The only light in the high-tech, windowless briefing room came from the glow of a massive holographic projector. It cast long, dancing shadows against the brushed steel walls, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the sterile air.
On the screen, a breaking news feed from New York played out in high definition.
A skyscraper was engulfed in flames, the inferno roaring like a living beast. Firefighters were on the ground, dragging hoses and shouting orders, working with a desperation that commanded respect. But the fire was too high, too hot, and the ladders couldn't reach the upper floors where shadows of people pressed against the glass.
Then, a streak of red, white, and blue tore through the smoke.
Homelander. The city's newest, most controversial guardian angel.
She descended from the sky, her cape snapping in the updraft, and smashed through a window. Moments later, she emerged, cradling a coughing child in her arms like a feather, gently lowering him to the paramedics. She went back in. Again and again.
There was, however, a noticeable pattern to her heroics. If the victim was a woman or a child, they were carried in a "princess hold," secure and gentle. If the victim was male? She dragged them out by the back of their collars, dangling them like unruly kittens until their feet hit the pavement.
The crowd didn't seem to care about the lack of chivalry for the men. They were screaming their lungs out.
"She's got another one!" someone shouted, and a wave of applause rippled through the onlookers.
On screen, Homelander landed, dust settling around her gold boots. She waved off the praise. "No, no, no," she said, her voice catching perfectly on the news mics. "I'm just doing what I can. These guys," she pointed to the exhausted, soot-covered firefighters, "they're the real heroes."
The crowd went wild. It was the perfect soundbite. She even stopped to take a selfie with a weeping civilian, her smile practiced and warm.
In the background of the shot, a group of NYPD officers stood by their cruisers, shifting their weight awkwardly from foot to foot. They looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. They knew the stats: Homelander had slaughtered entire gangs. Technically, she was a serial killer with a cape. But try arresting her now, surrounded by adoring fans and flashing cameras? It would be a PR suicide mission. So, they just stood there, hands near their belts, doing absolutely nothing.
The footage froze.
"Jessica Jones," a crisp female voice cut through the darkness.
Maria Hill stepped into the light of the projector. Her uniform was pressed, her posture rigid. She tapped a tablet, and the screen shifted from the news footage to a digital dossier.
"Originally a ninth grader at Hamilton Middle in Brooklyn. Entire family was wiped out in a car accident two years ago. She was the sole survivor, comatose for six months. After waking up, she was adopted by the Jones family and transferred to Midtown High. Currently a tenth grader."
Hill swiped the screen. "One month ago, she made her debut as 'Homelander,' breaking up a gang deal in Hell's Kitchen. Since then, she has dismantled four gangs, disrupted twelve underground transactions, resolved twenty-five public safety incidents, and saved over two hundred lives."
A bald man sitting in the shadows of the room's only leather chair leaned forward. His leather trench coat creaked. Nick Fury, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., stared at the girl on the screen with his one good eye.
"Stats?" Fury rumbled.
"Impressive," Hill replied without missing a beat. "Superhuman strength, high durability—she can shrug off small-caliber rifle fire like it's rain—and flight. We clock her top air speed at around sixty miles per hour."
"And her temperament?"
"Gentle with civilians. Zero incidents of collateral damage or friendly fire," Hill noted. "But she is absolutely ruthless with criminals. For petty theft or smash-and-grabs, she breaks bones—hands, legs. But for human trafficking or drug dealing? She leaves no survivors."
Hill paused, looking at the number on the screen. "Her kill count is over two hundred. It's almost neck-and-neck with the number of people she's saved. However, psychological profiling suggests she's rational, not antisocial. Threat level is currently assessed as a C."
Fury rubbed his chin, the stubble rasping against his hand. "Have we figured out where the hell this power came from?"
"We have a working theory," Hill said. "The car accident two years ago. The other vehicle was a transport truck."
She brought up a redacted military file. "It belonged to the Air Force, but the cargo was coming from an Army research institute. The officer in charge of the project was General Thaddeus Ross."
Fury's eye narrowed. "Ross? You mean the 'Super Soldier' obsession?"
"Exactly," Hill nodded. "We suspect the truck wasn't carrying standard chemicals. It was likely transporting the same unstable variant of the Super Soldier Serum that Ross used on Emil Blonsky."
The room went silent for a moment. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew all about the Hulk incident, and they certainly knew about Blonsky's transformation into the Abomination.
"That's... surprising," Fury muttered, leaning back. "Since when does a failed serum let you fly? Can Blonsky fly now?"
"No, sir. Blonsky is grounded," Hill explained. "Our assessment is that Jessica Jones represents an anomaly. The abilities she's displaying completely overpower what we've seen from Blonsky. She was likely exposed to other variables during the accident—maybe the crash itself catalyzed the serum differently, or there's a genetic component we're missing."
Fury stared at the image of the girl wrapped in the flag, saving a child while standing on a pile of dead gangsters. It was a messy, violent, PR-friendly nightmare. Just the kind of thing he needed to keep an eye on.
"So," Fury asked, turning his gaze to Hill. "What are the odds we can bring her in?"