Chapter Text
New York was a city filled to the brim with places where someone who wanted to get lost in the crowd, could. Fall off the radar for as long as they needed to, only to be heard from when they wanted to be heard from... or when they made a mistake.
Nobody knew this better than Jessica Jones. She'd built a career of of tracking the untraceable. More than anything she'd ever done in her life, she was good at it. But part of her being good at the job was built from her own need to hide. The years she'd spent out of the sight of the public, out of sight of those she'd wronged, and out of sight of him. Truth was, if you spent a lot of your years in New York hiding from anyone who might recognize you... well, you might have a leg up on others trying to do the same. A leg up on P.I. work.
"Another?" Asked the bartender, looking at Jessica from down the bar. An older guy, but one she didn't recognize. Pot-marked and weathered skin, the kind that only people who worked by the Hudson all their lives tended to get. He was cleaning a glass, which meant she could see his hands fairly well. Calloused hands, but damaged. Fingers that had been broken a dozen times each, knuckles indented in a way that told the story of them colliding with a lot of bone in their lives.
She held up a hand in confirmation, but turned her head away from him. Loan shark or retired enforcer, she wasn't about to ask which. You didn't ask things like that in places like this.
It was a busy bar, hidden in plain sight in Brooklyn. Older than most, which allowed it to fly under the radar. If somebody actually walked into the place, they would likely realize fairly quickly that it wasn't really serving locals. Too many unique characters, larger or smaller than the average patron. Sometimes with obvious superhuman characteristics. Some were even recognizable from newspaper clippings from ten or twenty years ago, if you payed enough attention to the rogue's galleries of the average New York superheroes.
This was a safe haven. Not for the mob or a gang or supervillains, or at least not lately. Some of those types might come in and out, maybe even occasionally recruit people, but you weren't about to see people plotting the downfall of Spider-Man in these crowds.
No, this was the type of place where two-bit fourth and fifth-rate heroes and villains came to hide, or to play up their exploits to people who weren't about to turn them into the police. Most of the people in here were harmless, so washed up that they wouldn't cause harm to any of the powers that be in the city.
Hell, most hero types wouldn't even know this place existed.
Jessica was different, though. She didn't invoke the kind of reactions that others walking through the door would invoke. She was seen like the other sort that came in here, the super types that tried and failed to be heroes miserably. Or, perhaps more accurately these days considering who she associated with, the kind that came to places like this enough that she rarely caused a scene.
Jones had seniority, after all. Hell, she'd helped a lot of the down and outs in here over the years. Plus, it wasn't too many years ago that you could see her in this bar or others like it every single night. Hell... lately, she might've been in these kind of bars a bit too much.
Regardless, it was a useful reputation to have. To be able to walk between worlds.
But she wasn't there recreationally. Not tonight.
The sound of the door opening caught her attention. Watching out of the corner of her eye, she identified the man. His shoulders were wide, and he was muscular, but he walked with the gaunt of someone who had clearly suffered debilitating injuries over the course of his life. The kind that most don't come back from. Early-forties, with the kind of face that looked far more weathered. Not by years of overworking himself, but instead through a hard, hard life. His hairline receding to the point where it barely held on and was nothing but grey on the ends also matched that observation.
In a way, he was like everyone else in this bar... but what stood out compared to the others, was what he was wearing. A red jacket with a fine button-up shirt beneath it, and pants-suit jeans. The kind of outfit that doesn't seem expensive unless you knew what you were looking for.
There was the man she was looking for.
Jessica waited a bit before getting up. This guy came in here a lot, and like most bar patrons, that meant he knew and had to make introductions to nearly everyone. That also allowed her to eavesdrop a bit, get an idea of if he was playing himself up. Too many people wanted to show off when they were making money, and he matched the bill. Buying rounds, loaning money. No regard for what he'll need to save when his cash ride runs off the road.
One he inevitable settled at a table and was left to his own devices, Jessica put down the last of her sixth whiskey sour and stood.
"Hey. Hey." Came the voice of the bartender, getting her attention. "You gonna cause trouble?"
"Don't know." She replied, raising a brow and motioning toward him with her chin. "Depends on him."
"Ah, shit." Replied the older man, turning from her and heading back down the bar as if she'd just confirmed his worst fears, but wasn't about to do anything to stop it. Another secret about these types of dives? Usually, everyone was either out for themselves... or begrudged people who had money left to flaunt it.
Heading toward the man with no real attempt to hide herself, he caught her eye. "Oh, fuck me!" He echoed, voice carrying across the bar, but she was already there.
"Nope." She simply stated, grabbing the guy by the shoulder and forcing him back down in the chair. He let out an audible groan. Clearly, she had aggravated that back injury he had garnered so many years ago. She could see it in his bright, horrified eyes as she sat beside him.
"Look, Rick. You play your cards right, I leave here and you go back to your drink without me bothering you again." Reaching into her back, she pulled out a leather-bound sleeve, the kind that used to come with processed film pictures while that was still a popular thing to do. "It's not real hard to figure out what you're doing. A former stunt man running an agency for people without proper ID's or union memberships who just disappear after filming, never to be heard from again?" She clicked her tongue. "You're lucky I found out and not somebody else."
"Look! Look." He replied, panicked. "All I do is get people out. They scratch my back, I scratch theirs. That's all. I'm not running anything. It's a fair exchange of goods."
"Okay." She replied, rather blankly. A stare that was met by his own blank stare. One that searched for a reaction that wasn't there.
"You gonna tell the Spider?" He asked, sitting back in his seat pathetically.
"Rick, I don't even think he remembers who you are." She replied, bluntly. At that the man deflated, face falling into a look of despair. "Look, I get it. You're struggling. We all are. We all have our baggage. World's not a good place, it hasn't been good to either of us. I'm almost alright with what you're doing. I get second chances. I'm not here to shut you down."
"Really?" He asked, his voice somehow cutting between disbelief and hopeful with two syllables. "
"Look, I just want to know if you've seen her." With that, she opened the small sleeve and placed an image of a purple-skinned woman on the table.
"Oh fuck. Fuck no." He replied immediately, eyes going wide, sitting stark upright in his seat. "I ain't seen her, no. No, I wouldn't--" He stammered, dumbfounded. "I knew... I knew her Father. Nasty sort. Wouldn't go near him with a ten foot pole. Wouldn't be within the same borough of that sort, if I could help it. Saw too much. I wouldn't."
She studied him a moment. Hoping he was lying... but there was no sign of it.
"Okay." She finally said, moving to stand up. "You see her, you tell me. Shouldn't be hard to get my number." Moving to leave, she finally stagger-stepped, holding up one finger. "You've been lucky. You're just getting small-time players out of town. I find out you're playing ball with any of the big bad's, I will tell him. And I don't think you would last long with him now."
"No." He replied, swallowing harshly. "No, I want nothin' to do with him."
"Okay." She replied, raising her hand to give a wave. "Enjoy your drink, Rojitt."
Before she could reach the door, he yelled after her. "I hope you kill her. That guy was the nastiest sort I ever met."
"I'm not looking to kill her." She called back, before walking out the door. Her hands found the pockets of her jacket. "I'm hoping to save her."