grainy photo of a massive figure in red armor and a dome helmet was pinned next to others. "I'm trying to dig up what I can on him, but it's not easy, guy's a ghost, no records, no actual name."
Jessica hummed, squinting at the board with its array of faces and question marks; Fred Dukes, Samir, Michael Doon, Alex Siska, even her own and Luke's with tentative scribbles beside them. "You're still on this whole mutant thing, huh?"
Mark rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "It's not a thing Jess, it's becoming a regular occurrence. First Samir and Fred, now this guy? Both crazy strong, all with powers. I'm not paranoid something's up."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You know, I could take a look at this for you... poke around, see what my contacts know."
His eyes lit up. "Really? You'd do—"
"Gonna have to charge you, though," she cut in, smirking. "Haven't had a case in a bit, so I need the cash. Rent doesn't pay itself."
Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course it's not free. Maybe I should start charging you for all the booze you've swiped from my stash, pretty sure you owe me a distillery by now."
Jessica snorted, spinning the chair again. "What, you want me to go homeless? I'm a charity case, Grayson—have a heart."
"Yeah, yeah, fine," Mark said, waving her off with a grin. "Not like I need the cash. Just don't expect me to cover your bar tab too."
She smirked back, propping her boots back up. "Don't worry, I'll make more progress on this than you have with your pinboard detective act."
Mark sighed, leaning back in his chair, hoping he wouldn't regret this. "Just don't get yourself in too deep Jess, guys like Juggernaut don't play nice."
Before she could reply, the police scanner on the table crackled to life, a dispatcher's voice cutting through: "All units, be advised high-speed pursuit in progress, suspect vehicle is a black sedan, heading eastbound on 125th Street, Harlem. Suspect is armed and dangerous, proceed with caution."
Mark sighed, rubbing his temples. "Guess it's back to work." He stepped behind a partition, spinning at superspeed to change into his Invincible costume, the familiar blue fabric snapping into place as he tucked his civilian clothes away.
Jessica shook her head as he moved toward the window, her voice dry but laced with concern. "You're gonna collapse from exhaustion one of these days, you know."
He flashed her a grin over his shoulder. "Somebody's gotta do it." Then he launched out the window, the glass rattling slightly as he vanished into the morning sky.
Jessica leaned back, staring at the board with its web of photos and notes, muttering to herself, "Dumbass hero complex." But a small smile tugged at her lips as she grabbed a pen and started jotting down names to call.
(AN: Trish, she hasn't been seen in a while. Yeah that's about it. Hope you enjoyed.)
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