Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SYNCHRONIZATION: 0%

An enamel-coated sink, dulled by years of grime.

Old tiles, with patches of mold creeping across their surface.

A rusty faucet dripping water no less rusty than the metal itself.

Luckily, the water didn’t always have that orange tint. You just had to turn it on in advance and let the worst of the stuff run through first.

Although…

Even if the water was always orange, Chris wouldn’t have complained.

He’d gotten used to it a long time ago.

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With an annoyed exhale, Chris set about making himself look more presentable. Well… tried to.

He didn’t have any experience, let alone proper grooming products. No creams. Not even a regular barber.

The best he could do was flatten his messy hair with a damp hand and spray on some Axe — the cheapest kind of “cologne” money could buy.

But none of that really made his life harder.

Because no one around here cared anyway.

Chris had spent his entire conscious life in Harlem, one of New York City’s most famous and storied neighborhoods.

Located in northern Manhattan, Harlem — like Hell’s Kitchen on the west side — was one of the city’s poorest and most “crime-ridden” areas.

The reasons lay in history, and in ethnic and cultural divides.

Historically, Harlem was New York’s Black neighborhood.

And it’s not that Chris — or any random sociologist — was racist. Though, saying anything like that out loud in Harlem was… unwise.

It was just history.

As strange as it sounds, America had spent a huge part of its history being outright racist. No “buts” about it.

The system of slavery here had been harsher than the one in Rome a thousand years earlier.

And the attitudes toward Black people — absurd as it seems — persisted all the way to the end of the twentieth century. Sure, slavery was abolished long ago, but racial segregation had lived on and thrived.

To the modern generation, it’s horrifying to think that only fifty years ago ordinary buses had separate seats for “Black” and “White” passengers.

And that was just one of countless examples.

Naturally, that kind of treatment had consequences. A form of enforced isolation made African Americans stick together — and so, ghettos formed.

Over time, and for a number of intertwined reasons, the Black population ended up with significantly lower incomes than other Americans. Not because of genetics, but because of the society they lived in.

Harlem was a product of that history.

A ghetto — though nowadays it barely fit the term — still with a majority-Black population.

Which is why it was almost funny that Chris was completely white.

Yes, he’d lived in Harlem his whole life. Yes, he had never set foot outside New York City.

You could say he’d absorbed the street culture from birth — and yet he was white as paper.

Brown eyes, a mop of unruly black hair. Most people would call Chris good-looking, though he personally thought of his appearance as utterly average.

Dress him up a bit, and no one would ever guess he was born in Harlem.

Back in the orphanage, when he was little, kids used to joke about it all the time.

— Ha, you were dropped off here by mistake! — A dark-skinned boy pointed a finger at Chris, eyes theatrically wide.

— We’re in an orphanage… — Chris glanced around uncertainly. — We were all dropped off.

— Oh… right… — The kids deflated around him.

Yeah…

Humor hadn’t been his strong suit as a kid. And honestly, at nineteen, not much had changed.

— Well — Chris gave himself a final once-over — good enough to go.

Throwing a change of clothes into a small bag, just in case, Chris stepped out of his tiny one-room apartment, keys in hand.

The hallway was filthy and neglected, simply because no one cared. The building itself was a crumbling three-story structure.

Still, despite the bad neighborhood and the worse condition of the place, every unit was taken.

Housing in New York was scarce.

And the fact that Chris could afford his own apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Well… he’d had help. Still did.

Locking the door, he squared his shoulders and headed for the exit. Honestly, the lock was so flimsy a single kick would break it. But there was nothing worth stealing in his place, so locking it was more symbolic than anything.

In Harlem, any self-respecting neighbor would make a point of swiping something if they saw a door left open.

Speaking of neighbors…

Something staggered into view from the stairwell.

— Hey, Jessica — Chris made an awkward attempt at small talk with his neighbor.

Jessica Jones was a pretty well-known figure in Harlem, though it was obvious she couldn’t care less about her reputation.

She had striking looks — slim, pretty, shoulder-length black hair. Usually dressed in a black leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. “Rocker chick” was an accurate description.

Though Chris would add one more…

“Hopeless drunk.”

He’d heard all kinds of rumors about Jessica Jones. Some said she was a nightmare who could send any would-be flirt flying across the street. He’d also heard about her part-time gig as a private investigator.

But to Chris, as her neighbor, she’d always just been a drunk. At any given time, she’d either have a bottle in hand or her favorite flask — and it was always filled with something strong.

Even now, she bore all the marks of a less-than-sober night.

Swaying side to side, one hand braced against the wall, the other either drinking to fight off a hangover or just keeping the party going, Jessica made her way to her office-apartment.

— Hey, Jessica — Chris tried again, since the first attempt had either been ignored or… no, she’d definitely ignored him on purpose.

— Go to hell… urghhh—

Chris flinched back just in time to avoid Jessica’s “greeting” — which would have involved getting vomit from head to toe.

Watching her unload her stomach right at another neighbor’s doorway, Chris found himself wondering for the hundredth time…

Why do you even bother talking to her?

The answer was simple.

Chris had no friends. None. And while Jessica had a serious drinking problem, she did sort of work… sometimes. The alternatives were even worse.

— Alright — Chris muttered with a twitch of his lips as he headed off to work — good luck, Jessica.

— Urrghhh—

Maybe it was time to just give up on Jessica…

SYNCHRONIZATION: 0%

Chris had no prospects, no connections. He wasn’t just an orphan — he also had a file that didn’t exactly help with career opportunities.

At eighteen, they tossed him out on the street. No money, barely a high school diploma…

Basically, Chris became homeless overnight. Before eighteen, he’d had subsidies and health insurance. After that… yeah.

But Chris did know one old man who’d, you could say, “shared the same hospital ward” with him.

Mr. Kramer — a former soldier, now a sixty-year-old retiree of Irish descent — was, like Chris, born and raised in Harlem. He was white too, so there was a bit of common ground between them.

Over the years, Kramer had managed to save a little money, investing it into a few apartments and a small corner store.

And so, when Chris found himself completely desperate, he ran into Mr. Kramer by chance — and in an unusual move for Harlem, Kramer decided to help the poor kid simply out of kindness.

He gave Chris a job in his store and charged him only a token rent until he could get on his feet.

Chris was truly grateful for that.

— Welcome… uh…

Standing at the register, Chris found himself staring at a very familiar face. Someone he’d passed by barely an hour ago.

Jessica Jones shot him a faintly irritated look before heading straight for the beer, disappearing behind the shelves. The encounter wasn’t exactly some wild coincidence — the store was literally ten meters from Chris’s apartment. No surprise there, considering both the apartment and the store had the same owner.

Chris was the only one working the shop — cashier, cleaner, and stock boy rolled into one. The job wasn’t the hardest in the world, but it was still exhausting, even for a store as small as Mr. Kramer’s.

The creak of the door pulled Chris out of his thoughts.

— Welco…me…

His smile froze for the second time that day. Jessica had been a small surprise — but these two visitors? Their intentions didn’t look good.

Two men. Both bearded, pushing forty, with faces that didn’t exactly scream “friendly.”

A lifetime in Harlem, surrounded by gangs, had taught Chris to spot criminal types.

These guys were Irish mob.

Most Harlem gangs were Black, but there were others — and these two fit that “other” category.

— Where’s Kramer? — The older one didn’t bother with pleasantries. He went straight to the only employee in sight — Chris.

— Uh… — Chris shrugged awkwardly, trying to calm his racing heart. He’d always been afraid of getting mixed up with gangs. — I don’t know…

The answer didn’t please the man. His frown deepened, and then—

— Hey, Leprechaun.

The Irishmen turned in surprise to see an irritated Jessica, beer in hand, standing behind them.

— You’re blocking the register.

The second man — probably the muscle — did not take kindly to Jessica’s choice of words.

— Bitch… — he hissed. — You even know who we are?

— You look like two Conor McGregors — Jessica smirked — if he were broke, ugly, and reeked of cheap whiskey from a mile away.

— BITCH! — The man snapped, hand diving into his jacket. But the leader raised a hand, stopping him.

— Jessica Jones, — the older man nodded slowly. — I’ve heard of you.

— Cool, — Jessica said flatly. — Now get away from the register.

— You don’t want to get involved in this business, do you? — The Irishman’s tone was sharp.

Jessica… stepped back.

With a dismissive snort, she popped the cap off her bottle with a flick of her finger and started pouring beer down her hangover.

By “this business,” the Irishman obviously meant gang disputes. And no matter how fearless Jessica was, she didn’t stick her nose into those.

— Thanks — the leader said unexpectedly before turning back to the fidgeting Chris. — So you don’t know where Kramer is?

— No — Chris shook his head instantly. — He left me the store and went out…

The man drilled Chris with a stare sharp enough to raise goosebumps, then exhaled, letting the tension slip away.

— Alright — he straightened his shoulders and… reached for the register.

— Wh-what are you doing? — Chris was stunned by the audacity.

— Taking our money — the Irishman said casually, pocketing the cash.

— That’s Mr. Kramer’s money! — Chris blurted, surprising even himself with the sudden anger despite the fear.

— Hey — Jessica spoke up, her voice quieter now. For the first time, she was addressing Chris directly — and the reason wasn’t a pleasant one. — Just let them go.

— She’s right, kid — the Irishman grinned, counting the bills as he walked toward the door. — You’ll live longer.

The door shut behind the gangsters, leaving a suffocating silence in their wake.

Chris stood frozen, stunned at how blatantly he’d just been robbed.

Jessica, surprisingly tactful for once, waited for him to process it.

— That… — Chris’s voice was hollow as he stared at the empty register — that’s Mr. Kramer’s money…

— He’ll understand — Jessica shrugged. — These idiots aren’t worth tangling with.

— I let him down — Chris muttered. — After everything he’s done for me…

— This is Harlem — Jessica tried to comfort him. Shockingly, she almost sounded sincere. — This is normal.

— No — Chris’s voice burned with sudden conviction. — This isn’t normal!

Mr. Kramer was practically the only person who’d ever reached out a hand to help him.

Yes, racketeering, robbery, and worse were part of Harlem life — but…

Chris refused to let down his only… well, friend, you could say.

— I’m getting that money back — Chris said firmly, reaching under the counter.

— Are you out of your mind? — Jessica’s jaw dropped — Do you have any idea— HOLY SH—!

Her outburst came when Chris pulled out a massive shotgun and promptly loaded two shells into it.

In Harlem, any self-respecting businessman owned a gun. Mr. Kramer had forbidden Chris from touching it — but Chris had no intention of letting down his benefactor.

— What the hell are you planning?!

— I’m just gonna give the money back — said Chris, sweating nervously. — They’ll… probably take it, right?

— This is the Irish mafia, not some random junkie with a knife! — Jessica, sobered instantly by everything that had happened, tried to talk him out of it. — Now I understand why they locked you up in the loony bin!

— How… — Chris lifted his eyes to Jessica in shock. — How do you know?!

— I’m a detective — Jessica snorted.

— What’s my name?

— Names aren’t necessary for my work — Jessica put on a deadpan face. — But fine, you can tell me your name…

Jessica’s attempt to distract the mental patient was obvious. But their first attempt at communication still gave Chris a tiny bit of encouragement.

— Christopher Wallace.

— Pffft… — Jessica stifled a laugh into her fist. — And your middle name?

Chris smiled.

— Christopher George Latore Wallace — Chris introduced himself a bit proudly.

— Hahaha… — Jessica burst out laughing. — You were named after goddamn Biggie Smalls!

Biggie Smalls, or The Notorious B.I.G., was a legendary rapper of the nineties, the voice of the streets of the entire East Coast. Born in Harlem, he was a native New Yorker through and through. For that city, Biggie Smalls was more important than Michael Jackson, more important than any other hip-hop artist.

That’s why Jessica laughed. It was, in a way, ironic — a white guy, named after the most iconic Black rapper Harlem had ever seen.

— Well, nice to meet you, Jessica — Chris smiled, shifting the shotgun into a more comfortable grip. — I’m off!

— Wait! — Jessica stared in shock as Chris disappeared into the dark alley where the two Irish mafia members had gone. — Biggie Smalls got shot…

Finding herself in the empty store, Jessica looked around, lost.

At the empty cash register.

At the spot where, just a second ago, a timid guy with the name of a Black gangster rapper had stood…

— Goddammit! — Downing the bottle in one gulp, Jessica bolted after Chris.

Maybe Jessica was a sarcastic alcoholic, but she still liked to sleep at night. And if Chris got shot…

Her half-dead conscience wouldn’t let her rest.

SYNCHRONIZATION: 1% (STAGE I)

— Well… — The lead Irishman pressed himself right up against the barrel of the shotgun with an ironic smile. — Gonna shoot?

The shotgun, shaking in hands trembling from fear.

A confident gangster.

And Chris, who had no idea what exactly he was supposed to do.

Catching up to the Irish pair had been easy. They, chatting happily, hadn’t even thought about running. As if they knew no one could ever hold them accountable. Only Chris had a different opinion about that.

Well…

He thought so until the moment the Irishmen looked at him with their cold, hostile eyes.

And that’s when Chris froze.

He realized not only had he never shot anyone, he couldn’t even fight properly! His name had always brought a smile to the faces of Harlem locals, so conflicts rarely happened. And Chris always tried to stay on the sidelines, like some distant observer.

But now he was here.

His whole body shaking, unable not only to pull the trigger, but even to speak!

And the Irishman, sensing his fear and lack of confidence, immediately started to press.

— When you take a gun in your hands — always be ready to pull the trigger — the gangster grinned maliciously. — They’re not made for wimps like you…

— I-I-I… — The stammer, caused by a surge of terror, did nothing to help Chris’s case. — I’m n-not a w-wimp…

— Then shoot — the Irishman provoked him brazenly, not even hinting at taking the weapon away. He just stood there, face to face with the shotgun. — Shoot and show your “confidence”…

— I… — Chris lowered the barrel in defeat, infinitely disappointed in himself. Of course, when he’d grabbed the shotgun from under the counter, he hadn’t actually planned to shoot, but he’d thought that maybe the threat alone would be enough.

Looks like Jessica was right.

They were gangsters, and he was — nobody…

BANG!

The sound of a single gunshot seemed to fill all space. It hit the perception of everyone present like a hammer blow.

And the one who fired wasn’t Christopher Wallace…

— Johnny! — The Irishman jumped back from the young man who had slumped to the ground, shot in the stomach. — Why the hell did you shoot him?!

— Boss — his bodyguard frowned in confusion. — He pointed a gun at you, right? Isn’t that…

— He would’ve never had the guts to shoot! — The Irishman shook his head in irritation, looking at Christopher groaning in pain. — We would’ve just broken his legs, and that’s it! Now we’ve got a corpse!…

— Then let’s get out of here — the second one nodded.

And they hurried away, leaving Chris sprawled on the ground.

— Oh God, holy shit, Virgin Mary! It’s only been two minutes!…

Jessica immediately knelt beside the weakening Chris.

The wound looked awful. The bullet had gone straight into his stomach, likely damaging his liver, and exited through his back. Chris had not only lost an organ, but was bleeding out rapidly.

— I’ll call an ambulance, Biggie Smalls! — Jessica said nervously, pulling out her phone with one hand while trying to stem the bleeding with the other. It was a pretty pointless move, as the blood was practically gushing out. — Just hang in there!…

Some people get lucky when they’re shot. Maybe you’ve heard stories of bullets stopped by an icon or some symbolic trinket. Or urban legends about a bullet passing through someone’s brain without touching anything vital.

But Chris wasn’t lucky.

The loss of blood and organ damage was killing Christopher Wallace at the fastest possible rate.

And maybe in another universe, that’s exactly how the life of this poor kid from Harlem would have ended. In some random alley, at the whim of some random thug…

But this is not that universe. Because…

God’s Hand: The Twelve Great Labors [11/12]

And Chris, ignoring Jessica’s stunned look, greedily drew a deep breath.

— What the hell… — Jessica muttered, slowly pulling her hand away from the wound. Or rather, from where it had been, because…

The wound on his stomach was gone.

Only the bloodstained clothes and Jessica’s hands bore witness to the mortal injury Chris had suffered.

SYNCHRONIZATION: 2%

Chapter Text

— What was that, anyway? — Jessica surprisingly tenderly escorted Chris to his own apartment. Just as uncharacteristically for her selfish alcoholic nature, she helped him wash his face and change his T-shirt, while Chris tried with all his might to comprehend what had happened.

— I don't know, — Chris slowly shook his head. — But I think I got shot...

— You didn't think, you did get shot, — Jessica corrected him quite mercilessly. — And you were bleeding like crazy... But then you...

— I... — Chris carefully lifted his T-shirt, slowly feeling the unblemished skin. — Healed? No... Not healed... Something way cooler...

— What a hell of a power, — Jessica squinted in approval. — So are you a mutant?

An annoying, barely audible squeal suddenly appeared at the edge of his consciousness. Chris could still hear Jessica's voice, but with each word she said, the squeal grew louder and louder, bringing with it an intensifying migraine.

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— Mu... cough... — Chris urgently cleared his throat due to an uncomfortable tickle when speaking. — ...tant?

— You know, those... — Jessica dismissively waved her hand, as if Chris should have understood. — Radioactive people...

— First time I've ever heard of them, — Chris frowned at an incredibly contradictory and strange feeling. On one hand, Jessica's confidence scratched at his mind, as she spoke of "mutants" as an everyday phenomenon, even though Chris didn't understand what she was talking about. On the other hand, with each mention of this unknown phenomenon, the migraine and discomfort in his body and mind increased. It was as if his body was telling Chris that it was better to change the subject.

— No way, — she sneered condescendingly. — They caused such a fuss in the eighties that half the world was on high alert. They almost triggered World War III. And even now, something about them pops up once in a while...

— I have no idea what you're talking about, — Chris mumbled under Jessica's penetrating gaze. — All I remember about the eighties from history books is the sexual revolution that led to the spread of HIV, topped off with the discovery of hard drugs. I don't remember any mu... ahem... radioactive people.

— Alright, I guess that's how old people feel when they see young kids who don't know what to do with vinyl records... — Jessica mumbled. Although, as a pretty good detective, she could feel in her gut that something was wrong. — Listen, do you at least know who Steve Rogers is?

— Of course, — Chris replied instantly.

— So why don't you know anything about mutants? — Jessica mumbled, puzzled. — Did something happen to your memory? Let's do a quick check. Bro?

— Don't snitch, — Chris replied automatically.

— Hip-hop?

— Love it.

— New York Knicks?

— Suck.

— Los Angeles?

— Fuck LA!...

— Okay, — she nodded wisely. — The habits and beliefs drilled in since birth are working like a charm. A typical New Yorker. Let's ask something a little harder... The Pythagorean theorem?

— Uh...

— Pi?

— Yeah...

— Perfect, — Jessica nodded to her own thoughts. — The Harlem upbringing is intact. Steve Rogers?

— Captain America.

— Tony Stark?

— A lucky son of a bitch.

— I don't get it, — Jessica muttered to herself. — How can you not know about mutants?

sBYPONIzAWBya: 2$

The pain in his temples began to take on a downright unbearable character.

If Jessica hadn't been busy with her own mini-investigation, she would have noticed the capillaries bursting in Chris's eyes.

— Well, maybe you know about, what was it... — Jessica snapped her fingers a couple of times, trying to catch the word on her tongue. — The X-Gene?

???X???D??99: 5555*

??R???&??????: 5JPI/

Ъ??J???"???(??: 238]

As soon as Jessica finished the word that was unknown to Chris's mind, a terrible sound was heard, and...

— WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

From Chris's eyes, nose, mouth, and ears...

— Now I'm covered in this shit!...

Streams of blood gushed out.

— What was that?! — A visibly angry Jessica furiously washed her face, trying to wipe Chris's blood off her own face. — Why, every time I try to have a dialogue with you, do you... do you spray me with your own blood?!

— Sorry, — the distracted Chris said on autopilot, looking for any signs of damage on his own face. — I have no idea what just happened...

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [10/12]

SYNCHRONIZATION: 2%

Oh, God...

He died.

Again.

And it hadn't even been an hour...

— You know, — Jessica said, pouting discontentedly. — I think I've come up with a name for you to protect the streets of our undeniably wonderful city! Be afraid! Tremble! Because standing guard is... Corpse-Man!

— P-f-f... — Chris couldn't hold back a laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation.

— I'm a comedic genius, what can I say, I was born this way, — she shot him a sharp look. — But don't you think dying twice in a row is a pretty alarming sign?

— Was that really death? — Chris asked, not entirely sure.

Yes, his own sensations were unmistakable, but it was one thing to assume and quite another to seriously claim that he had died twice in a row and immediately resurrected.

— Your eyes popped, you motherfucker! — Jessica yelled at him, grabbing him by the collar of his T-shirt. It was clear that the close encounter with his head practically exploding hadn't improved her mood at all. — They exploded like lightbulbs right in front of my face! It was like they shoved a high-voltage wire deep in your ass and then gave it a good jolt!...

— I don't know, — Chris shook his head. — I just... don't understand what's happening. But the last death was because of a conversation about... what was it... mm... something starting with "m"?

— "M"? — Jessica raised her eyebrows, confused. — What are you talking about?

— What do you mean?

Chris looked at Jessica in shock. She had just been talking about some radioactive people a minute ago!

— We were trying to figure out where you got your powers... — she carefully reminded him.

— And what are the theories? — Chris asked just as cautiously.

— Maybe a lab, maybe you're a descendant of some vampire or mummy, — Jessica shrugged indifferently, wincing from a completely unexpected headache. — I have no idea where you got your powers...

— What the hell... — Chris muttered, shocked. — What is happening here?!

He was absolutely sure they had been talking about... what were they talking about?

Chris had never considered himself the most talented, or the most athletic, or the smartest.

But for some reason, he was a hundred percent sure that if you put any person, no matter how much more talented, in his place — the result wouldn't change.

His "calmness," though with a significant dose of confusion, was actually commendable.

Though maybe the "resurrection" mechanism somehow dampened his emotions.

Chris was not sure of anything at all.

The ring of a phone tore both Jessica and Chris away from their not-so-simple thoughts.

Taking the phone in his hand, Chris was surprised to see the only contact saved in his book.

— Mr. Kramer is calling... — Chris nervously pursed his lips. — He's probably back because of the shot. And when he got to the store, he didn't find me, or the shotgun, or the money in the register... I have to go back and explain the situation.

— Alright, it's been fun, all that, you're a good host and the games were interesting, but... — Jessica wearily picked up her battered clothes and headed home. — I think I'm going home.

— Home? — Chris was slightly taken aback by Jessica's intention. — But I thought you...

— Chris, you're not a bad guy, — Jessica sighed, turning back to him. — But I don't need problems. And today's "hangover cure" ranks number one on my list of most teeth-grindingly awful "hangover cures." And, believe me, with my "extremely" rich experience, the situations I've been in were just... well...

— What's in second place? — A playful curiosity awoke in Chris.

— One time in Vegas, I got drunk and married some dentist, and it turned out I knocked out one of his teeth at the ceremony...

— And then what?

— I woke up, freaked out, and knocked out a few more of his teeth, — Jessica shrugged. — For some reason, there was also a lion, some Asian stoner, and Mike Tyson. Don't ask, — she raised a hand, predicting the endless stream of "hows." — I still can't connect all those events.

— Tell me more about it later, — Chris mumbled. — Maybe I'll write a screenplay and get rich... What should I call it? Maybe "The Hangover"? Sounds good!

— Who would watch that shit? — Jessica scoffed. — Your ideas are so-so...

"And I'll cut you out of the movie completely!" — Chris thought to himself, offended. — "I'll add a regular prostitute instead of you! That'll teach you not to appreciate my ideas!"

A short pause adorned their potential farewell, but Jessica decided she needed to set some clear boundaries between them.

— Chris, I usually avoid problems. Well, when I'm sober, — she corrected herself under Chris's ironic gaze. — But today, I went out for one stupid bottle of beer and ran into the Irish mob in fucking Harlem, watched you get shot, and then experienced firsthand the concept of "splatter on the face of a sick maniac a la Hannibal Lecter." I'm far from the smartest or most educated person, but even I can see that being "friends" with you is a bundle of constant, pretty dark and bloody problems. So... — She shrugged awkwardly. — I'm sorry.

— I... — Chris took a deep breath, trying to quell the disappointment in his chest. — I understand.

He himself tried to avoid problems and keep a low profile. Well, until he picked up a shotgun and followed in the footsteps of two gangsters.

Of course, Chris had hoped that from this moment on, some kind of friendship would begin...

But the circumstances had really not turned out for the best.

He had no right to cling to Jessica. After all, he was a nobody to her.

— Bye, — Jessica awkwardly turned and walked out of the apartment...

Or rather, she seemed to be about to.

Freezing in the doorway, Jessica glanced back a couple of times at his hopeful and naive, deer-like eyes. She mentally scolded herself for being overly empathetic and...

— Alright, — Jessica sighed, ignoring the smile that had grown to Chris's ears. And it was impossible to forget that in the last half hour, he had been shot, and his head had almost exploded. — Now it's clear why you were locked up in a psychiatric hospital...

— Thank you, Jessica, — the touched Chris said, the only thing that came to his mind.

In response, he only got a tired sigh.

— So, — Chris, who was now sitting across from his elderly boss, awkwardly confessed. — I got shot.

And silence...

Mr. Kramer looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

And Jessica...

— I-di-ot... — she groaned into her hands.

— You... — Kramer began cautiously. — Got shot?

— Yep, — Chris nodded like a bobblehead.

— Where?

— Right here, — Chris pointed to his whole and unharmed stomach. — And I died.

— You died, — the unflappable Mr. Kramer asked or confirmed.

— Yep.

— Are you taking your pills?

— I'm not on pills! — Chris said, offended.

— A shame...

Silence fell once again on the small backroom that served as a workspace in the store.

And it would have lasted, had Jessica not decided to take charge of the young and inexperienced superhuman.

— He's still a little shaken up because, actually... — Jessica bit her lip, trying to come up with an excuse on the fly. — I fucked him!

Silence would apparently become a tradition in their not-so-standard company...

— You fucked him, — the unflappable Mr. Kramer nodded again.

— Yeah, yeah, — Chris cooperated, under the menacing gaze of his new and only friend. — We, like... you know. Fucked really hard!

Jessica, who was cursing to herself with the dirtiest swear words, decided to take matters into her own hands.

— When he went after those thugs, I just saw him in a new light! — Jessica continued enthusiastically. — He couldn't find those pieces of shit, but when I caught up to my savior, I gave myself to him out of gratitude! And then comes the boring part, which was just hot and wild sex!...

— I even came on her face!...

And again, that damn silence, broken only by Jessica, who looked like she was about to grind her teeth into dust from anger. Apparently, Chris's last comment didn't sit well with her.

And Mr. Kramer commented on it with just one word...

— ... Alright.

Chapter Text

— I'm glad for you both, of course, — Mr. Kramer scoffed, rather skeptically, shifting his gaze from a bashfully averted-eyed Chris to an enraged Jessica. — But let's talk about the "robbery" after all...

At that moment, everything became clear. Of course, he didn't believe the hastily made-up story. What kind of moron would believe that? Especially when looking at Christopher Wallace, who couldn't even keep his hands still and looked like he couldn't hurt a fly in his daily life!

— Irish mob. Two of them. They took all the cash from the register. And... — Chris hesitated slightly. — Disappeared in an unknown direction.

— And what should we do? — Mr. Kramer mumbled, lost in thought. — We have the security camera footage, in principle... Should we call the police?

— Ha-ha-ha... — Chris immediately burst out laughing. — Ha-ha... ha? — But immediately deflated under the not-so-amused stares of Jessica and Kramer. — Wait, are you serious?!

— What's the problem? — Mr. Kramer frowned.

— What's the point of the police, they're as useless as... — Chris couldn't find the right words, so he immediately gave up. — Fine, do what you want.

Chris didn't have the brightest opinion of any government representatives.

First, he grew up in the very bottom of the American ghetto, full of "gangster" notions and various stereotypes that didn't just appear out of nowhere. Chris was white, but he grew up among Black people. And no matter what anyone thought, both the police and the "ghetto" had fair — well, depending on how you looked at it — grievances against each other. You could say that his fear of the police was a conditioned reflex, instilled in him "with his mother's milk." Even if he hadn't done anything illegal.

Second, he had his own, not insignificant, complaints against the "state apparatus." Although, again, it depended on how you looked at it. Chris had been an orphan since birth, so he was in the care of the state. And many would tell him to be grateful for even what he got, but Chris experienced the difference in the social structure firsthand. Let's just say, two orphanages, one located in Harlem — the poorest and most dangerous district of New York — and the other on Long Island — the wealthiest part of the city — were different. Very different. Even if on paper their budgets were supposed to be equal.

Don't think there's no corruption in the USA. It's everywhere.

But these specific complaints were purely "subconscious." Because, in fact, the state did support him until he came of age. But "how" it did so...

In short, Chris was biased against any cog in the state machine. Simply because the environment in which he grew up imposed its point of view on him.

— The police won't get involved in a gang dispute, — Jessica shook her head. — Especially when the only victim is one pensioner and his cash, and no bodies appeared, — the girl cast a discreet glance at Chris. — Almost no bodies appeared.

— True, — Mr. Kramer confirmed. — They'll come, make a report, start a case, but later... It'll just die out.

A collective sigh expressed their shared opinion of the imperfect government apparatus.

— There's one thing I don't get, old man, — Jessica frowned, trying to formulate her thought... more tactfully. But tact and Jessica were two completely different things. — What the hell did they decide to mess with you for? They're Irish, you're Irish... Doesn't that at least put you on the same side of the barricades?

— Oh, Jessica, — Kramer clicked his tongue emphatically. — I think you don't understand something. I'm Irish. And they are just stupid curs who bugger each other up the ass.

— Uh-huh, uh-huh, — Jessica nodded with a smile. — I think I see what the deal is here...

— Everything I've achieved, I've achieved with my own two hands! — His hands clenched into fists. — With honest work! With blood, sweat, and tears! And those bastards are just parasites who've convinced themselves that since I'm Irish, I need their "protection"! — Kramer exhaled his pent-up anger. — Basically, they came to me, offered "help" for a percentage, and I told them to go suck each other off...

— I guess they didn't like your offer, — Jessica nodded.

— They're probably homophobic, — Chris shrugged and shook his head. — But Mr. Kramer's offer came from the bottom of his heart! And they, geez...

— I'll close the store for today, — Kramer pursed his lips. — We'll see what we can do. I'll call you when I need you to come in.

— I'm not fired, am I?

— No, — Mr. Kramer smiled. — You did everything perfectly. Although, it's better not to do that next time. They might shoot you...

— Yeah, — Chris smiled a little awkwardly.

Walking out of the store, Jessica and Chris came to a single conclusion. They needed to take a walk and clear their heads. And at the same time, get to know each other better, now that they were "friends."

— The old man likes you, — Jessica cast a searching look at him. — How did you two meet?

— We were in the same psychiatric hospital, — Chris answered after a slight pause. — He had PTSD...

— Right, he's a Vietnam veteran, — Jessica nodded to her own thoughts and made a cautious attempt to learn about Chris. — And why were you in there?...

— I... — Chris nervously pursed his lips, trying to calm his racing heart. — Little things, here and there...

— They don't put you in places like that for "little things," — Jessica pointed out fairly. — Especially since you were there for four years. From fourteen to eighteen. And later, in an incredibly surprising way, you were "cured" right at the moment you came of age, when the state health insurance for orphans runs out. I know our messed-up system...

— I told you, it's nothing special! — The annoyed Chris snapped back.

— Settle down, — Jessica held up her hands in a gesture of peace. — I'm just trying to understand the nature of your abilities. Maybe it's a typical scenario with a super-duper-scary hospital run by a mad scientist-maniac?

— Hold your horses, — Chris shook his head. — I was in the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. And nothing "incredibly creepy" happened there. People were people, doctors were doctors...

— Well, if you think about it, you couldn't have known where you got your powers. To activate them, you had to, well... — Jessica shrugged. — Die, something like that. But immortality is cool too!

— Not immortality, — Chris shook his head in denial. — I have ten lives left.

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [10/12]

SYNCHRONIZATION: 2%

— What? — Jessica looked at him, stunned. — What do you mean, ten lives?!

— Exactly that, — Chris shrugged. — I can die nine more times.

— And then what?!

— Then, I guess, that's it? — Chris himself wasn't sure.

— You had ten lives?!

— Twelve, to be exact, — Chris corrected her. — I've already... well, used up two.

— This makes no fucking sense! — Jessica exploded in indignation. — Why exactly twelve lives?! Like you ate a cat when you were a kid, and then... a third of another cat or something?! Why so specific?! How do you know?!

— I don't know, — Chris answered, annoyed. — Or rather, I just know that I have ten lives left. Then that's it. Kaput.

— Can't you try a little harder and think about how you know that?! Who the hell knows, a divine revelation, a fortune teller, tarot cards, a seven-colored clover in a unicorn's ass or what?! Where did that number come from?!

— I don't know, — Chris replied nervously.

— Chris, come on, just try a little!...

— Fine, — Chris sighed and closed his eyelids, trying to reach out to... anything.

SYNCHRONIZATION [????????] [Rank: Legendary]: 2.98%

— Nothing... — Chris swallowed hard. Sweat soaked his T-shirt and trickled down his temples. — I don't feel anything...

Phantom [Rank: A]: God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [10/12]

Your glory and your feats have not only astonished the gods, but have also become a part of history! So receive your reward! Now you are...

— I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! — Chris grabbed his head, yelling at the top of his lungs. — I DON'T SEE ANYTHING! NO-THING! I'M FINE!

— Chris, calm down!...

— I'M NORMAL! I'M NORMAL!...

— Okay, okay, I get it! — Jessica immediately grabbed his clothes and shook him, trying to bring him back to his senses. — You're fine, Chris! You're okay!

— I'm normal? — Chris said quietly.

— Yes, you're normal, I'm normal, we're all, all normal, — Jessica said slowly, almost syllable by syllable. — I'm Jessica, remember? Your new friend...

— Friend, right, Jessica, right, — Chris swallowed the lump in his throat. — Sorry...

— It's nothing, — Jessica laughed slightly nervously. — Happens to the best of us, right?

This... incident immediately killed any mood for a walk.

Jessica, taking Chris's arm, headed home, trying not to accidentally provoke... another one of Chris's episodes. Now the part-time detective was beginning to understand the root cause of Chris's stay in the asylum.

Looking at her new "friend," Jessica decided to cheer him up and tell him a little about herself.

— I have powers too, actually.

Chris didn't react immediately, but it became clear that Jessica's "revelation" had shifted his full attention from his depressive self-loathing.

— You have powers? — Chris asked, quite skeptically.

— Yep.

— And... what kind of powers do you have? — Chris tried not to offend Jessica. — Are you, like, a super strong and super independent woman? A super-feminist?

The look Chris received from Jessica carried a significant threat. But the girl, surprisingly, did not prove her words on Chris, as she usually did.

Jessica walked over to the stove and, with unnatural ease and triviality, lifted it with one hand.

— See? — The girl rolled her eyes at Chris's gaping mouth.

— Holy shit... — Chris was taken aback. — HOLY SHIT! — He turned into a fan of superpowers. — Now it all makes sense, Jessica! Now everything is clear to me!

— What's clear? — Jessica frowned, confused.

— You actually fight crime at night! — Chris said excitedly. — And your public image is just a cover!

— What public image are you talking about?

— Well, you fight crime at night, and so no one figures it out, you pretend to be a pathetic, poor alcoholic who's not far from being a homeless bum!

Jessica, holding back the urge to throw the stove at Chris, slowly, through gritted teeth, enunciated:

— No.

— Um... — Chris smiled awkwardly. — You don't fight crime?...

— No.

— And the public image?...

— Yes.

— Got it... — Chris, trying with all his might to hide his gaze from Jessica, slowly nodded. — Well, you know, the fact that you don't care about what others think is also a superpower in its own way...

— Chris.

— Yeah?

— Shut up. Just. Shut up.

Chapter Text

The moment Chris caught his breath, his door was kicked open with a loud bang, revealing his new friend.

— We're going drinking! — Without bothering to explain the reason, Jessica closed the distance in two strides and dragged him with her.

— ...Alright.

Chris couldn't understand Jessica's sudden shift in priorities. I mean, she loved to drink, but to immediately take a new "friend" with her? Especially after such an unpleasant incident as a "panic attack"? Or maybe it was precisely because of that episode that Jessica decided to pull Chris out of his dark thoughts? Chris didn't know the exact answer to that question, but...

It felt good.

I mean, someone actually invited him to a "party"! The last time that happened was...

Actually, Chris couldn't remember the last time that happened. But even if he didn't like drinking very much, he was still all for it.

— By the way, — Chris looked around the almost empty bus with doubt — it was almost midnight, after all. — Where are we going?

— To Hell's Kitchen, — Jessica took a second to pull away from her flask, and then continued her "banquet." Yes, Jessica decided to start "drinking" even before getting off the bus. In short, typical Jessica.

— Why? — Chris persisted.

— We're going. Drinking. — Jessica gurgled, annoyed.

Hell's Kitchen. A neighborhood in the western part of Manhattan and one of the two most criminal and dangerous places in New York, along with Chris's native Harlem. Unlike "Harlem," "Hell's Kitchen" is more of a "common" nickname; the official name of the neighborhood is Clinton and Midtown West.

This place is known for its high density of restaurants and various eateries, ninety percent of which are owned by gangs. But unlike "Black" Harlem, there were gangs there for every occasion.

Both Harlem and Hell's Kitchen didn't favor each other. Sometimes, of course, they worked together—"professional activities" limited the list of potential partners—but gang wars also happened with enviable regularity.

And for Chris, a native of Harlem, even if he was white, it was quite uncomfortable in this place.

— Don't tell me... — Chris looked at Jessica with a hidden hope, who was sadly trying to squeeze a drop out of her "already" empty whiskey flask. — You liked me and now we're going on a date?! That stupid excuse you made with Mr. Kramer seemed suspicious to me right away!...

Chris immediately extinguished the fountain of his rampant imagination. Jessica just looked at him with such a condescending gaze that he immediately felt like a stupid and awkward hamster...

— Chris, you're cute, — Jessica smiled slyly. — But "cute" in the "you're going in the friend zone for the rest of your life" kind of way, not the "I'll spread my legs for you" kind of way.

— Thanks, Jessica, — Chris scratched his brow, annoyed. — You know how to cheer a guy up...

— It's a matter of age, Chris, — Jessica shrugged. — For now, you reek of poverty and virginity a mile away. Neither of those things always appeals to girls...

— I have a new idea, — Chris clenched his teeth.

— That one in the "I'm going to be very rich soon" category? — Jessica raised an eyebrow, getting off the bus with him.

— These aren't empty ideas! — Chris exploded. — Sooner or later I'll come up with my own internet business that will make me a real billionaire!

— Aww, my little Mark Zuckerberg, — Jessica cooed, leading Chris along. — So what's the idea?

— A chat exclusively for women with... — Chris gave Jessica a disgruntled look. — With a certain kind of personality.

— And what will your "magical" startup be called? — The girl asked mockingly.

— CuntChat.

— You little piece of horse... — Jessica stopped her angry tirade halfway through, as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to her. — Chris, that's it! That's your ticket off the lonely island of virginity!

— You like the idea too? — Chris looked away shyly.

— Not that stupid nonsense! — Jessica spat. — Confidence and assertiveness! Girls like that! You see, my little and inexperienced friend, — Jessica threw an arm over his shoulders. — Girls don't like kind and compliant boys... They need power! You have to show them who the real alpha male is!

— But I've always tried to be... well, gentler?...

— And where has that gotten you, huh? — Jessica raised an eyebrow in a question. — So listen up, my aspiring alpha male, when we get into the bar, you're going to have to... uh, punch someone in the face!

— But I don't know how to fight! — Chris replied with a hint of panic.

— What is there to know? — Jessica flew into a rage and, stepping back from him, crossed her arms over her chest. — Hit me!

— What do you mean... — Chris looked around the deserted alley. — Hit you?

— With all your might! — Jessica scoffed. — And don't be a wuss, I have enhanced durability!

— How enhanced? — Chris asked with doubt. — Like, you can withstand a machine gun burst?...

— Are you crazy or what? Am I Supergirl for hire?! — Jessica scoffed. — But I can take a hit from a wimp like you!

Jessica's manner of speaking had a rather toxic nature. It's not to say that Jessica Jones is a bad person, it's just... Life had left its mark on her. If anything, Chris was the weird one, who had managed to maintain his shy and insecure personality after a childhood in Harlem and four years in a psych ward.

But even so...

That didn't mean Chris wasn't annoyed by it. It pissed him off, big time!

— Fine, — with a sigh, Chris got into a boxing stance. Or at least Chris thought so. Judging by Jessica's bored gaze, Chris had failed to impress her. — Hah!...

Swinging his right arm, Chris aimed for Jessica's shoulder, but due to the initially crooked trajectory, he only managed to graze it, and then his fist flew straight into the wall behind the girl.

A second of silence and...

— Ow-ow-ow... — Chris, holding back tears, grabbed his hand, which was throbbing with unbearable pain from the collision with the wall. — Motherfucker!...

— What was that? — Jessica looked at him, stunned, unable to believe that Chris had missed an unresisting target standing a meter away from him. — Are you kidding me?!

— Go to hell, Jessica! — Chris clenched his teeth.

— Do you realize how pathetic that was?! — The situation was so absurd that Jessica couldn't even laugh. Everything was just so... terrible.

— I know! — He shouted back angrily. — I told you, I can't fight!

— That hit can't just be described as "I can't fight"! — Jessica grabbed her head.

— Go to hell! To hell! — Chris mumbled shamefully and through the pain.

— If Mike Tyson saw that punch, he would die just to roll over in his grave!...

Chris had had enough of this whole stupid situation.

First, he had truly embarrassed himself. Jessica was right, that punch was terrible.

Second, he was deafened by the pain of his fist hitting the wall.

One thing layered on top of the other and...

Chris exploded.

— A-A-A-AH! BITCH! — Swinging his left, uninjured arm, Chris hit the wall. In any other circumstances, this action would have made no sense. But Chris was "a little" special...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 6%

BOOM!

An simply incredible scene was revealed to Jessica's even more shocked gaze.

This time, Chris's fist...

With a crash and a cloud of brick debris...

Went straight through the wall of the building.

— Holy shit, — Jessica's jaw dropped.

— Holy shit, — Chris, not believing his own feat, repeated after her.

— HOLY SHIT, CHRIS!...

— Jessica, this is just holy shit!...

This time, the two friends had a surprisingly synchronized reaction. But the thing was...

— Jessica, — Chris gritted his teeth, sweating profusely. — I think I broke my hand...

— Super durability hasn't been delivered yet...

— Jessica, goddamn it, help me!

— See, that assertiveness is your key to success!

— JESSICA!

Healthcare in the USA is a whole different topic. But in short, you can come to one very sad and incredibly capitalistic conclusion...

Medicine has been occupied by private corporations.

And that meant you had to pay for healthcare. And you had to pay a lot. Health insurance is a headache for ninety-five percent of Americans.

And was there anything surprising about the fact that an orphan born in Harlem didn't have this health insurance? And that he also didn't have the money to pay for the care of a broken arm just once?...

— Five hundred bucks, — Jessica muttered, annoyed. — For a cast and a bandage!

To provide care for a broken arm, you need not only a cast, but also an X-ray, and a diagnosis from a professional. In some — especially outrageous — cases, five hundred bucks can go just to the diagnosis of a cold, and to writing a prescription. Well, in cases without health insurance.

And it was simply impossible to "cure" a broken arm for five hundred bucks.

In a normal, "official" hospital, of course.

So Jessica took Chris to an "underground" clinic, which, of course, didn't have an X-ray machine, but did have affordable medical care. Even if they had to rely on the experience and "wise" face of the old man who provided that very underground care.

As they say, it was Harlem in two thousand and seven, everyone survived as best they could.

— Thanks, Jessica, — Chris looked down at the floor, embarrassed, walking behind his friend. — I'll pay you back... I'll definitely pay you back.

Chris was choked by an all-consuming shame.

First, because of his latest screw-up, they once again couldn't just relax and have fun.

Second, Jessica had to pay for Chris's treatment, who, it should be noted, wasn't exactly rolling in money either.

In short, Christopher Wallace once again felt like a complete nobody.

— It's just money, — Jessica replied, giving him a look and scoffing. — It's fine.

— I... — Chris bit his lower lip. — I'm so sorry...

— That's enough! — She raised her voice, turning to him in annoyance. — Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve!

— What do you mean? — Chris asked, confused.

— Chris, sometimes you need to keep your thoughts to yourself! You grew up in Harlem, and that's not how we do things here! — Jessica pursed her lips. — For example, why did you try to tell Kramer about your own powers?

— Why not?...

— Because goddamn superhumans, like you or me, — Jessica nudged him quite forcefully in the chest with her finger. — Are a thorn in the side.

— Of whom?

— OF EVERYONE! — Jessica exploded. — You won't even have time to squeak before you "disappear" or end up working for someone!

— But Mr. Kramer can be trusted... — Chris continued uncertainly.

— Don't be so naive and stupid, Chris! — Jessica sighed discontentedly. — We have no right to trust everyone.

After a final look into Chris's eyes, Jessica turned and headed home. But Chris's words made her stop...

— I'm not as naive and stupid as you think, Jessica, — his words had a melancholic tone. Perhaps these words were the most sincere Jessica had ever heard from him in their short acquaintance. Words that came from the heart. — It's just that I don't have to constantly look over my shoulder, because there's nothing to take from me.

Jessica didn't turn back to Chris, but her voice became noticeably softer.

— Now there is. So... Just be more careful.

And without another word, Jessica continued walking. And Chris, who came to his senses a few seconds later, quickly caught up with his friend.

— Thanks, Jessica.

There was no answer from Jessica, but a silent "you're welcome" hung in the air.

SYNCHRONIZATION: 8%

Chapter Text

Jessica's abode, also known as her office-rental apartment, was a signature mess. You could see that there were some initial attempts to "beautify" the place — a decent, though not new, set of furniture, a desk in the center, and a cabinet for her "cases" on the side — but later, the landlady had completely given up on keeping the place tidy, giving in to her own sloppiness. There were a bunch of empty bottles of cheap alcohol and instant food wrappers on the floor, the wallpaper had started to yellow with age, and there was a persistent smell of doom in the air.

Basically, the place of residence suited its owner. Although, Chris's own apartment was different, but not by much. It wasn't a complete dump, but every detail in his apartment — from the rusty plumbing to the rotten furniture — spoke of his not-so-great financial situation. Though Chris was used to it.

And, by the way, Jessica demonstrated yet another of her superpowers. She had managed to get completely trashed.

And it should be noted that they hadn't even managed to get to any specific location, which meant Jessica had managed to get hammered literally on the way from point "A" to point "B." She also made small stops at some very old and marginalized stores that sold bootleg booze of the most horrendous quality. But Jessica didn't care due to her "super" resilience. Although this same super resilience didn't spare the owner from dreadful awakenings. Chris was the first witness to this.

The guy himself was afraid to even imagine what would happen if a completely ordinary person drank as much whiskey of that quality as Jessica had. For some reason, Chris felt that such a binge would lower his personal life count from "10" to "9."

In short...

Typical Jessica.

— We... burp... — Jessica let out a very "un-ladylike" burp in his face, with a strong aroma of stale alcohol. So much so that Chris almost threw up on his new friend on the spot. — Had a great... — Jessica's eyes darted from side to side, as if trying to find a new victim that would increase the concentration of alcohol in her blood. Of course, she had no liquor in stock. Stuff like that doesn't stick around with Jessica, although that doesn't stop her from looking for a stash that should appear out of thin air every single time. — ...time...

— Yeah, — Chris grimaced, trying to help Jessica lie down with his one good hand. — Something like that...

In response, he only heard a loud snore that made the windows rattle.

Sighing and trying to close the door more tightly — the locks on Jessica's door had long since broken, most likely due to the rowdy nature of the drunken landlady — Chris returned to his own apartment.

And since it was already almost three in the morning, Chris decided, as always, to turn on the TV and try to fall asleep to the background chatter of some random TV show.

And of course, he didn't notice how Jessica Jones opened her completely sober eyes the moment Chris disappeared into his own apartment.

The girl, quickly getting dressed, quietly left the apartment and headed in a direction only she knew. And only one single note in her phone hinted at the purpose of her little "deception."

"Manhattan Psychiatric Center."

— Shh... — Chris winced as he habitually leaned on his left arm. Sure, he was given painkillers, but a broken arm is a broken arm. He hadn't even mentioned the bruise on his right hand that he got from the "first" failed punch into the wall.

And he, to be honest, couldn't believe that all this had happened in just one day of knowing Jessica!

More had happened in just one day than in all the recent years of his sometimes monotonous, sometimes tormenting life!

First, he finally had a friend! And what a friend! Jessica Jones herself, a part-time detective, the loudest troublemaker in Harlem and, as it turned out, a real superhuman!

Second, he had... superpowers!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 8%

He could resurrect a limited number of times, and he had some kind of superhuman strength!

— But how does it work? — Chris asked himself under his breath, looking at his bandaged hands. — Is it some kind of package deal? Just...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 8%

— I... — Chris swallowed the lump in his throat. — I don't understand where I got these powers...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 8%

— No-no-no... — Chris's breathing took on a downright panicked tone. — I don't know... I don't know... I have no fucking idea... Just zero guesses...

Realizing that another breakdown was starting its countdown, Chris quickly moved to the dresser by the bed. Opening a drawer, Chris took out one of the few personal sets of things he had left from the orphanage. Not always, but sometimes they helped him to abstract from... another episode.

"Steve Rogers, the greatest hero of the USA"

Cards.

The most ordinary cards with great American figures. This pastime was very popular in his childhood. Since such cards were given with gum, even the poorest orphan could afford them. They collected them, traded them, and even held impromptu battles with their own rules, where Captain America always won, of course.

This little childhood pastime had always been his lifeline. Immersed in the world of imaginary heroes, Chris didn't think about the cramped walls of the psychiatric hospital, he didn't think about the fact that he no longer had friends, and he didn't think about his "unreal" memories...

The simplest pastime that took up all his attention.

Sighing in relief, Chris began to flip through the small stack of cards, habitually reading out all the marked faces.

— The Howling Commandos, — Chris smiled, seeing the picture with the group of soldiers. — An elite team led by the Captain, who made an invaluable contribution to the victory over the Nazi regime. It was their group that stopped Hydra led by the Red Skull...

Further on, under each team member, their name was written.

— Dum Dum Dugan, Jim Morita, Jacques Dernier, Margaret Carter... — The names of the famous heroes rolled off his tongue easily and effortlessly, because he had read their names an countless number of times. — And...

Chris stopped abruptly, frowning in confusion. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make sure that yes, he wasn't imagining it.

— Who the fuck is James Howlett?! — Chris yelled, seeing a completely new face on one of his favorite cards. — What are you doing on my collector's card, you random hairy guy?!

A sweat of genuine horror broke out on Chris's forehead. He, barely squeezing out the words, looked around and then...

Screamed.

— EXORCIST! — Chris yelled like a madman, clutching the card to his chest. Getting to his feet and ignoring the pain in his hands, Chris ran out of his apartment. — JESSICA, CALL AN EXORCIST! SOME BRUTAL CANADIAN GUY HAS POSSESSED MY COLLECTOR'S CARD! What?...

Just as he tore the door open, he ran into a rather embarrassed Jessica, who was just about to step into the stairwell. And the girl froze in an uncharacteristically shy pose, as if she had been caught doing something shameful.

— Where are you going? — Chris scratched his head, puzzled.

— For booze, — Jessica answered instantly.

Nodding and not doubting these words for a second, Chris showed Jessica the Howling Commandos card.

— Jessica, some weird shit is happening here!

— Um... — Jessica looked at the cardboard with doubt. — Cool card?

— That's not the point, Jessica! — Chris pointed frantically to a certain part of his relic. — There's a guy on here who shouldn't be!

— You mean the Asian guy? — Jessica frowned. — Chris, that's racism! I condemn this!

— I'm not talking about the Asian guy! — Chris shook his head. — Do you see James Howlett?!

— No.

— How can you not... — Chris stopped abruptly, finally seeing that the mysterious man...

Had disappeared.

— Ex-exorcist, now! — Chris yelled louder than before. — The National Guard! The Catholic Church! The fucking Ghostbusters! I don't care who, but we have to...

— Just calm down already! — Jessica yelled at him, making Chris freeze in place. — What are you even talking about?

— I was just looking at my collection, as usual, — Chris swallowed. — And then I saw a person on it who shouldn't have been there!

— By "looking" you mean... — Jessica ambiguously raised and lowered her right fist in the air.

— Go to hell, Jessica!

— Well, what else am I supposed to think?! — The girl sighed. — Who else would see some random brutal guy?

— I didn't imagine it! — Chris answered categorically. — Some guy materialized and then disappeared from the picture!

— Well, maybe he got tired, — Jessica shrugged. — What did you expect? That he would stand there all day?

— Go to hell with your Harry Potter references! — Chris grabbed his head. — He was definitely there! I'm not crazy!...

As the last sentence hung in the air, an awkward silence formed.

— I'm not crazy! — Chris said to Jessica, offended.

She sighed, took out her favorite flask, but sighed again when she realized there was nothing in it.

— Chris, you're just overtired, — she told him as if he were a child. — Today was too crazy, you died a couple of times, then you broke your arm, took painkillers... Everything just piled up on top of each other, and now you're seeing some random brutal guys.

— Really? — Chris doubted his own sanity.

— It happens to everyone, — she waved her hand. — You just need to... well, de-stress, you know? Maybe add something new to your daily routine...

— Like what?

— Well, why don't you start running in the mornings? — Jessica made a pretty sane suggestion.

— But my arm is broken, — he raised his cast with doubt.

— Well, it's not your leg, is it? — Jessica raised an eyebrow. — It helped me, for example...

— Really? — Chris raised a skeptical eyebrow. — You don't look like someone who gets up in the morning to go for a run...

— That's why you're an inexperienced virgin, and I'm on top, — Jessica scoffed. — Besides, I know a great life hack for morning runs...

— Which one?

— If you skip one day, you add half an hour to your next run.

— Oh, that sounds serious, — Chris nodded slowly. — Does it really help?

— Of course, — Jessica chuckled contentedly. — For example, tomorrow I have to run for two weeks straight...

And Chris was speechless.

Chapter Text

After seeing Jessica off with an awkward look, Chris once again stared at the collector's card with an almost x-ray gaze. But no matter how hard the guy tried, "James Howlett" never returned.

He, of course, pretended to be soothed by Jessica's words, but he didn't believe it for a second.

Chris was sure he had seen a new character on his card. And no one could convince him otherwise. He was as real as the old water stains on his door.

Maybe it's a ghost? I mean, there's a reason this "phantom" has a specific name, right? Maybe he wants to tell him something?

Sighing and putting the cards in his pocket, Chris turned to his apartment with a pause. His mood for sleep had long since left him. Well, the moment that some damn uninvited guest appeared on his favorite item. After something like that, all you want to do is go to the bathroom...

In short, deciding that a walk — the third attempt for today — wouldn't hurt, Chris decided to at least go to his workplace. It wasn't far, just a few dozen meters. Maybe Mr. Kramer was still there? In his state, he certainly couldn't carry anything, but there shouldn't be any problems with the cash register, for example. Maybe he'd even be distracted. After all, it had been a really tough day.

— Three hundred bucks, — the sleepy orderly barely yawned. — No less...

— Listen, — Jessica narrowed her eyes, suppressing the urge to just beat up the clinic worker sitting in front of her. — I'll give you a hundred. That's enough for you...

— No... — The orderly stopped abruptly and pulled back slightly when Jessica crushed the bell on the reception desk. She had turned the metal object into a piece of scrap metal with one hand. The duty officer swallowed nervously, took note, but still didn't make a scene. — Money first.

With a heavy heart and gritted teeth, Jessica handed over the crumpled bill and glared at the orderly, who had disappeared into the inner rooms.

Another hundred bucks spent on... you could say, a complete stranger.

Jessica Jones had never considered herself an altruist or someone who would help the first person she saw. "Out of the kindness of her heart" was not her style at all.

Perhaps there were moments in her life when she genuinely wanted to help people, but...

It never led to anything good. You could say that her ship, which had just set sail, called "youthful spontaneity," crashed into the rock of cruel reality.

Since then, Jessica had sworn off helping... anyone. Ever. And definitely not for free.

So why was Jessica spending her entire last fee, which was planned to turn into whiskey in the future, on some... passerby?

Jessica herself couldn't answer that question exactly.

Although, even here, she was lying to herself.

Christopher Wallace was just... like her. Not in his "puppy-dog" nature, but in his circumstances.

Jessica's childhood was far from carefree, but Chris had her beat. And he still hadn't turned out bad.

In Chris, she saw... the same kind of ship she had been, full of a raging energy for action. And she also saw the rocks on which he would inevitably and incredibly painfully break. It couldn't be any other way in their bitch of a world.

Jessica really wanted to close her eyes to it. To ignore that hopeful gaze. To just take and drown all her pangs of conscience in whiskey, as she always did. But...

Jessica, no matter how she seemed to others, was an incredibly weak person.

And here, she couldn't overcome herself.

The returning orderly with a folder in his hand pulled her out of her usual depressing thoughts.

— Read it here, in front of me, — throwing the folder in front of her, he sat down at his workstation again, returning to his game on the computer. — You can't take it with you.

— Got it, — Jessica nodded and took the folder.

Even though Jessica was a pathological alcoholic, she was proud of her "detective" skills. And to get to know a person closely, you need to know their past, their essence...

Naturally, her conscience wasn't bothering her about reading his "personal" things. She had given up her last money, saved for drinks! You could say she sacrificed a piece of her soul! For that, she deserved a reward!

So Jessica, having made the excuse of going for a drink, came to the Manhattan Psychiatric Clinic. And all for the sake of one very curious patient.

— Well, my Biggie Smalls, — Jessica purred to herself. — Show me what you're hiding from me...

Medical Record No. 1128

Name: Christopher George Lator Wallace...

— Who the hell are you? — A deeply indignant Chris addressed the group of movers at his workplace. — What are you doing?!

The end of a spontaneous walk with something extraordinary would probably become a new and integral part of his life. Otherwise, Chris couldn't explain the whole group of movers who were busily unloading everything from "his" store.

Naturally, Chris couldn't just walk past or stay silent.

— Look, kid, — the "foreman" or "brigadier" of this whole crew, holding a cigarette between his teeth, frowned. — Don't interfere with us unloading "our" property.

— What are you talking about?! — Chris started to get completely annoyed. — This store belongs to Mr. Kramer!...

— Not anymore.

The stranger's last word was like a bucket of cold water on the guy's mind. Now he began to look at the "movers" in more detail...

First, they were all white and quite "menacing." Stubble on their chins, rare tattoos and scars. And that meant the group most likely belonged to the "underground" world. And "white" gangsters were a pretty big rarity in Harlem. And that meant the Irish had returned.

— Got it, — Chris tried to control the tremor in his voice, slowly turning around. Maybe he could retreat without losses, and then regroup with Jessica...

But it was only in the movies that stupid villains...

— Stop.

A familiar voice, which pierced him to the core, made him freeze in place. Like a puppet, Chris turned his head and saw a familiar face that should have been haunting his nightmares. Well, if he had gotten any sleep tonight...

— Johnny, — the "foreman" addressed Chris's recent killer. — You know him?

— I do, — Johnny shook his head in surprise, looking at him from head to toe. — I shot him...

— In the arm? — The second guy threw another hinting glance at the cast.

— I'm not sure, — Johnny frowned. — You're coming with me...

— I-I d-don't need p-problems... — Chris stammered with great difficulty.

— I don't give a shit, — Johnny roughly grabbed his arm and led him inside the store.

Name: Christopher George Lator Wallace...

Age: 18 years old (At the time of discharge)

Sex: Male

Date of birth: August 22, 1988

Place of residence before hospitalization: Children's Home "Ray of Hope," New York, USA

Period of stay in the clinic: From 14 to 18 years old

There was nothing surprising or extraordinary in this information. Well, except for the "famous" name, of course. Jessica was still giggling to herself.

But the next section required close attention...

Medical History

Early Manifestations:

From early childhood, Christopher Wallace showed excessive imagination and fantasies, which was noted by the orphanage staff. He often spoke of an "imaginary father" who, he said, gave him advice and supported him. However, this "father" never existed in reality, as Christopher had been in the orphanage since birth. No figures who could have been a "prototype" for the "father" were ever noticed.

"A father invented out of loneliness?" — Jessica fell into thought, analyzing the data at full speed. — "It's strange, of course, but it's not a reason to put a boy in a psych ward."

To be honest, Jessica was trying to find fragments of... some kind of injustice. Some form of abuse or excessive overreach. But so far, everything was coming out quite organically...

Problems in Adolescence:

In adolescence, the patient's condition worsened. He began to experience severe and frequent headaches, which were accompanied by visual and auditory hallucinations. Christopher complained of "unreadable" inscriptions that he saw in front of his eyes and heard in his head. These hallucinations often led to severe emotional stress and anxiety.

"There it is!" — Jessica thought excitedly. — "This is the beginning!"

Jessica began to recall all the strange moments in Chris's behavior...

"Okay, so Chris having the superpower of "resurrection" is a direct sign that absolutely ALL his psychological problems have a real basis..." — Jessica closed her eyes, trying to imagine Chris in a panic attack and his reaction to her questions about his ability to resurrect. — "He definitely knows where the number "ten" in his life count comes from. Sometimes his gaze wanders or loses focus. Especially in moments when he is asked about the remaining number of lives. Maybe the "hallucinations" are the answer to this question? The number just... appears in his head or in front of his eyes. Although... in his adolescence, he couldn't decipher them. Some kind of "maturity" limitation? I don't get it..."

But the next part of his "biography" made Jessica frown with concern.

The situation was aggravated by uncontrollable fits of aggression. The patient showed sharp and unpredictable mood swings, often falling into a rage for no apparent reason. In moments of anger, he became uncontrollable, causing physical harm to himself and others. Such outbursts were the reason for Christopher Wallace's transfer to the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. In such cases, the intervention of medical staff was necessary to calm him down.

"Chris wasn't just thrown into a psych ward for no reason... And government experiments have nothing to do with it, according to the medical record." — Jessica bit her lip. — "Chris is dangerous. Genuinely dangerous to others..."

— Hmm... — The leader of the Irish gang looked at Chris with doubt. — I thought he was supposed to be dead.

— Me too! — Johnny agreed with relief, once the second person involved in "that" incident confirmed his suspicions. — The bullet definitely didn't hit his arm!

And Chris... Chris didn't give a damn about their short dialogue, which was deciding his fate.

Because in the corner of the backroom, which served as the only office, lay a corpse wrapped in garbage bags. Most of the body, along with the head, was covered in black bags, but the leather shoes, one of the few items Mr. Kramer refused to be cheap with, were visible.

— You... — Chris whispered in a hollow voice. — You killed him.

— That's right, — the leader of the Irish gang nodded. — And you're going to join him...

Taking a pistol in his hand, he pulled the trigger...

BOOM!

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [9/12]

— WHAT THE FUCK?! — The leader of the Irish gang jumped up. — Why the hell did this scumbag come back from the dead?!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 9%

Phantom [Rank: C]: Mad Enhancement

RESONANCE!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 11% (PHASE II)

— I'm going to turn you into fucking pulp! — Chris roared furiously and tried to stand up. — I'll kill you all, you bastards!

— Johnny!...

— Got it, boss!...

BOOM!

A gunshot echoed in the narrow space once again. Only this time, the gang leader and his right-hand man stood frozen with their mouths agape, as they saw the result. Because...

The bullet, which had entered Chris's forehead by a centimeter, had stopped in place. Only to fall powerlessly to the floor a second later, leaving a not-so-pretty wound behind.

— Die! — Chris roared and, in one lightning-fast lunge, closed the distance with Johnny, his first killer.

This time, the swing was perfect. Almost on an instinctive level, his fist took the most optimal route.

A fraction of a second and...

BOOM!

Johnny's head shattered like a watermelon, and his body immediately fell flat on its back.

— T-this... — The gang leader slowly retreated to the exit. — T-this...

— IS! YOUR! — A completely unhinged Chris roared at the top of his lungs. — DEATH!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 13%

Chapter Text

— I'M! GOING! — Chris was practically tearing his hair out from the flood of emotions. — TO KILL YOU!

But, as Jessica once said, the Irish mafia isn't just ordinary store robbers. They have not only experience, but also the corresponding qualifications. And stupid villains only live and thrive in movies.

Therefore, Chris, who was giving the lion's share of his strength to concentrating on a single enemy, still couldn't react in time to the actions of the leader of the Irish gang.

Because he, who had been retreating with small steps, as if from a predator, suddenly lunged for the only item that, in his opinion, could save his life.

The short-barreled shotgun that the now-deceased Johnny had left on the shelf in front of the entrance.

— YOU BASTARD! — Chris roared even louder and tensed his whole body to make a jump. His pair of dirty sneakers left noticeable marks on the old linoleum, and the jump itself almost broke the floor, but...

The gang leader managed to grab the shotgun, aim it directly at his lunging figure, and pull the trigger.

BOOM!

Chris flew in the diametrically opposite direction like an artillery shell.

In fact, it's only in movies and the various fantasies of screenwriters and directors that a shotgun blast throws an unprotected person in the direction of the shot. This is supposedly to emphasize the power and uniqueness of a weapon that is considered incredibly dangerous at such close ranges.

But in this situation, Chris's sharply increased strength and durability worked against him. The shot launched Chris with incredible speed and slammed him into the wall, from which he immediately slid down. The sight was so unnatural that the Irishman got the impression that he had shot a solid metal mannequin.

On average, a "shotgun pellet" is five to ten times more powerful than a pistol bullet in terms of pure kinetic energy. That is, if a bullet can usually pass through a body, a shotgun pellet shouldn't have that "usually." At close ranges—the gang leader and Chris were at most two meters apart—a shotgun will always penetrate the victim. And the "scattered" effect of the shot will turn the victim into a sieve.

But Chris had significantly increased his durability. He was able to withstand a point-blank pistol shot, leaving only the beginnings of a hole. However, as mentioned earlier...

A shotgun is much, much more powerful than a pistol.

— Fuck, — the Irishman cursed and immediately ran outside, starting to yell at his subordinates. — Grab the largest caliber guns, you motherfuckers! We've got a goddamn mutant here!

— Boss, where's Johnny?...

— In the next life, you motherfucker! That thing smashed his head with one fucking punch! Now grab your guns and stand in front of the store! And if anyone so much as twitches, open fire without holding back!...

But the fears of the Irish gang leader turned out to be premature. Because Chris was in no hurry to get up and remained groaning on the floor. A pool of blood spread out from under his body, and his gaze immediately lost its focus.

Yes...

In this situation, his increased "durability" played a cruel joke on him.

He was durable enough that the shot didn't penetrate him.

But not durable enough to withstand the devastating effect.

One shotgun blast had turned the insides of his torso into a real anatomical horror show.

— It's so... — Chris whimpered, barely breathing. — Painful...

He had never felt anything like it. It was as if his body had been filled with real mercury, which had then hardened and turned into daggers trying to get out. Chris simply couldn't think of any other, more painful, analogies.

But...

Somehow managing to turn his head, Chris saw Mr. Kramer's body again...

"Killed in cold blood in his own store..." — If the pain hadn't been attacking every part of his mind, Chris would have definitely started crying. — "Wrapped in garbage bags that they would probably dump in the bay..." — It seemed that the resentment for the fate of the first person who had selflessly helped Chris was starting to drown out the all-consuming pain.

— I'll... — Chris, somehow overcoming himself and almost dropping his guts on the floor, stood up, holding on to the wall. — Kill them all...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 15%

Of course, the numerous wounds didn't leave a trace of the rage that was choking his mind, but his eyes... Oh, those eyes were filled with nothing but a thirst for murder.

Slowly moving his feet and dropping his own blood on the ground, Chris approached the wide-open doors of the store. Where they were already waiting for him, fully armed.

A couple dozen people froze in stunned silence when they saw Chris's pitiful, near-corpse state. A bloody hand was tightly pressed to his stomach, serving as a makeshift seal that wouldn't let his organs fall out. A trail of blood was left behind Chris, and the hole in his forehead spoke of far, far too much...

— What are you fools standing there for?! — The boss yelled at his subordinates. — Fire! FIRE, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! Empty your magazines into him! Don't stop even if he's dead! I want every single bullet in our stashes to end up in that bastard's body!

And in the next second...

The entire street was filled with continuous automatic gunfire. And all the shots from a couple dozen assault rifles were aimed at a single, helpless target...

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [8/12]

— Okay, — Jessica, with renewed strength and a heavy mind, folded Chris's medical record and tucked it under her arm. — Is this the only copy in the archive?

— Well, yeah, — the orderly shrugged, holding out his hand to Jessica in the universal "give it back" gesture.

— And the cameras, as you said, haven't been working for a long time? — Jessica didn't cooperate.

— They haven't been working for half a year, no one's gotten around to fixing them, — the young psychiatric clinic worker scoffed. — Otherwise, would I be so calm about giving you a personal file?

— I see, — Jessica nodded and...

Turned around one hundred and eighty degrees and headed for the exit.

— H-hey! — The orderly flinched, getting up from his seat. — We had a deal! Are you crazy?! Give me the record back!

— Suck it, — Jessica gave him the middle finger over her shoulder. — The record is mine.

— I-I... I'm going to call the police right now!...

— No, you won't, — Jessica shook her head, still not turning to the orderly. — Because I had a hidden camera on me. I'll say I was checking the clinic and you'll go to jail. Say thank you that I didn't ask for my hundred back.

— W-wait!... — And realizing that the girl wasn't going to turn around, he yelled one last time. — Just don't give the recording to the police!... Please.

Of course, she didn't have a hidden camera. But a young and promising representative of the corrupt underbelly of the world was fooled by such an excuse.

Moving to a safe distance, Jessica threw the medical record into a trash can, and then threw in a few lit matches.

Watching the only copy of Chris's medical record burn in the fire, Jessica couldn't help but mumble to herself:

— You're such a great girl, Jessica, — she feigned admiration. — A real saint!

Of course, this act was done purely for Chris's well-being. Because sooner or later, with this approach, Chris would get noticed. And if it only took her a hundred bucks to get all the chronology of Chris's childhood, then more powerful and influential "interested parties" shouldn't have a problem.

In theory, this action didn't change much, as there were still doctors who made these notes, but...

It would force them to spend more energy and time. Time that Chris desperately needed to... At this point, Jessica didn't know what Clark needed to do. I mean, she was acting like a nanny, but she couldn't decide Chris's fate for the rest of his life, could she?

— What the hell is going on over there? — Jessica frowned, listening to the distant gunshots. Gunshots weren't a rarity in Harlem, of course, but it wasn't a fucking war! Especially since her house was in that direction. — Wait!...

Jessica stopped, trying to ignore the bad feeling in her chest.

Her house. Is. In. That. Direction.

The same one where Chris was.

— No way! — Jessica yelled and started running. — There's no way he got into all that again!...

***

The Ranch.

Chris had always dreamed that if he had a family, they would have a ranch. Spacious and covered in green grass.

A quiet place, free from the hustle and bustle of the city. The complete opposite of New York, which he had never left in his life.

Chris imagined himself sitting on a lonely bench and enjoying the silence...

— You're in a less than enviable position, aren't you? — An elderly but fit man sat down next to him. Even at sixty years old, and covered in wrinkles, he didn't give the impression of a wreck. More like a real farmer or cowboy with a very long history.

— Father, — Chris mumbled, barely audible.

— Right now, about sixty bullets per second are piercing your body, — the "father" continued calmly, as if he were talking about a trivial thing like the weather. — Are you going to resist?

— What's the difference?

— Is that a yes or no? — The "father" didn't fall for the provocation.

— You're not real, — Chris continued. — You're just my mind's reaction to stress and isolation.

— You don't even believe that yourself anymore, Christopher, — the elderly man chuckled. In the next second, he pointed to the sky. — Is that not real either?

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [6/12]

— I died two more times, — Chris mumbled, reading the huge inscription in the sky.

— Half of your lives gone for nothing, — the man shook his head in disapproval. — Out of your own stupidity...

— Is this your doing? — Chris pointed to the sky. — Are you the source of my... powers?

— You could say that, — the "father" nodded.

— So are you real?! Or just a figment of my imagination?! — Chris began to get annoyed.

A second of silence and...

— What's the difference? — The "father" laughed.

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [6/12]

— Ha... — Chris was breathing deeply, trying to stabilize his own hallucination-filled mind. — Ha...

The incessant series of shots from automatic rifles slowed down with each passing second. The collective adrenaline that had lasted for several minutes and several thousand bullets was replaced by hanging confusion and the beginnings of apprehension.

— What the hell? — The leader of the Irishmen mumbled and began to cautiously back away. There were so many empty shell casings that his every step echoed.

— Bullets don't affect me, — Chris smiled slightly, looking at his body, which was whole, except for numerous scratches. Looking at the horrified Irishmen, Chris grinned menacingly. — Now you're fucked.

— DIE! — One of the bandits' nerves snapped, and he pulled the trigger again. But...

The bullets at most only slightly slowed Chris down, but they left no visible marks. Even the rare shotgun blasts made him retreat and groan, but they no longer threw him back.

In the next second, under the continuous gunfire, Chris closed the distance with one of the gangsters. One hit, invisible to the human eye, and...

BOOM!

The broken and lifeless body crashed into the door of an SUV. The shattered windows and deep dent clearly spoke of the force of the blow.

— LET'S GO! — The Irish gang started to scatter in all directions and get into their cars. — LET'S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!

— I didn't say you could leave, — Chris's eyes turned vicious. — Mad Enhancement!

Phantom [Rank: C]: Mad Enhancement

The exclusive skill of berserkers, which allows them to increase their base parameters in exchange for their sanity.

It is triggered in two cases:

In response to numerous physical and psychological traumas, or by the will of the Chosen One.

Warning:

The added strength coefficient depends on the degree of loss of sanity. Be careful, Chosen One!

— NOW WE'RE GONNA PLAY!...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 33%

Chapter Text

For a fleeting moment in time, Chris felt and perceived more than he had in all his previous nineteen years of life.

The incessant chorus of gunshots tried to drown out the panicked retreat of the Irish mafia's top brass. Perhaps they had hoped for a quick getaway, but unfortunately for them, Chris could feel absolutely everything.

He could feel the hundreds of bullets that were trying to pierce his body every second. Desperately, but completely in vain. What's more, sometimes he could feel the bullets hitting him right in the eyes. It was a rather peculiar feeling, of course, but one blink was enough to get rid of the unpleasant tickle.

He felt his foot, bare because of his cheap shoes tearing apart, stepping on shards of glass and shell casings. And such a walk didn't cause any discomfort.

Incessant flashes, swearing, cries of pain...

It was all as if it wasn't happening in front of him or to him.

"Mad Enhancement" truly stripped him of his sanity, but Chris felt as if by chance, or maybe by the will of fate, he had found the perfect balance.

Every inch of his muscles — seemingly frail, but containing incredible power — was ready for action. One thought, one single hint from his mind and...

— A-A-A-AH! — A random bandit screamed as Chris, with a movement invisible to those around him, broke his legs. One simple sweep almost made him an invalid.

Chris also caught the rifle that the screaming man had dropped in mid-air. But he didn't know how to shoot and wasn't going to...

Swinging the weapon like a baseball bat, Chris aimed at a man standing nearby who was screaming hysterically.

BOOM!

Chris had never liked baseball. Or any other sport, to be honest. He had never been good at it, but...

The literal throw of the rifle was perfect. Accurate, precise, and devilishly painful. For the one Chris was aiming at, of course.

He saw the weapon spin several times in the air as if in slow motion, and then hit the unknown man's face with its hard butt. A broken nose, teeth knocked out, and possibly broken facial bones would put the bandit out of commission for a long time.

And all of this happened in a matter of a few measly seconds...

Chris had never felt so... alive. He felt like a real god.

Every movement of these Irish gangsters was in front of him, as if in the palm of his hand. Their faces frozen in grimaces of panic, their clenched teeth, or the sweat that soaked their clothes and ran down their foreheads... Nothing could escape his gaze.

Any of their movements, every bullet... Nothing could harm him.

The blows, which carried all the rage Chris had accumulated, simply... destroyed. Broke.

Killed.

And Chris wasn't exactly feeling remorse, it's just that his upbringing... had left an indelible mark on him.

Yes, in his everyday life, Chris tried not to stand out or attract attention. But that didn't mean that the naive youth didn't know what... death was.

Chris was crying. He was sobbing uncontrollably, trying to hold back the streams of snot with his hand. His appearance and wails were so pathetic that in another situation, someone would have definitely tried to comfort him. Especially since Chris was just over nine years old. He was forgiven for such things.

But all the more or less responsible people didn't have time for him. Just as they didn't have time for the other children who were crying with Chris, looking at one groaning body.

— Ha... — The dark-skinned teenager exhaled in an incredibly painful way, putting his hands on his bloody stomach. — Oh-oh-oh...

— Children's Home "Ray of Hope"! — Julia, a slightly older dark-skinned girl who was responsible for the "kindergarten," was screaming frantically into the phone. — We have a gunshot wound! Please, come as soon as possible!

Chris, like the children around him, cried even harder.

— H-he... — Chris's peer began to mumble through his sobs. — He g-got into a sh-shootout between g-gangs...

— Don't lie, — an older girl, about fourteen, bitterly refuted. — He's been hanging around with the local gang for a long time...

And Chris cried and screamed even harder, although it seemed impossible to do so. It was just that at one point, Chris realized that...

The ambulance wouldn't make it in time. It never does.

— NO! HAVE MERC...

Chris's hand hit another bandit and sent his broken body rolling across the asphalt.

And Chris didn't care at all whether this representative of the criminal world would survive. If he was lucky, he would, if not, well... Chris wouldn't cry.

Because he had a special attitude towards death.

Breathing deeply, Chris realized that at some point, the gunshots had simply stopped. Because...

There was no one left to shoot.

The lion's share had already gotten into SUVs and driven off to the docks, to their operational base. The others were either lying unconscious, or... would never wake up again.

— Is that all? — Chris whispered with a slight strain. — Did my revenge end here?!

The frenzy didn't blind his eyes, but it reminded him of its presence every single damn second. And Chris didn't want to get rid of such a powerful push to action...

Squinting his eyes, Chris realized that his vision had also received an incredible boost in development. He clearly saw the bandits panically driving away from him. And he immediately understood that he didn't want to let them go.

— I'll catch them, — Chris grinned a little crazily. — I'll catch up and finish them off!

Crouching in a sprinter's pose, Chris's toes easily sank into the hard asphalt. Tensing every bone in his body, Chris...

Jumped.

— Goddammit! — Jumps of five or more meters, and then the landing, were something Jessica never liked.

First, although you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at Jessica, she wanted to be a little cool. And her clumsy, short-lived "flights" didn't look cool from any angle.

And second, such flights attracted attention. And Jessica didn't like doing that in any way.

But because of the rising panic and anxiety, as well as the middle of the night — there was almost no traffic — she had to resort to her only ability for accelerated movement.

That is, "just" big jumps that allowed her to climb onto small buildings and then jump across rooftops.

After making another jump and then landing on the ground, Jessica listened for gunshots. The gunshots that seemed to have stopped. Although she wasn't far from the supposed "war zone"...

In the next second, a whole convoy of black SUVs drove onto the road. You could see that all the cars not only had a "criminal" character, but also a pretty good reason for a panicked escape.

— Watch where you're going, you fucking sheep! — Jessica exploded when she was almost run over.

After glaring at the escaping, most likely, bandits, and cursing to herself a couple of times, Jessica was about to continue on her way, but...

A brick landed next to her, right from the sky.

— What the hell? — Jessica mumbled. Realizing that she needed to look up, Jessica's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. — WHAT THE HELL?!

Because up there was... Chris, the motherfucking Biggie Smalls, Mr. "I can die nine more times," Wallace.

And he was...

Chasing the motherfucking convoy of cars! And the way he was doing it!...

Dressed in only a pair of jeans, which at the moment resembled shorts due to the numerous torn parts, Chris was simply digging his hands into the brick walls. As if they were made of plasticine! The young guy had suddenly acquired an simply unreal reaction and coordination, allowing him to push off any surface.

At one point, he took an incredible — much bigger and more graceful than Jessica's — jump, pushed off a wall, and then grabbed onto a fire escape.

In the next moment, Chris clung to a smooth wall, simply creating holes on the fly and grabbing onto the newly formed gaps.

And the speed of his movement was simply amazing.

Jessica didn't have time to recover from the shock before she realized that Chris was actually catching up to the cars!

— Tarzan! — Jessica shouted at the top of her lungs, trying to get Chris's attention. — Tarzan, who grew up in the urban jungle, motherfucker! Chris, you son of a bitch!

No reaction.

Chris didn't care about her yelling, or about the fact that he was... demonstrating his abilities right in the middle of the city!

Realizing that she couldn't get through to him, Jessica stood in the middle of the road and stopped the first taxi she saw. Luckily, there were plenty of them in the city, even at night. Although they refused to go to the "place of the gunshots." But now Jessica was firmly determined to "persuade" the taxi driver, whoever he was.

— Hello, — the taxi driver was a smiling Indian. — My name is Dopinder...

— I don't care! — Jessica cut him off. — Do you see that guy who's leaving a trail of dust and falling bricks behind him?!

Dopinder looked up and swallowed nervously.

— No?

— Don't lie! — Jessica jabbed him in the shoulder quite painfully. — Follow him! I'll pay double the fare!

— But I don't want to... — Dopinder stammered.

— A thousand bucks!

— I'll get you there in perfect condition!

— How am I supposed to know that the old man has some kind of undefeatable killing machine?!

After arriving at their operational base — one of the many warehouses in a special zone — the boss of the Irish mafia ordered everyone to prepare for the guest's arrival...

Because it was hard to miss a half-naked guy who was literally pushing off walls and rooftops. Very hard. Especially when in his next pirouette, he fell on the last car in the convoy like an aerial bomb, completely smashing the front of the car and then causing it to flip over.

— HE'S HERE!

Everyone present began to furiously, downright frantically, shoot at the figure that had descended from the roof of a nearby building. The fire from about forty people became an obstacle even for the undefeatable Chris, but he still, inch by inch, was approaching them...

Step by step, Chris's figure took on a downright demonic character in the eyes of the panicked bandits. With a crazed look, bloody hands, and streaks from numerous bullet wounds. He didn't need to add anything; people's imaginations filled in the details themselves.

And it was no surprise that at one point some simply... ran away. And the first "deserters" caused a real chain reaction in the form of rifles thrown on the ground and hands raised in the air.

— We surrend!...

BOOM!

Chris's hand, which had covered ten meters in one lunge, pierced a bandit's head.

And in the next few minutes, Chris silently and methodically destroyed the remnants of a once-decent gang. His blows were merciless and often ended in death. Bullets didn't affect him, and the few grenades only sent him flying a short distance. Cars that people were hiding behind were flipped onto the shooters with one forceful movement.

This massacre wasn't caused by Chris.

This massacre was caused by... a Berserker.

Once again, the gunshots died down on their own. And Chris was once again among the piles of broken and groaning bodies.

Breathing deeply, Chris tried to comprehend what he had done.

Under the influence of his feelings and rage, he had mercilessly destroyed an entire gang. And even when the "Mad Enhancement" effect began to subside, although Chris was shocked by his own actions, he didn't particularly regret what he had done.

— DIE, YOU BITCH!...

With his eyes wide, Chris saw the only surviving member of the gang in the warehouse doors. The boss himself, who had...

An RPG on his shoulder.

BOOM!

The RPG rocket hit him in the chest. The explosion was so powerful that his eardrums burst, and his body was thrown with incredible speed into the bay, on the shore of which the Irishmen's base was located.

An explosion of such power almost killed Chris once again. The consequences of the numerous wounds were multiplied by the exhaustion of both his body and mind. All of this resulted in Chris, bleeding out, sinking smoothly and inexorably to the bottom.

And only the last silhouette, which jumped in right after him and reached out to him, warmed Chris's drowning mind.

"Jessica, thanks for saving my ass again..."

After that, Chris's mind refused to keep him conscious.

SYNCHRONIZATION: 39%

Chapter Text

For a long time, Chris thought that all the visions were a product of his sick mind. All these strange images, sounds that no one else heard, dreams that were too real and tangible... Chris thought it was just a disease. That the doctors were right. They said it was delirium, illusions, that his mind was just trying to cope with stress and was overloaded. But he knew! Chris knew from the very beginning that something was wrong. That this was more than just a game of his sick and lonely mind.

But could you blame the doctors who were doing their job? Could you blame people for measuring his circumstances by their own objective reality?

To them, Chris acted like a madman and looked like a madman. Who in such a situation would even assume that Chris Wallace, a little boy, an orphan from the most crime-ridden neighborhood in the city, actually had... superpowers?

Moreover, it took Chris himself nineteen whole years to realize this... incredible truth. Although, the circumstances in which he found out left much to be desired.

But now...

He could finally look the truth in the eye.

Without uncontrollable panic attacks. Without endless self-calming and self-hypnosis techniques. Just take and concentrate...

And finally, freed from the heavy psychological burden, Chris was able to examine all the details in the smallest of details. The right words came together in his mind and in front of his eyes.

SYNCHRONIZATION [Berserker ???] [Rank: Legendary]: 39.04%

Synchronization.

In the broad sense of the word, it's the process of bringing one or more different objects to a single value.

In this case, the first "object" was Chris himself. But there were questions about the second one...

[ Berserker ???]

The question marks clearly indicated that Chris wasn't ready yet. Or the "synchronization" progress wasn't at that stage yet. It's the same thing, just from a different angle

And you can't forget that the last time Chris tried to "look" in more detail — when it all ended in another panic attack — instead of "Berserker" there were only continuous question marks. That is, slowly but surely, his power was beginning to reveal itself.

[ Rank: Legendary]

But this part caused an almost instinctive recognition.

Rarity, value, call it what you want, but it became clear that this Berserker wasn't some random nobody.

Anyone who has ever played games will understand that "objects" have their own value. And something told Chris about the not-so-simple nature of the Berserker. I mean, who would have a native ability for eleven extra lives? And "legendary" sounds impressive!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 39%

Each percentage gained brought the moment of the two objects, Chris and the Berserker, merging closer.

The first percentage, which he gained when he got the gun and went after the bandits, unlocked the first "Phantom," the ability to "revive."

And all the subsequent ones served as a kind of barrier, upon overcoming which Chris became stronger.

First, it was a mere trifle. Increased power, but insufficient durability. One punch into a brick wall, and his hand, although it had gone through the object, was broken.

But as soon as Chris went off the rails and rushed at the enemies, ignoring the fleeting lives and wounds, the percentages began to grow at a frantic pace.

It was as if the Berserker himself was completely "for" such an approach. As if he had finally seen something kindred in Chris, so he put all his strength into making Chris stronger.

He still remembers that word that sounded like a gong in his mind.

"Resonance."

Apparently, a short-term process that accelerates synchronization at a certain moment under certain circumstances.

But the effect, oh...

At thirty-nine percent synchronization, Chris Wallace had turned into a full-fledged killing machine.

The strength was incredibly difficult to measure. Not because Chris himself had problems, but because there were simply no proper "devices" on hand. He easily flipped cars and even launched them into a short flight. Not to say that this feat cost him nothing, but there were no visible signs of fatigue.

Durability...

It was based on this metric that the effect of synchronization could be clearly traced. At ten percent, his durability couldn't even withstand a pistol shot. Later, a bullet from a weapon of this caliber left an unpleasant wound, but that was it. Although, a shotgun blast quickly silenced him... Well, until he died and increased the synchronization percentage again.

It got to the point where the endless automatic gunfire was like a tickle. Of course, his body was riddled with small scratches and cuts, but in that state of inadequacy, this inconvenience was lost on his mind.

The other stats were not far behind.

His reaction allowed him to react to every rustle. Chris knew when his enemy was going to shoot before that enemy even raised their weapon.

His speed wasn't far behind.

His coordination, sense of balance, and some kind of innate control over his own body allowed Chris to move across rooftops and walls of buildings. He had never done parkour before — if ten-meter jumps across buildings can be called that — but he clearly understood how much force to push off with and how much force to apply so as not to destroy such soft and pliable brick.

Just yesterday, Chris didn't know if he would have enough money for tomorrow's lunch, and today he had turned into a real machine, for which ending a human life was the same as tearing a piece of paper.

— How unpredictable life is... — Chris mumbled indistinctly to himself, because his current position barely allowed it.

Like a mummy or a fire victim, Chris was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. The numerous wounds from the RPG blast had stopped bleeding, but even the healing factor — and it turns out he has one! — couldn't heal such extensive damage. Well, in two days at least.

And for these two days, he played the helpless mummy on the couch of the always wonderful and kind Jessica Jones.

It's just...

He was kicked out of his apartment.

The deceased Mr. Kramer — not only his employer, but also his landlord — had several distant relatives who, without even organizing a proper funeral, kicked him out to the dogs. Well, yeah, they come to what is now their property, and they see a poor invalid...

In short, Jessica — the greatest and kindest, Chris emphasizes! — who was already helping him with his daily life, simply took in the young homeless man. Yes, a superhuman, but a homeless man.

At some point, it seemed strange to Chris himself that Jessica was helping him so selflessly. You can't forget that she pulled him out of the bay, where he was carried by a direct hit from an RPG round.

— One more time, — Jessica, standing in the doorway, addressed their guest in a rather annoyed and unceremonious manner. — What's your name?

Their guest was not from around here. This was clear at first glance.

Short, fit, about forty years old. Dressed impeccably in a strict suit, neat and, to a teeth-grinding degree, cultured and harmless. A true gentleman at first glance, in short, someone who shouldn't be in Harlem.

— Phil Coulson, — the man smiled easily and charmingly, pulling out an ID and presenting it to Jessica. — FBI.

At these words, the mummy pretending to be a corpse, whose name was Chris, lowered his head. Since the apartment was small, Chris could see the guest and hear his words.

FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In the US, there were two law enforcement agencies that had more... broad powers, if you will. Many have probably seen movies where fat and sloppy cops standing near a crime scene shut up when serious men in black suits come and flash their badges. Well... the FBI and the CIA were those "serious men."

— And what do you want? — Jessica's face didn't change, although Chris was trying to even breathe sparingly. The FBI's attention meant that serious people were interested in his "rampage," and not the usual indifferent cops of the ghetto.

— I would like to ask just a few simple, non-burdensome questions to Mr. Wallace and you, — Phil Coulson was a tough nut to crack. He didn't show at all that Jessica's feigned rudeness bothered him. On the contrary, against the backdrop of Phil's politeness, Jessica came across as a complete slob. But Jessica was also used to not giving a damn about all conventions, so the current situation didn't cause her any inconvenience.

— I didn't see a damn thing, — Jessica still didn't let the agent in, standing like a mountain in the doorway. — I didn't hear a damn thing. I don't know you at all. Go fuck you...

— Ahem, ahem, ahem... — Phil cleared his throat. — But according to my information, Mr. Wallace worked at the store of the late Mr. Kramer...

— Your information is outdated, or someone's been feeding you bullshit. Do you have any documents to prove it?

Of course, there were no documents! Half of the jobs in Harlem were completely unofficial. And Jessica had already asked Chris about this, the answer was that he hadn't worked anywhere officially.

— According to eyewitness information...

— According to eyewitness information, you can make up anything... — Jessica yawned, unimpressed. — In these parts, every dog has seen an alien, a unicorn, and Captain America himself in the flesh. So what, are we supposed to believe everyone now?

— But I just wanted to ask a few questions...

— We live in the freest country in the world! — Jessica proudly raised her chin. — And I have the right not only to remain silent, but also to tell you to go fuck you...

— Got it, — Phil immediately raised his hand, cutting Jessica off. — Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you...

After watching the agent leave, Jessica, closing the door, turned to the lying Chris. And her expression was no longer so brave.

— Goddammit, Chris! Could you at least for some miserable, tiny second use your brain, huh?! — The girl grabbed her head. — The fucking feds are going to start digging, and you're in deep shit!

— It's all good... — The words were completely different from how he actually felt. He didn't want to deal with law enforcement agencies at all. — Listen, I actually have an idea! We can buy some time!

— And what's that idea? — Jessica scoffed skeptically, but her face changed as soon as she heard the idea. — Listen, that might actually work! He won't even get within a hundred meters of us!

— I was just kidding when I suggested it...

— Get your ass up! We don't have much time!...

— Yes, Mr. Fury, — Phil Coulson was starting the car, holding the phone to his ear. — The suspect, to put it mildly, has no desire to cooperate... Yes... Got it...

And just as Phil pressed the gas pedal, he had to urgently pull the handbrake. Because as soon as the car started moving, a person wrapped in bandages from head to toe appeared in front of him and "ran into" his hood.

— Mr. Fury, I'll call you back, I have a situation here! — Phil urgently got out of the car and bent over the groaning body. — Why did you jump out in front of the car?! You know...

— FUCKING FEDS! — Jessica, standing two meters away from the "victim," aimed her phone camera at the two of them and screamed at the top of her lungs. — Have you completely lost it! People are being KILLED in broad daylight! Help!

Phil was so stunned by such audacity that he just froze. He wasn't angry at the situation itself, he was just... in shock at what was happening.

Meanwhile, Jessica, who was using all of her untapped acting potential, continued:

— Are these the FBI's methods, you desk rat?! Do you want to finish off a man when he's down?! This kind of thing won't fly in our neighborhood!

The stunned Phil didn't notice how the "victim," having opened one eye, reached for his hand and...

Grabbing it in an iron grip, clasped it on his own neck.

— Cough-cough-cough... — Chris, his eyes wide open, thrashed in "death" convulsions, "losing air" as dramatically as possible. — S-s-save me...

Meanwhile, the first "eyewitness," Jessica, was in no hurry to help the "dying" man, and only screamed louder for the entire street to hear, not forgetting to point the lens at the stunned Phil, whose hand was "choking" Chris.

— HE'S KILLING HIM! A-a-a-a-a! This is tyranny! Absolute tyranny by feds drunk on their own power!...

— Jessica, — Chris, standing next to her, watched the departing car with a skeptical look. — Are you sure this will work? I was just kidding when I suggested it...

— Chris, you shouldn't overestimate the stupid feds, — she rolled her eyes, counting the money in her hands. — They're just people with the same problems. No one, especially with our legal system, would want to be associated with a case like this...

— But...

— Chris, just trust your big sister Jessica, — she smirked smugly. — They're not some "all-powerful" spies, just enhanced cops. They'll just give up. And you should too... Just accept reality. Cops are stupid, that's it.

— Well... — Chris sighed deeply, not feeling as confident as Jessica looked. — Okay...

— Maria, did the data come in?

— Yes, Mr. Fury, — the woman at the computer reported briskly. — Ninety-nine percent match. This is our client...

The dark-skinned man with an eye patch looked thoughtfully at the numerous pictures of the destruction in Harlem.

— Christopher Wallace...

Chapter Text

Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division
Abbreviated as S.H.I.E.L.D.

A top-secret military government organization dedicated to global security, preventing threats to world order, and protecting humanity from supernatural, technological, and extraterrestrial dangers.

It has incredible material and human resources. It possesses exaggerated—in the opinion of many uninvolved politicians and authorities—powers and capabilities.

And it answers only to the World Security Council.

All this sounds incredibly unbelievable, but Nicholas Fury would confidently say that in reality, it's even more extraordinary.

After all, Nicholas Fury, a dark-skinned man in his forties with an eye patch, was the director of this incredible organization. Its control center, its heart, its... commander, if you will.

But upon hearing all this, many of the uninitiated would still have a question:
"Nicholas... What do you do?"
And Nicholas would confidently answer:
"Whatever is necessary."
The legal system is not perfect. It never could be.

Some incidents were so vague in their "foundation" that it was not uncommon for several legal organizations to be unable to decide who would take on the case. In most cases, such dilemmas were resolved by "superiors" in rank.
But sometimes...

Sometimes the cases were so incredible and unconventional that even generals, secretaries of state, and heads of top intelligence agencies were at a loss.
And it was at times like these that Nicholas would arrive. He would give everyone present a lollipop, ask them to wait in the hallway for their parents, and then, rolling up his sleeves, he would get to work.

But often the "complexity" or "extraordinariness" of a case was not easy to assess at first glance.
So...

The current one was not on that list.
— Six hundred dollars, — Phil Coulson pursed his lips in displeasure, rummaging through his empty wallet as if it would suddenly become full again. — And they're just gone...

— Don't worry, Phil, — Maria, working at the computer, tried to comfort him. — We've already gotten into Jessica Jones's phone, her internal network, and all her social media pages. She won't even be able to post a selfie without our knowledge. And if we're lucky, we can write off your money as "travel expenses"...

— And I think... — As soon as Nick began to speak, the entire staff fell silent. — That you're wasting resources where they're not needed. Maria, have we reconstructed the timeline of events?

Maria Hill, one of the senior officers and a liaison between the operational teams, as well as Director Fury's unofficial secretary, immediately switched to work mode. Her slender fingers tapped the keyboard with almost inhuman speed. And yes, if you're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, even your "clerical" skills must be top-notch. What can you do, high salary—high demands.

— Due to the low density of cameras in this area...

— This is northern Manhattan, — Phil frowned. — How can there be a "low density of cameras" there?

— It's Harlem, — Nicholas said, as if cutting him off. — The cameras are either not serviced, or they are serviced but then taken for parts, and so on in a loop. Maria, continue.

— So, due to the low density of cameras, it's difficult to track the supposed beginning of Christopher Wallace's "rampage," but the investigation has established that it all started with a clash between a local Irish gang and a small-time local businessman, also, by the way, of Irish descent. It all led to the fact that yesterday, at about three in the morning, the entire gang came to his store and broke into the safe with all the documentation.

— Did they manage to persuade him to "voluntarily" hand over the store?

— We assume so, — Maria nodded. — Some documents were damaged due to the shootout, but we'll resolve that issue shortly.

— And after that... — Phil pursed his lips in displeasure. — They killed the "previous" owner...

— Correct, — Maria nodded. — After questioning the few surviving gang members, it became clear that Christopher Wallace arrived at the scene on his own. He was led inside, and then...

Searching for the right files on the computer, Maria brought up the surveillance camera footage. At least the ones that captured Chris's feats.

Phil whistled in admiration, seeing the half-naked young man pushing off the walls.

— All the analysts' data on Christopher's approximate powers have been sent to your phone, Mr. Fury.

Nick just glanced at the data. He knew everything he needed at the moment, and would look at it in more detail later.

— Did you get everything you need from the surviving members of the Irish mafia?

— We assume so, — Maria answered with a lack of confidence for the first time that day. — They all have psychological disorders.

— Does Christopher have some kind of ability to influence the mind? — Phil frowned again.

— Not exactly, — Nicholas answered, smirking. — That's what happens when a fast, bulletproof, and ruthless death machine demonstrates its abilities in front of you. They just shat their pants.

— But we'll make a note, — Phil stated rather than asked.

— Naturally, — Nicholas shrugged. — After that, I pretty much know what happened. Was the gang leader, the RPG shooter, caught?

— He vanished into thin air, — Maria pursed her lips. — We're still looking for him.

— Strange...

This particular moment seemed painfully strange to Nicholas. Of course, such a representative of the criminal underworld should have emergency escape routes, but...

Where are they, and where is S.H.I.E.L.D.?

— Keep looking, don't let him get away. He could become a bargaining chip in negotiations with Christopher...

— What's the strategy, Mr. Fury? — His right-hand man, Phil, was always ready to follow his orders.

— It seems the subject doesn't want to cooperate, to put it mildly, — Nicholas sighed. — But that was to be expected...

— Do ghetto residents have such strong antagonism towards law enforcement?

— It's in their blood, — Nicholas chuckled. — What do you think, do police officers in these areas abuse their power? Do they shoot more often than in "whiter" neighborhoods? Is there a war between "poor" neighborhoods and the police?

Phil shrugged, not entirely sure.

— It depends on the specific places. And quite often, "high-profile" cases create the illusion of rights being violated...

— Answer not as a person who works for the government, but just state your thoughts.

A direct order from his immediate supervisor and ultimate authority immediately loosened Phil's tongue.

— Yes, — Phil sighed. — Police officers often exceed their authority in such places.

— And have you thought about why that happens?

— Because police officers don't want to die, — Phil answered more confidently. — They'd rather overstep their authority than let some random junkie shoot them...

— The Second Amendment to the Constitution, the Bill of Rights to bear arms, — Nicholas sighed. — Because of it, the percentage of gun ownership among civilians is indecently high, especially in the world's leading country. We have a situation where any police officer has an incredibly high chance of encountering a person with a gun. They want to use their weapon. Police officers aren't liked in the ghetto, and police officers don't like the ghetto. So we've come to the point where the antagonism between them cannot be resolved by conventional methods. Rest assured, ten years will pass and not much will change. As long as there's a high chance that any homeless person on the street has a gun on them, police officers won't stop shooting preemptively. Everyone wants to live.

— What about Christopher?...

— Like it or not, you absorb the customs and traditions of the places you grew up in, — Nicholas scoffed. — Besides, we can't give a clear forecast of his character...

— But we're already questioning the doctors who treated Christopher, right? — Phil saw Maria nod. — And, if I'm not mistaken, we were able to track Jessica Jones's recent actions. We even found the remains of the medical record...

— Not just found them, — Maria chuckled. — We managed to restore seventy percent.

— What? — Phil was surprised. — But Jones burned it, didn't she?

— Don't forget where you work, Phil, — Nicholas showed the stunned Phil computer models of the "burned" sheets. — Analysis of charcoal residue, ultraviolet and infrared photography, chemical analysis, visualization of pressure from writing, fingerprints... S.H.I.E.L.D. can restore records even from ash.

Actually, that was a slight exaggeration. It was just that the remains of the medical record didn't burn in the best way, so the specialists were able to restore as much as seventy percent. The rest would be filled in by the attending physicians.

— But what about the forecasts?

— Nothing, — Nicholas stated flatly. — Nothing remarkable or useful. All his experience is based on psychological problems and a troubled childhood. It says nothing about his character. All I saw on the cameras was impulsiveness, immaturity, an inability to control himself and calculate risks. It's too early to say anything. We need to observe him.

— But?... — Phil had been working with Nicholas for decades, so he immediately sensed the catch.

— But he has potential, — Nicholas narrowed his one eye. — For now, we observe. — Turning to Maria, Nicholas moved on to the next case. — What about Ross?

— We couldn't shake him off the trail, — Maria shook her head. — He's already assembled an operational group and is heading to Brazil.

— Bruce Banner, — Nicholas mumbled thoughtfully. — And Stark?

— We're looking, — Maria sighed. — But the Ten Rings have gone quiet and aren't showing themselves. They haven't even made any demands...

Nicholas looked thoughtfully at the pictures on the screen.

Frightening.

Extraordinary.

But containing potential. Incredible potential.

— Keep your ears open, — Nicholas finally gave the order. — Something is... happening.

A beautiful apartment.

Expensive wine.

Luxurious women.

Everything in the surrounding environment indicated that the owner was accustomed to wealth.

The expensive purple suit only emphasized the taste of the thin man in his thirties.

The only scene that stood out from this background were several men kneeling before the owner.

— Mister Kilgrave...

If Chris were here, he would definitely recognize his escaped "enemy," the former leader of the now-defunct Irish gang. And it was surprising to see him so... submissive to this man in the purple suit.

— No need for words, — Kilgrave chuckled. — You've served your purpose. Go to the bay, tie some heavy weights to yourself, and drown.

— Understood, — the gangster calmly nodded and left the hotel room. It seemed that even the suicidal order had no effect on his loyalty to the man.

Kilgrave chuckled in satisfaction and turned to the other two men.

— Did you have any problems?

— No, sir! — one of them replied cheerfully. — Plan "B" went off without a hitch! The target didn't even suspect a thing!

— Really? — Kilgrave was pleasantly surprised. — What, absolutely nothing?

— I thought he was about to cry with joy, — the first operative's partner laughed. — He was stuffing his face with "free samples"! He ate everything, didn't even leave crumbs!

— And you, of course, added the "secret" ingredient? — Kilgrave smiled even wider.

— All the tasteless poisons we could get, — he laughed. — Polonium, a little cyanide, ricin, tetrodotoxin, thallium, and ethylene glycol. Sir, to be honest, I was worried he'd drop dead right there on the street!

Kilgrave burst into self-satisfied laughter, getting up from his seat and walking to the window, which offered a view of the skyscrapers of New York.

— You shouldn't have gotten close to Jessica, Chris, — Kilgrave whispered. — Of course, you presented a few unpleasant surprises, but that's all. What are you going to do now? When your insides are burning and writhing in agony? You're strong, but that amount of poison would kill an elephant... — Kilgrave narrowed his eyes in satisfaction. — Carelessness brings consequences...

— A-A-A-AH!...

— Chris! Chris, you son of a bitch, get a hold of yourself!...

— Jessica! — Chris screamed in an inhuman voice. — I'm dying, Jessica!

— CHR-I-I-IS! — Jessica screamed...

...Standing at the closed bathroom door and knocking impatiently.

— Chris, you son of a bitch, I need to use the bathroom too!

— I knew it couldn't be this good! — A strained voice came from the other side of the door. — It can't be this perfect! "Free hot dogs, new samples," ugh! They sold me a bunch of expired crap, you damn jerks!

— How the hell did you manage that, huh?! — Jessica grabbed her head. — You can go into a subway and order a sandwich made of bullets! And then come home and, while doing crosswords, shit out a few magazines!

— I guess I'm not that good, Jessica! — Chris groaned sadly. — Hot dogs are probably my kryptonite! All superheroes need a weakness, and apparently stale food is mine!

— Chris, I need to shit! — Jessica knocked harder on the door.

— And I want to not want to shit!...

— Go fuck yourself, Chris!...

— YOU go fuck yourself, Jessica!...

Yes...

Carelessness brings consequences.

Chapter Text

Imagine you have friends...

I mean...

Why do you need to imagine that?

The vast majority of people have friends! At least, close acquaintances you can, well... hang out with. Spend time with. Have fun...

So, everyone has a certain idea of "friendship." Chris had one too, and it seemed he had a close friend now.

Well, you be the judge.

Jessica had helped Chris so, so much. If it weren't for her, Chris couldn't even imagine where he would be.

Jessica is awesome! Great and powerful! Ye-e-e-ah!...

And Chris tried to... listen to Jessica?

To be honest, the recent events were so hasty, incredible, and rapid that Chris still couldn't get his thoughts straight.

It seemed that in just a few days, he had managed to die six times, gain superpowers, a friend, and also lose his job and permanent residence.

And the only point of stability in Chris's life was Jessica. Yes, she hadn't been his acquaintance for very long, but...

It's something, isn't it?

What do you mean, "something"? Jessica is awesome! She's really cool!

Chris flinched at a particularly loud snore that came from his right. And upon closer inspection, you could see Jessica sprawled out on the bar counter, but still holding on to a bottle of whiskey. Old habits die hard, what can you do.

Chris had already gotten used to Jessica's daily - or rather, nightly - snoring. More accurately, the walls in their old house were so thin and flimsy that it was impossible not to get used to it.

But he had expected something completely different from a friendly "hangout"! Not what ended up happening...

As it turned out, Chris's regenerative factor was simply off the charts! It only took a couple of days for the numerous wounds, bruises, and contusions from the RPG blast to disappear on their own. Not even scars were left, which was strange!

In short, realizing that Chris was seemingly fully recovered, Jessica decided to combine a celebration with a walk. Finally, not encountering any obstacles or incidents along the way, the colorful duo came to a small bar called "Luke's."

And as soon as they sat their butts down at the bar counter, Jessica began ordering bottles of whiskey and immediately chugging them. She didn't talk to the bartender or Chris, she just got drunk. Literally in a couple of minutes! And then...

She fell asleep. With a half-empty bottle in her hands.

Chris had imagined hanging out with friends in different ways. But...

Definitely not like this!

— Typical Jessica, — the Asian man smirked, looking at the sleeping body. It seemed that Jessica's abnormal behavior was just everyday life for him. — At least this time she brought someone who'll pay for her. I'm tired of this drunkard leaving without paying.

Chris awkwardly looked away. And such a gesture did not escape the bartender's experienced eye.

— I see... — He pursed his lips. — Two peas in a pod, huh?!

— Okay, okay... — Chris raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. — I'll pay next time! Both for myself and for Jessica!

— Jessica's debt in this bar alone is a thousand and a half...

Chris immediately changed his tune.

— I'll pay for myself! I don't know this girl at all!...

— I know you Harlem guys! — The bartender scowled, not stopping wiping the glasses. — Soon you'll leave us without pants, you damned rascals! Someday I'll make you pay!

Looking more closely, Chris tried to... understand which social class this man belonged to. Slanted eyes, pretty white skin, in his late twenties. Pondering his "threats," Chris tried to make a not-so-confident guess:

— So you're from the Triad?

Assuming the first Asian he met belonged to the famous Asian mafia was pure racism. But, first of all, the man owned a bar in the most crime-ridden neighborhood of the city, and second, he was acting quite confidently, especially with a born troublemaker like Jessica.

But judging by the bartender's instantly reddened face, Chris had guessed wrong.

— What Triad?! — He snorted angrily. — What, if I'm Asian, I'm automatically from the Triad?! And besides, I'm Kazakh!

— Your mother's Kazakh! Kak je zaebali eti tupie pindosi! — The bartender mumbled something indistinctly under his breath.

— And what language is that? — Chris scratched his head. — Is that Russian? But you're... Kazakh, right?

— I know my question is stupid, — the bartender began to speak with a great deal of irony. — But do you Americans know a single language besides English?

— Hey, those are just stupid stereotypes! — Chris replied indignantly. — I know a little Spanish! Me puede decir dónde está el baño? Sí, este maíz es más sabroso que la Pepsi! (trans. "Can you tell me where the bathroom is? Yes, this corn is tastier than Pepsi!")

— I-I-I... I kn-know... Spanish too! — The corpse next to Chris unexpectedly came to life and joined the rather meaningless argument. — Messi es mejor que Ronaldo! Kanichiwa, kurva mazafaka! (trans. "Messi is better than Ronaldo! Hello, beautiful stranger!")

— Yes... — The bartender looked at the pair, discouraged. — What was I expecting? You Americans don't need all this meaningless nonsense, right? In your minds, the whole world revolves around you! When there's a planetary parade, America lines up first, and then all the other celestial bodies! When God created the world, the first thing he created was the USA!

— Slanderous lie! — Chris replied indignantly. — We're an international country! For example, we... uh... Jessica, you say something too!

— The Brits are cool! — The girl slurred drunkenly.

— Yeah, yeah, and they have such a cool accent!

— Ignoramuses! — The bartender grabbed his head. — The language you're speaking is English! Not American, but English! You Americans have an accent!...

It seemed that the half-full bar froze in stunned silence as the bartender let out everything he had been holding in. Until...

— Ha-ha-ha-ha...

— Oh, I can't, Yerzhan, sometimes you say the funniest things!...

— Yerzhan, wake up, it's time for work!...

— We have an accent! What else will you say? That we were a colony of England? Ha-ha-ha-ha...

The bartender had to shut up, although his red face and the veins on his forehead spoke of his true opinion of his customers' mental abilities. And that opinion was far from flattering.

— This country is beyond saving, — the bartender snorted to himself.

— Yerzhan? — Chris asked in confusion, having finished laughing. — Aren't you Luke? The bar is called "Luke's"...

— Luke is my boss, I'm his substitute, — the bartender cleared his throat. — And my name is Yerzhan, and I'm from Kazakhstan...

— K-Kazakhstan?! — Jessica "woke up" from her "sleep" again. — Give back Stark!

— Afghanistan kidnapped Stark, you stupid drunkard! — Yerzhan exploded again.

— You're gonna get it!...

— You'd have gotten it if it weren't for your friendship with Luke! Considering your debts, you'll soon become our slave!

— Okay, okay, I surrender...

The last topic of their conversation — or rather, a fierce argument between friends — made Chris look thoughtfully at the TV, where the same news story had been playing for two days.

Tony Stark had been captured by a terrorist organization called the Ten Rings.

This incident occurred during another demonstration of the latest weapons created by Stark Industries, the hegemon of American military manufacturing.

This company was founded by Howard Stark and rose during World War II. His brilliant mind allowed the man to create technologies that were years ahead of his competitors. A few decades later, Stark Industries became the top military contractor for the US, by the way, a country that spends more on its military budget than anyone else in the world.

And the founder's son, Anthony Stark, became the perfect heir to his father! He inherited not only his business acumen, but most importantly, a mind that was no less than his father's! You could say it was a real dynasty of geniuses, equipping America with the best weapons in the world!

Although...

His mind might have been a genius one, but Stark's character left much to be desired. I mean, Stark himself was just a little... spoiled. Although, he was forgiven for such things. After all, he was both a genius and charming. He regularly got drunk, slept with anyone, flaunted his luxury, and made a ton of money...

And Chris isn't jealous! Well, maybe a little... Actually. Okay, Chris was jealous of him! It seemed that Tony Stark had a perfect life, free from twists and turns and difficulties! Everything was handed to him on a silver platter! Talent, money, fame...

So, just a couple of days ago, that perfect life hit a snag. After another demonstration, Stark's convoy was attacked. And the attack was successful!

A video was playing on all channels of a bloody Tony Stark being held in a dirty basement. And all this hype became a regular and seemingly unstoppable topic of conversation.

— They'll probably pay the ransom, — Jessica began a second round of chugging liquor. This time, however, she deigned to talk. — I mean, we'll be able to get Stark out, right?

— He's done for, — Yerzhan had a completely different opinion. And unlike Jessica, he was categorical and confident in his opinion. — Afghanistan won't let him go. And they don't need the money.

— He'll get out, — Chris's confident statement made Jessica and Yerzhan look at him with surprise. — He'll definitely get out.

— Why do you think so? — The bartender frowned. — Afghanistan is made of a different cloth, kid. Neither the USSR nor the USA made them surrender. Believe me, Tony Stark, as a representative of the "Western" way of life, will become a victim. They'll never pass up such a chance...

Chris didn't know much about politics. Or history. Or, in general, much of anything. And Yerzhan, as someone from the CIS and just an experienced man, had a quite well-formed and knowledge-backed opinion on this matter.

It's just...

Chris was absolutely sure of only one thing.

— Tony Stark will get out, — even Jessica began to look at him with a hint of sobriety in her eyes, and Yerzhan, for some reason, had lost his former confidence. Chris didn't present any arguments, but the conviction in his voice was enough for ten people. — For some reason... I'm sure of it.

Chapter Text

Chris's abilities had no name. There were no instructions, either written or spoken. Yes, the inscriptions formed instantly in his mind and in front of his eyes, but there were no "notes" with these inscriptions. And you couldn't Google such things. Not even a mythical place—Chris had only heard of it in legends—like a library would help!

So it turned out that Chris had to figure out everything that was happening by himself. Personally, getting bruises and making one assumption after another until it all made sense.

In fact, this situation didn't annoy him at all. On the contrary, Chris was more inspired than ever. He was like an archaeologist at the doorstep of a lost city or a treasure trove of untold riches. After all...

His powers were incredible! He wanted to explore them again and again, hour after hour, and stumble upon new and more and more incredible details. It seemed that his gray and hopeless life would come to an end! After all, he had not only a real friend, but also powers that would allow him to... ignore most of the problems he had acquired since childhood.

Now he wouldn't be shot in some random alley. He didn't have to come up with excuses and funny anecdotes so that bandits wouldn't take his already not-so-thick wallet. And the gap in practical skills would be closed sooner or later. Just think about it, who doesn't need a super strong, super durable, and super fast employee?!

But first, he had to reach the point of researching his own powers when difficulties would arise due to a low synchronization percentage. That is, to verify his own assumptions based on the available information!

SYNCHRONIZATION [Berserker ???] [Rank: Legendary]: 39.04%

There were no changes in the "main" section—if all the inscriptions could be standardized. Well, in principle, there's nothing surprising; in these days, he only managed to heal and go to a bar with Jessica. And the main theory was the "object's thirst for action." That is, the "template" that is the source of the "percentages" wants Chris to use his powers. And to use them in certain situations, and in return, Chris would be rewarded with a higher synchronization percentage. The simple scheme: use your powers as the "berserker" wants, get more powers, and repeat until the bar reaches a hundred. And then...

Well, we'll see then.

But the comprehensive increase in physical characteristics is not the only aspect of the berserker! After all, he has skills! Or, as Chris's insanity calls them—he decided to call his abilities that, if in full, it's "schizophrenia"—a Phantom!

After all, every game character should have a standout skill! A special ability that distinguishes the character from the general gray mass!

For example, for an assassin from a game series, it's Eagle Vision. For Mario, it's a big jump. For Sonic, it's super speed and turning into a ball! Every hero needs a "super" skill or an "ultimate" ability.

And Chris has them. Well, to be more precise, the Berserker, who is transferring his abilities to Chris, has them.

Allow me to introduce the first, most incredible and useful skill of Chris:

Phantom [Rank: A]: Godhand: The Twelve Great Labors [6/12]

Your glory and your feats not only amazed the gods, but also went down in history! So receive your reward! Now you are immortal! Well, almost...

The Twelve Great Labors symbolize eleven additional lives. Don't lose them, Chosen One!

Conditions for replenishment: ???

Yes!

Phantom, baby! A super skill that gives Chris a whole eleven extra lives! An indispensable thing that allowed Chris to get on his feet at first and get rid of the most annoying complexes and psychological problems.

Just imagine what would have happened without this skill! Well, a kind of alternative branch from the real universe!

Act One: bandits enter Chris's store and take all the cash.

Act Two: Chris gets angry, gets up the courage, grabs a rifle, and follows in the footsteps of his offenders.

Act Three: Chris gets shot. He dies.

The end.

Not a very interesting story, is it?! Well, now no one has any doubts about the usefulness of this skill, right?! All people only have one chance to make a mistake, and Chris has a whole eleven! Well, five left...

Actually, that's not the best thing to brag about, but Chris doesn't have any others...

But let's not dwell on the sad!

After all, the increased synchronization percentage added an extremely important line to this skill! You could say, "life-saving" information!

Conditions for replenishment: ???

Many would say: Chris, it says nothing here! What are you happy about, huh?!

And Chris would answer that the very existence of this line says a lot! That is, Chris has some kind of secret condition under which he can replenish his lives! This skill is not a "one-time" use! It can be replenished, and possibly—Chris was very, very hopeful—exceed the limit of eleven lives!

But the problem remains relevant, yes... Chris has no idea what exactly he needs to do to replenish his lives. And something told Chris about the implied difficulty of these conditions. Just think about it, it's not a small thing, it's a whole life! Or, on the contrary, the condition is too specific. For example, eat thirty-two bananas and wash it all down with motor oil, not forgetting to ride a unicycle...

Yeah...

Chris wholeheartedly hoped that with the increased synchronization percentage, the condition would be revealed. He didn't want to drink motor oil and learn to ride a unicycle...

In general, the next skill:

Phantom [Rank: C]: Mad Enhancement

The exclusive skill of berserkers, which allows them to increase their base parameters in exchange for their sanity.

It is triggered in two cases:

In response to numerous physical and psychological traumas, or by the will of the Chosen One.

Warning:

The added strength coefficient depends on the degree of loss of sanity. Be careful, Chosen One!

An extremely useful thing! At the "edge"—that is, the perfect balance of "frenzy" and sanity—Chris was able to increase his power by about a third of the possible amount! And don't think that's not much! Imagine you can lift ten tons; another three tons will be a very noticeable bonus.

Well, the skill itself is painfully simple. Become stronger, but dumber and more aggressive.

However, there was one curious point. "Mad Enhancement" has a rank of "C," and "Godhand" has an "A." Here, the gradation is intuitively clear. Of course, Chris only has two examples in front of his eyes, but even an idiot can understand that the "importance" or "coolness" of the phantom goes down. That is, "C" or "D" is cool, but "A" is even better!

Although Chris was still not sure if Godhand was the strongest skill. I mean, the skill is of the highest level, of course, but what if there's something even cooler?

As soon as he imagined Chris, wearing sunglasses—like Neo's, of course—standing with his back to his enemies, snapping his fingers, and they explode, a joyful anticipation filled his mind...

— Is this your guy? — A low voice came from somewhere in front of Chris, but he didn't snap out of his imagination.

— What about it? — Jessica's voice had a teasing tone. — Are you jealous?

— I already feel sorry for the poor guy...

Sighing, Jessica snapped her fingers in front of the dreaming Chris.

— Earth to Chris, come in!

— Huh? — Chris came to his senses, looking around. — What?

— Meet Luke, — Jessica sighed and pointed to the new bartender. — The owner of this place...

Many have probably seen the funny picture on the internet where a fragile white girl is sitting on a couch, and behind her are a bunch of muscular dark-skinned guys. Well, Luke looked like he had stepped right out of that meme. A two-meter-tall, muscular, and bald African American who, just by his appearance, ends arguments in the bar.

— Chris Wallace, — Chris blinked and introduced himself. — Nice to meet you.

— Luke Cage, you too, — the man smiled surprisingly peacefully.

Just a few days ago, Chris might have chickened out. Seriously, next to Luke, Chris looked like a complete weakling. Unfortunately, whatever the source of his supernatural power was, it didn't add any muscle. He was a not-short but skinny guy, and he remained that way.

But now the boundaries of Chris's internal fears had significantly expanded. Just a few days ago, several dozen people were shooting at him with rifles! After that, you can't help but toughen up.

Moreover, Luke, despite his intimidating appearance, showed no signs that he disliked Chris. Although Chris subconsciously felt some kind of chemistry between Jessica and this guy. He didn't want to get involved in that, though, especially since Chris didn't see Jessica as a potential romantic interest, despite her natural beauty. Honestly, she drinks like a man, swears like a man, and lives like a man. Jessica was fundamentally different from the girl of his dreams! Just a best friend and nothing more!

— Um... — Chris asked Luke hesitantly. — Do you have any work for me?

He couldn't just live off Jessica, could he? He was embarrassed himself! And one of the main goals of this outing was to find a job.

Luke scratched his bald head in confusion, first looking at a nodding Jessica, and then at Yerzhan, who shrugged.

— What can you do? — Luke didn't just send Chris away.

— Well... — Chris shrugged with his usual look, that is, with the eyes of a naive fawn. — I'm strong. I can work as a bouncer...

Yerzhan skeptically looked Chris over and then at his boss, who was almost hitting his head on the ceiling.

— We don't need a bouncer...

— He's strong, — Jessica interjected and Luke looked at her with great surprise. The girl just shrugged in response and turned to Chris. — See those guys in the corner? Remember how you promised to beat someone up in a bar?

— I don't think I promised anything...

— Well, go pick a fight.

— Jessica! — Luke frowned indignantly.

— Don't worry... — And then she didn't forget to remind Chris. — Just no corpses!

Apparently, Luke himself was curious to see the show, so he didn't stop Chris, although he was ready to end the fight at any moment.

Taking a deep breath, Chris walked up to a pair of tough-looking bikers. Now he had to grab his balls and get a job!

— Hey, you!...

— What do you want? — The bald man in his forties frowned.

— Where are you from? — Chris tried to look independent.

— San Francisco...

— I heard that only fags and millionaires come from San Francisco, — Chris smirked, trying to keep a straight face. — And I don't see your suitcase with a million...

He was still not used to being aggressive, so he felt out of place.

— Well, yeah, — the man shrugged. — You're right.

— Wh-what? — Chris immediately lost his momentum and hunched over in confusion. — Are you a millionaire?

— No.

— Oh... — The realization began to flood Chris's mind like an endless stream. An awkward atmosphere immediately engulfed the entire bar.

Even the spectators, Jessica, Luke, and Yerzhan, tried not to look at this spot, as if Chris wasn't with them. — Oh...

— What do you want?

— I wanted to say... — Chris said as awkwardly as possible. — That's very sweet and all! You look so cute together...

— He's my brother, actually...

— Goddammit... — Chris was ready to sink into the floor. — Well, you guys... Bye!

Watching Chris return to the counter with a horrified expression, Luke, Jessica, and Yerzhan sighed.

— Couldn't you have chosen someone else? — Jessica grumbled. — Why did you go after the "rainbow" guys?!

— How was I supposed to know?!"

Chapter Text

— I'm sorry, — Luke shrugged awkwardly. — I don't think this job is for you...

Chris took a deep breath, trying to calm the fits of rage that were starting. A long-standing habit that has been failing with enviable regularity lately.

Once again, everything went wrong for him! Why is it like this, huh?!

Restless, Chris's gaze wandered over the people and objects around him with which he could... do something.

Jessica was in another phase of her endless "get drunk-fall asleep-swear-start over" cycle, specifically the "fall asleep" phase. Besides, Chris wasn't capable of doing anything bad to the girl. Just a distant thought born of an angry mind.

Yerzhan was diligently polishing another glass. Somewhere Chris had heard that a bartender shouldn't just stand there and do nothing; apparently, the customer would feel uncomfortable. But no, he wasn't a suitable target for venting aggression either.

And then Chris's focused gaze fell on the two-meter-tall African American, who was so bored he was about to spit on the ceiling.

Taking into account his size, the strange signals from his intuition, and a general urge to act, Chris immediately found his target.

Putting his elbow on the counter and holding out his palm, Chris addressed Luke:

— Arm wrestling. You and me. I'll show you my strength.

Luke blinked in confusion. Yerzhan's mouth fell open, but he didn't say anything. Only Jessica instantly woke up and, with excitement in her eyes, poured another portion of whiskey down her throat.

— Are you sure? — It seemed that Luke himself began to doubt Chris's sanity. Just think about it, Luke's arm was as thick as a young man's thigh; what the hell was an arm wrestling match?

But this hesitation only heated Chris up even more, who honestly hadn't expected such a thing from himself. Maybe it was the failure with the "fight," or Luke's natural, but no less stinging, skepticism, it didn't matter.

Chris just wanted to show that he shouldn't be underestimated.

— I'm sure, — Chris snorted, shaking his hand a couple of times, thus summoning his opponent.

— Come on, Luke, — Jessica smiled like a predator who had seen its prey. — There's nothing else to do anyway...

Sighing mournfully, but unable to contain his skepticism—Chris tried not to frown—Luke leaned over and wrapped his hand around Chris's. Even in this gesture, the inequality between their sizes was visible; Luke's hand almost swallowed Chris's.

— One... — Jessica began to count slowly. — Two...

Chris tightened his grip on Luke's hand, making the latter's eyes widen in surprise. Of course, at that moment, although Chris wasn't using his full strength potential, he could bend metal without straining. And this gesture was only intended to cheer Luke up.

To be honest, Chris didn't know why he was so enraged that he went after the bartender, who hadn't done anything to him. Except that he said he "wasn't cut out for that job." Although... It was those words, full of hidden condescension, that again awakened in him... a desire for action. Well, now he would show him what he was capable of.

— THREE!

It all happened in an instant. A brief flash in Chris's mind overshadowed his usual timidity and insecurity. For a miserable moment, there was only one desire in his mind.

To crush Luke Cage.

Luke only managed to tense his wrist before his arm, under the pressure of Chris, broke through the wooden counter. And that wasn't the end!

The impulse that Chris managed to release in a single miserable second made Luke spin in the air, following his arm. One hundred and thirty kilograms, two-plus meters tall, were instantly on the floor, hitting the drinks behind the counter.

The contrast was so great and incredible that even Yerzhan, who hadn't expected it, and even Jessica, who had expected something extraordinary, couldn't help but gape in awe, looking at the unflappable Chris with superstitious horror.

Even the unharmed—this was truly strange—Luke didn't get up immediately, but just shocked and clutched his right arm, with which Chris had a second ago made him do a near somersault in the air. As if he weighed nothing and offered no resistance! Although he tried! At some point, Luke felt like he wasn't in an arm wrestling match, but that his arm had simply been tied to a herd of elephants and they had been told to run as fast as they could.

Chris took a deep breath, trying to hold back the smile that was fighting its way onto his face. The satisfaction of self-affirmation was a very unusual feeling, but...

Incredible, just damn pleasant!

— So... — Chris watched impassively as Luke slowly got to his feet, scratching the back of his head in confusion. — Is there any work?...

This time, no one dared to say that he was not suitable for such a job.

And it was...

Just awesome.

---

— There's a place in Hell's Kitchen... — Luke was slowly tidying up his workspace. Chris, by the way—when he realized he hadn't been very nice—was helping him. — But it doesn't have a very good reputation...

The owner of the place didn't try to escalate or continue the conflict, which was even difficult to prove the existence of. Maybe he was impressed by Chris's strength, or maybe he realized that his words had been insulting, but...

He didn't get angry, and pretended that Chris was not to blame for anything.

Or maybe Luke was just a good guy.

— Do you know Weasel?

Although Chris had grown up in the ghetto, he had always tried to stay away from the underground world. As a result, he didn't know any authorities or just people who were famous in "certain" circles.

Jessica, on the other hand, knew every dog in the city. And every dog knew Jessica in return. Jessica was just... too loud. And drunk. Always loud and drunk.

— That four-eyed junkie? — The girl scoffed dismissively. — Is he still alive?

— Surprisingly, yes, — Luke chuckled. — He's owned a place like this for several years and has barely been harmed. Well, except for being stabbed a couple of times and almost shot...

— "Barely" stabbed? — Chris raised an eyebrow.

— That's par for the course there, — Luke waved his hand, pouring Chris a glass of beer in gratitude. Or maybe he wanted to smooth over any hint of a conflict, although to be honest, it was Chris who started all the mess. — For example, what do you think of my bar?

— Clean, neat, you could say respectable, — Chris tactfully ignored the hole in the counter that he himself had made. — Well, the reasons for that shouldn't be a mystery...

Naturally. Who would start a fight when there's a two-meter-tall bald bodybuilder behind the bar? People in Harlem like to fight, not get their butts kicked.

— But at Weasel's... — Luke shook his head. — I wouldn't say it's exactly Hell, but the people who gather there, mmm... They turn any place into their own.

— Mercenaries, — Jessica burped and continued. — Prostitutes, bandits, there's plenty of scum there. But the place is known as a hangout for mercenaries...

— Mercenaries? — Chris was surprised. — Like military mercenaries or...

— No, no... — Luke shook his head. — For example, some thugs are bothering you on the street, or your sister has a too-persistent suitor. You come to this bar, find the most terrifying-looking mercenary, if you're lucky, he knows how to do something, you pay him money, and voilà... He deals with your problem. Naturally, without killings. Well, "officially" at least.

— You can also buy weapons there, and a few other not-so-legal things...

This description impressed Chris. It didn't scare him—which was already progress—but it impressed him. He had always tried to stay away from crime, but now that he could protect himself... Why not? Besides, he would only be looking from the outside; his job was to guard the bar and nothing more. Well, he hoped so.

— Do they need a bouncer?

— They always need a bouncer, — Luke shrugged. — And Weasel needs help with other things, although the money is good there. To be honest, in places like that, there's a higher chance of catching a bullet to the head. If I were you, Chris, I'd think twice...

He didn't need to think twice. He had already decided. After all...

Chris wasn't afraid of a bullet to the head anymore. And there were a lot of other things he wasn't afraid of anymore.

— Can you put in a good word for me? — Chris smiled. — I owe you one...

— I'm convinced of your strength, — Luke chuckled. — And Weasel is such a character... In short, there shouldn't be a problem with hiring you. Staying in the job—that's the problem...

— I'll... — Jessica fell suspiciously silent and swallowed, seemingly trying to hold back the urge to vomit. — I'll watch him...

Luke looked at them with considerable doubt.

— Suit yourselves...

---

Chris and Jessica went to his new potential workplace right away. It was long past midnight, but places like this operate on that schedule.

A short trip to Hell's Kitchen, and Jessica as a guide—she knew all the places like this in New York like the back of her hand—led them to an alley covered in all sorts of graffiti. In the back, a basement door lit by neon light was visible. And a small sign above the entrance let all passersby know the name of the place.

"Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls"

Chris chuckled at the implied irony—judging by the presumed clientele—as he followed Jessica into the bar. And this place was fundamentally different from Luke's bar.

The bar was almost completely filled with a not-so-cultured crowd. Various bikers, criminals, junkies, and girls in nothing but their underwear walked around the smoke-filled room. The room was noisy with drunken laughter, vulgar jokes, and swearing. A very... peculiar atmosphere. Extremely peculiar...

Behind the bar counter—much messier than Luke's—stood a blond man with a beard and glasses. With an impassive look, he immediately noticed them and began to wave, beckoning them closer.

By the way, Jessica, as expected, was very well known in this place.

— Jessica! Long time no see!

— Go to hell, you bald walrus, — Jessica showed a middle finger to some bald guy in his forties.

— Ha-ha-ha-ha... Has our Jessica forgotten Papa John?!

— If I knew, I would have definitely forgotten! Now get lost in horror before I shove this bottle up your ass!

— Oh-h-h... So you like those...

Jessica didn't fulfill her promise and shove the whiskey bottle up Papa John's ass. She just, after making sure to finish the bottle, smashed it over the unknown man's head, sending him into a prolonged sleep.

The people around them reacted with approving shouts.

— Jessica, this is your element, — Chris muttered, impressed.

In response, Chris received only a middle finger, the girl's signature response.

But as she was about to approach the bar counter, another acquaintance, who apparently really knew Jessica, called out to her.

— Yo, greetings to all the drunkards!

A handsome man in his thirties, a brunette, smiled and raised his bottle toward Jessica.

— Wade Wilson! — Jessica smirked. — I thought you were finally dead!

— And a happy day to you too, beautiful lady, — the man gave the impression of a charming scoundrel. — And who's this? Your boyfriend?

— This is Chris...

A sudden bout of a horrifying feeling almost sent Chris into an unconscious state.

As soon as he saw Wade Wilson, the world began to spin before his eyes.

The blood in Chris's ears was bubbling so loudly that it drowned out all other sounds. The sudden dizziness and palpable pain made Chris wince.

S^N$C$RO$NI$ZAT$ION: 69696969%

— It seems, — Wade chuckled in confusion. — He doesn't like me very much. How strange, why is that? Doesn't he like handsome, talented, and very modest Canadians?

Chris didn't have time to think of what to say to that. Because...

He threw up the contents of his stomach right on the floor.

Chapter Text

— Everything is quickly getting out of control.

Another meeting with his father came as always, unexpectedly, right after the fit from meeting Wade Wilson.

Chris never could and never knew how to control such... conversations. Was it hard to control your own imagination? In Chris's opinion, it was simply impossible. Especially when you're not sure of your own sanity.

His father looked at his figure lying on his back with a calm, squinting gaze. The numerous wrinkles only emphasized his focused expression.

Every meeting with his father ended in... nothing. At least, that's what Chris thought.

But now he was beginning to realize that his abilities were inextricably linked with this old man. His father.

Chris didn't know his name. Didn't know what he lived for or what he lives for. Damn it, he didn't know if he was real!

But he was sure of one thing...

His "father" had a direct connection to his abilities.

Even the latest fiasco—when Chris vomited the contents of his own stomach in front of Wade—seemed to be reflected in this "imaginary" space.

The once calm ranch was riddled with unnatural holes. And not "craters in the ground" but just white voids in space. As if someone had gone over the whole place with an eraser.

Looking up at the sky, Chris was simultaneously surprised and not surprised by what he saw. He wasn't surprised because he expected a trick from the "synchronization" scale. Whatever caused the anomaly, it affected not only his well-being but also the power itself.

And he was surprised because...

S?????????N [B?????r HeraCL] [Rank: $$$$$$$$$]: $$$$04%

— What the hell is Heracles? — Chris muttered in a daze, peering into the "bugs" of his own schizophrenia.

Obviously, the previously low synchronization percentage didn't allow Chris to fully know the full name of the synchronization object, but the precedent that derailed all the power, accidentally—well, depending on how you look at it—revealed very important information to him.

To be honest, at some point he felt like a cheater, or a weakling who had gone to look at a walkthrough on the internet.

So, his power... "connects" him to Heracles? Gives him the abilities of one of the greatest heroes known to humanity?

That's why even an incomplete synchronization percentage gave such an incredible boost to his physical characteristics!

Who is Heracles?

A demigod, son of Zeus, who had incredible strength, unavailable to mortals! And what made Heracles famous?!

The great hero of Greece, who performed the Twelve Great Labors!

Chris smirked in anticipation, concentrating on one specific phantom...

????

One more time.

????

— Well... — Chris's spirits immediately dropped. — It looks like it won't be that easy...

Yes, Chris was going to summon information about his main skill, but here the "bugs" didn't play on his side. The skill just refused to unfold...

And he had hoped that he would be able to peek at the secret condition for replenishing his lives!

— Ha-ha-ha... — The father sitting on the bench laughed quietly. — Not a bad try...

— Are you my schizophrenia after all? — Chris started the dialogue with doubt. — Did you not let me "peek"?

The father smiled cheerfully.

— I have a direct relation to your abilities, but I have no control over them...

— Can you be a little more specific? Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you my "father" when I've been an orphan for as long as I can remember? Why do I "know" that you are my father?!

— I am indeed your father, — the old man nodded. — But you will find out the rest in the future...

— Why not now? — Chris winced. — Here I am sitting. Here you are sitting. Just tell me and stop creating mysteries that no one needs!

— You are not ready, — the father shook his head. — And you won't be ready anytime soon.

— Then why the hell are you messing with my head?! Why do I occasionally get a headache from what's happening?!

— I told you, — the father answered patiently. — I have no power over your abilities. And the root of your problems lies in... a mistake. A miscalculation, the consequences of which are impossible to predict. Too... too many variables.

To be honest, Chris was starting to boil from the uncertainty of the situation.

And apparently, the "father" really knew him well. More precisely, he knew his habit of keeping everything to himself and not letting it out, so he still decided to be generous with explanations.

— Mutants should not exist in this universe.

Chris froze in stunned silence.

— Mu... tants? — He asked again, horrified.

— Yes.

Slowly, the expression on Chris's face changed from shock to emptiness.

— ...Who are they?

— You don't know who they are? — The father asked in surprise. — Ah, right, how would you know something that you don't know...

— You hit the nail on the head, — a slowly boiling Chris smiled. — What's next? Water is wet because it's water? Or maybe people die because they are killed?!

— I'm sorry, — the father didn't fall for the provocation, smiling. — I forgot that my truths, an immediate and obvious part of my worldview, are not your truths.

— You're getting on my nerves, — Chris sighed. — Who are mutants and why shouldn't they exist in our universe? Are they like aliens?

— Imagine Transformers, humanoid robot aliens who fight each other and transform into different types of vehicles, — Chris's father began from a distance. — You watch a great movie, you enjoy the time you spent, but when you leave the theater, you realize that the movie is just a movie. Transformers, Optimus Prime, or Megatron are not part of your reality. You won't meet Bumblebee on the streets of New York, and you won't repel an attack by a mechanical civilization. They are there, and you are here...

— So, these mutants are characters from some movie?

— No, not really, — the father sighed, but after a moment's pause, added. — Although it's possible, but I wasn't focusing on that, — gathering his thoughts, the father asked. — What do you know about the multiverse?

— It's a total piece of crap, — Chris answered instantly. — Greedy creators are trying to artificially extend the life of their franchises, hinting that maybe "anything" is possible. They can pull a story out of their ass, cover up their flaws and obvious shoddy work, counting their fingers and shouting about the "multiverse"... — Chris looked at his father in a daze. — No...

— I'm afraid so...

— No!...

— The multiverse is real...

— God, what a shitty world I live in!... — Chris almost cried from helplessness. — I've always hated this damn multiverse! It's like producers pour a ton of money into marketing, but they don't care about the quality of the product itself! You go to the movies with anticipation, but in reality, they shit on your face!

— But nevertheless, that's how it is, — the father shrugged, not at all impressed by his whining. — And all you can do is accept it.

— Are you trying to say that somewhere "out there," — Chris waved his hand vaguely. — There's a Chris who, let's say, is in the same situation, but he's a girl?

— It's possible.

— Or Chris is a small pink pony with wings?

— It's possible, — the father answered, no longer as sure.

— See, — Chris nodded knowingly. — That's the problem with the multiverse! Whatever garbage you imagine, it can be justified by the "infinity" of the multiverse...

— I didn't say it was infinite, — the father smirked.

— But you said that a girl-Chris and a pink pony-Chris are possible...

— First of all, I said it was possible not because the multiverse is infinite, but because I simply wouldn't dare to claim that I know anything about this incredibly complex mechanism of the universe. Second, the infinity of the multiverse is not proven; it's just echoes of science fiction writers. How would you prove infinity? And third... Why "pink pony-Chris"?

— Don't think about it.

— Okay... — The father continued awkwardly. — In short, the thing is that the universe of mutants is merging with ours.

— First, who the hell are mutants, and second, why are you talking about the apocalypse with such an unconcerned expression?

— Well, you'll meet the mutants yourself sooner or later, — the elderly man sighed. — And the "merging" of two universes is not an apocalypse, — after a moment's pause, the father added. — Probably.

— Probably, — Chris repeated. — Probably! Or maybe, probably? — Chris tried to mimic his father in a hundred different ways. — Can you be a little more specific! I'm not an expert, of course, but in my opinion, the merging, motherfucker, of two universes, sounds like a total catastrophe!

— How many times do I have to repeat it, — the man answered patiently. — I can't control either your powers or this process. The merging of the universes was not supposed to happen; it was not in any forecasts or plans. And I'm not a big enough figure to understand or even interfere in such processes.

— So you're saying, — Chris said slowly. — That you had a hand in the start of this damn "merging"?

— Well, — the father shrugged a little awkwardly. — Technically...

— Pragmatically, technically, moronically, mind-bogglingly, you can even say Klingonically, — Chris clutched his head frantically. — Is it a yes or a no?!

— Well, — the father nodded impassively. — Yes.

— A-a-a-ah!... — Chris groaned in frustration.

What do we know?

Chris's father somehow had a direct relationship to his powers and to such an unpleasant and unpredictable process as the merging of two universes.

So...

What should he, a nineteen-year-old cosplayer of Heracles, do?!

Hell if he knows!

— You're giving this too much importance, — the man chuckled. — Believe me, if a catastrophe awaited us, you would either understand it immediately or you would be dead.

— Why does my brain turn to mush when I encounter mentions of these... — Chris waved his hand expressively in the air. — These fucking mutants?!

— Didn't you notice that the world itself periodically "forgets" about mutants? It's a self-defense mechanism...

Right!

Jessica had also forgotten about "radioactive people," and the guy had disappeared from the photograph!

But why did he...

— I said that such a turn of events was simply not considered, — Chris's father sighed. — I couldn't have foreseen that your "special" abilities would encounter an event of this nature.

— Are headaches a side effect of my abilities?

— Not exactly, — the man pursed his lips. — Your abilities allow you to avoid the influence of this... event. You don't forget almost anything, you see and understand everything, but...

— The abilities... — Chris nervously pursed his lips. — The abilities protect me from the merging of two multiverses, but my mind can't process it. I just... my brain literally fries from a lack of computational power!

— You figured it out yourself? — The father looked at him with pleasant surprise.

— A father's faith in his son is so evident, — Chris sighed. — And how do I protect myself from this?! Don't tell me you don't know anything...

— You've already protected yourself, Chris, haven't you noticed? — His father smiled in anticipation. — As soon as you added to your strength, you stopped dying from the overload. The formula is simple—become stronger, and the "echoes" will become nothing more than a pesky inconvenience.