A Shopping Trip

~~~ Felicia Hardy ~~~

Felicia Hardy pulled up to Levi's brownstone like she owned the block. Her black coupe purred low as it eased to a stop, the night pressed in around her, quiet in this part of the city. She took a moment before cutting the engine, smoothing the lapels of her leather jacket, fingers lingering in idle appreciation of the craftsmanship. A quick glance at the side mirror caught the platinum halo of her hair, the green gleam of her eyes glinting with mischief.

Damn, I look good.

She climbed the stoop at an easy pace, her steps unhurried. Levi wasn't the type to keep a girl waiting—not unless he was making a point.

Sure enough, the door cracked open before she could knock.

Levi stood there, hands in his tweed jacket pockets, his weight settled in that deliberately casual way of his. Almost too casual. Felicia's gaze flicked over him—not lingering, just noting. The way his stance held stillness, a kind of anchored patience. The way his gaze moved over her—not just taking her in, but reading her. Measuring.

He'd been waiting, but was pretending he hadn't.

She smirked. "You always wait for visitors like a dog at the window, or am I just special?"

Levi huffed a quiet laugh. "Gotta keep an eye out—some naughty cat's been sneaking in lately."

"Oh, sweetheart." She reached past him, fingers ghosting over the door handle. "You could barricade the windows or just place a sock on the doorknob, either way, I'd still slip in if I felt like it."

Levi pulled the door shut before she could open it. "I'd invite you in, but last time I did, someone made off with one of my sweaters."

Felicia laughed, already turning back toward the car. "It's mine now. So cozy." She cast him a sidelong glance. "Come on, you wouldn't want to keep a girl waiting."

Levi fell into step beside her. "Perish the thought. Grandma would've tanned my hide."

She arched a brow. "That's part of your charm."

"Charming, eh?" He glanced at her, a smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face, "So, you do like me? Not that I ever doubted it."

His lips quirked, but there was something—off—about it. Not forced, just… placed. A reflex, rather than instinct.

Felicia tucked that away for later, as she slid into the driver's seat, Levi dropping into the passenger seat, stretching his legs as she started the engine. "So, are you ready to wine and dine me? Show a country boy the big city, then take advantage while he's overawed?"

Felicia smirked, shifting into gear. "Please. I don't see any locks on that belt, I just haven't tried to get in."

"Eyes up, Kitty," He shot back, a real smile postered across his face.

She chuckled, turning onto a quieter street. The hum of the crowds faded, traffic thinning as they approached their destination.

Their first stop was one of her favorite high-end boutiques—exclusive, quiet, and stocked with spy-tech that made the impossible look effortless. The scent of ozone and machine oil hung in the air, the glow of LED displays casting a cool, sterile sheen over rows of discreet, cutting-edge devices.

Felicia traced a fingertip along a row of innocuous-looking accessories, each concealing something delightfully illegal. She tilted her head at Levi. "Alright, Tiger, are you shopping practical or preparing for Home Alone 2?"

Levi picked up a matte-black key fob, weighing it in his palm. "Got any invisibility cloaks?"

She watched him flip it over, inspecting the edges, his gaze sharp in a way most people wouldn't clock. But she did. He wasn't just grabbing gear—he was choosing with intent.

Felicia sauntered to a display case, withdrawing a lighter and flicking it open. "Mini EMP. Kill lights, fries cameras. Could let you do a disappearing act."

"Nice. Could also be useful if I unplug from the Matrix." He accepted the extended item, eyeing it critically.

Then, she picked up the key fob Levi had been turning over. "And this little baby is a signal scrambler—disrupts security cameras, recordings, even live feeds for a good sixty seconds within range." She tossed it back to him. "Like a temporary blind spot, if you time it right. How's that for Phantom of the Opera?"

Levi pocketed the EMP and scrambler. "These, I'll use." He looked around the room, full of surveillance equipment and thieves tools. "I'll leave the fancy toys for your lot."

Felicia's gaze flicked over him as he moved through the store, her fingers idly toying with the lighter. Not window shopping. Equipping himself.

She swayed behind him, watching the way his posture settled. Not stiff, not tense—deliberate.

He's checking off a list. And that means this isn't just another night out.

The next stop wasn't far. Felicia barely had time to settle before they were pulling into a quiet alley, the kind of place that didn't need a sign to tell you who it was for.

The tailor's shop sat tucked into a quiet alley, discreet but unmistakable to those who knew where to look. Inside, the scent of cedar and fine wool mingled with something sharper, industrial—woven into the fabric itself. These weren't just suits. They were survival tools.

The tailor, a wiry man with a keen eye, barely blinked at their arrival. He studied Levi the way a craftsman appraises raw material, measuring potential.

"Felicia," he greeted smoothly, already mentally sorting swatches before the door had even shut behind them. "And a friend?"

Felicia gestured lazily between them. "He's in need of an upgrade. Think 'functional but understated.'"

The tailor nodded once. "This way."

The tailor ran a careful hand over Levi's tweed jacket, assessing. "I can reinforce it—lightweight, flexible, enough to take small-caliber hits and blunt force. Won't stop everything, but it'll buy you time."

Levi nodded. "No bulk. Full range of motion."

"You'll have it."

Levi turned back to the tailor. "I also need something for movement. Black, lightweight, no shine. Something that won't catch the light or slow me down."

"I have a matte-finish suit with reinforced fiber layers. Breathable. Full range of motion. High collar, optional gloves."

Felicia exhaled through her nose. That was the kind of suit you wore when you didn't want to be seen.

What is he up to?

Felicia narrowed her eyes. "You expecting company?"

His gaze held hers, unflinching. "Yeah. And the 'no soliciting' sign hasn't done the job."

Felicia exhaled, slow and measured.

He's already decided how this ends. He just wasn't sharing with the rest of the class.

The car ride wasn't silent—Levi made sure of that. He filled the space with easy banter and low-effort jokes. But Felicia could hear what wasn't being said, could feel the shape of the things he wasn't naming.

Their final stop was tucked into the shadows of a nondescript building, a reinforced steel door flanked by rusted security cameras. Felicia had been to places like this before—no signage, no paper trails, just a reputation that ensured the right kind of customers.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of machine oil and cordite, the sterile hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Racks of weaponry lined the walls—everything from compact pistols to modified shotguns, but none of it was flashy. This was gear for professionals.

Levi moved through the space with the kind of deliberate focus she wasn't used to seeing from him. Not the usual restless energy, not a man browsing. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

Behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled jawline and a Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm watched them with an assessing gaze. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, grease-stained from whatever he'd been working on.

"Felicia," he greeted, voice like gravel. "Didn't expect to see you here. You finally looking to get something with a little more range?"

Felicia smirked. "Tempting, Frank. But I'm just playing chauffeur tonight." She nodded toward Levi. "He's the one shopping."

Frank's sharp eyes slid over to Levi, his posture shifting from casual to something more focused. "That so?"

Levi met the scrutiny with an easy nod. "Need an air rifle. Something precise, suppressed, no muzzle flash. Subsonic rounds, preferably .30 cal or better. And I need it to deliver an injection payload."

Frank's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You know, most guys come in asking for something stupid. 'Cool-looking' shit. You're speaking my language, though."

He turned, unlocking a reinforced cabinet, and pulled out a sleek, black rifle, placing it on the counter with careful deliberation. "AirForce Condor. Pre-charged pneumatic. Pre-modded with a smoothbore barrel for darts. Silent, no muzzle flash, no combustion, no heat signature. At full power, lethal at 150 meters, and no one will hear a damn thing."

Levi picked it up, testing the weight. The balance was perfect.

"Adjustable power?"

Frank nodded. "Dial it down for close range, crank it up for penetration. You want subsonic pellets? Slugs? Special payloads? This baby can handle 'em all."

Levi ran his thumb along the carbon fiber frame. "Scope options?"

Frank pulled out a case, revealing high-end optics. "AN/PVS-22 Universal Night Sight. Military-grade night vision, clips onto any scope. No visible IR, pure stealth. Pair it with a Leupold Mark 4 for dead-on precision."

Levi tested the clarity, then nodded. "I'll take it."

Frank smirked. "Figured." He set a compact black case on the counter and flipped it open, revealing rows of needle-nosed darts. "Custom. Hollow core, manual load. Full injection on impact."

Levi picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. "Aluminum?"

"Light but strong. Direct bloodstream delivery if you hit the right spot."

Frank packed the rifle into a sleek, padded carrying case, along with the scope, a box of darts, and a custom sling bag. "This'll keep everything secure. Waterproof, crush-resistant, compact. Keeps your hands free when you need 'em."

Levi zipped it shut, slinging the strap over his shoulder like it was just another bag. "What do I owe you?"

Frank scratched at his jaw, eyes lingering on the gear. "8k"

Levi considered that for a moment before nodding. "Fair."

They shook hands, the deal sealed.

Felicia waited until they were outside, the weight of the bag settling over Levi's shoulder, before she spoke. "So, what exactly do you plan on putting in those darts, Wilder?"

Levi glanced at her, his smirk returning, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies."

Felicia exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "Right. 'Pest control.'"

Levi didn't answer immediately. His fingers tapped idly against the bag, eyes scanning the street ahead. When he finally spoke, it was softer. "It needs to be done. For all our sakes."

Felicia studied him for a long moment before sliding her hands into her pockets. He's already made up his mind. Her lips pressed together, a thought curling behind her eyes. She wouldn't press—not yet.

"Alright, Tiger," she murmured. "Let's make sure you don't miss."

Felicia had known from the start that Levi wasn't shopping for a just in case. He'd all but said as much over the phone—pest control, a humane solution, no mess. Cute phrasing, but she'd caught the intent behind it.

Still, knowing it and watching it unfold were different things. The way he moved, the way he chose his gear with deliberation, not curiosity, made it clear—he wasn't playing. He was deadly serious.

As they pulled up to his brownstone, Felicia tapped her fingers against the wheel, the engine idling low in the quiet street. She studied him.

"You good?" Her tone was easy, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.

Levi glanced at her, mouth twitching as if debating how much to say. For a beat, the silence stretched. Then—

"I've handled worse."

Felicia didn't roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. "Right. And if you needed backup?"

"I'd tell you," he said, too easily. Too smooth.

Felicia leaned back, watching him. "I'm sure you would."

Liar.

"Stay out of trouble, Levi."

Levi smirked, gave her a teasing wave, and trotted up the stairs. The door clicked shut behind him.

Felicia lingered.

Alright, Tiger. I'd best keep my eyes on you.

~~~ Levi Wilder ~~~

The air tasted of rust and concrete dust, a sharp, metallic tang that settled on the back of his tongue. As the morning sun shone down, the neighborhood stirred to life, the streets filled with commuters and children alike. Levi lay prone beneath a faded green tarp, his body pressed against the cold steel of an unfinished support beam. The construction site stretched around him in an unnatural silence—unfinished pillars of rebar jutted skyward, rusted spikes waiting for concrete that never came. Bags of cement lay slumped in forgotten stacks, hardened into useless boulders by time and exposure. The place had been abandoned mid-project, and it showed.

Perfect for his needs.

Levi adjusted the scope—100 to 200 meters. Within range but safely beyond Kilgrave's influence. Three days of meticulous tracking had led him here. He had the angle. He had the cover. He had the timing.

And yet.

His trigger finger rested lightly against the guard, unmoving.

[OBSERVATION]

> Target follows a consistent pattern with only minor variations.

> Loiters during return commute to observe and manipulate bystanders for personal amusement.

> Suggested optimal window: Evening, post-commute, when subject enters the side alley.

Levi exhaled slowly, steadying his breath, watching the crosshairs hover over the sidewalk below. Kilgrave hadn't deviated from his route once. Every day, like clockwork, he left his building in the morning, walked exactly six blocks, then turned east, cutting across a quiet alley to shorten his walk. On his way home, he took his time. He liked to stop, to watch, to make people dance for him in small, humiliating ways.

Because he could.

Until now.

His eyes flicked toward the apartment building across the way. He'd spent hours studying the layout—watching, placing cameras, tracking patterns. He was close to confirming Kilgrave's exact unit. Just a little longer.

[OBSERVATION]

> Subject confirmed entering second-floor northeast window with child in arms.

> Strong likelihood it is the primary residence.

There it was. A shadow passed behind the glass, barely visible. The silhouette of a man holding a small figure—Kilgrave, carrying the child.

Levi let out a slow breath through his nose. His stomach twisted, not from doubt, but from something heavier.

The mother.

His scope drifted slightly, focusing on the street below where she had passed earlier that morning. Pale, lifeless, moving on autopilot. A husk. Every instinct screamed that she had once been someone else, that her vacant stare wasn't natural—it had been worn into her. The way she followed behind Kilgrave, her pace measured, precise, hands unmoving. The way she carried herself like an afterthought, only moving when he did.

That's what he does.

Levi's jaw tightened, the weight of the rifle pressing into his shoulder. Taking the shot wasn't the problem. There was no moral dilemma here. Kilgrave was the kind of sickness you didn't leave untreated. No prison could hold him, no trial would contain him. The law had no contingency for someone like him.

He would be the contingency.

[OBSERVATION]

> Execution plan viable with minimal exposure.

> Escape routes clear.

> Low probability of interference—provided the shot is not delayed.

Levi's grip on the rifle tightened. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Until AL spoke again.

[QUERY]

> Considerations for secondary subjects?

Levi's finger twitched slightly.

"The mother's a victim. She'll need help, support."

[OBSERVATION]

> Psychological recovery will require significant intervention.

> Potential cognitive damage likely irreversible in part.

Levi exhaled sharply. "Not impossible, then."

[OBSERVATION]

> Child exhibits anomalous traits.

> Potential for developing control-based abilities.

> Future risk uncertain, but intervention may be necessary.

Levi's pulse ticked higher. AL was circumspect, but the implication was clear. The kid wasn't just a victim—she was something else entirely.

She was his daughter. 

The rifle suddenly felt heavier.

"Not an option."

[QUERY]

> Not an option to what?

Levi's voice was quiet, final. "I don't kill kids."

AL processed for a moment.

[ALTERNATIVES]

> Possible sanctuary options: Xavier's School, enhanced-handler groups, esoteric intervention (Ancient One, others unverified).

Levi rolled his jaw, forcing his focus back through the scope. The solutions were there, but none of them felt right.

None of them explained why, for the briefest moment, he had thought I could do it.

Raise her. Protect her. Fix what was broken.

That's not my job.

And yet, the thought lingered.

His breath steadied, hands resettling. One thing at a time.

He adjusted his sight again, tracking movement behind the glass. Kilgrave set the child down, disappearing deeper into the apartment. The shot wasn't clean through the window. What if the glass deflected the shot or ejected the drug? Too much risk. He'd have to take it from the street.

Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. But soon.

Levi shifted, pulling back from the rifle, carefully breaking down his position. No wasted movement, no trace left behind. As he planted the final camera—his last set of eyes—he shimmied back, retreating from his perch.

And then, a flicker of movement.

His breath caught.

God dammit, Jessica!

She stepped into view behind the glass, cloth in hand, wiping down the window with slow, methodical movements.

She wasn't looking for anything. She wasn't reacting. She was just cleaning.

She wasn't the snarky, acerbic woman, happy to put people in their place. The woman who was so alive, so fun to tease, so in control… had become an automaton.

Levi's stomach turned, a deep, quiet sickness settling in his ribs. He knew what he was looking at. He'd seen it before. In the wife. That kind of quiet, that kind of absence behind the eyes.

Kilgrave had her.

Levi forced himself to move, every muscle slow, controlled. He couldn't risk tipping his presence. Not now. But the plan had changed.

As he withdrew, his mind turned back to an absence. Jessica had been quiet for days. No check-ins, no sarcastic remarks, no hounding about the 'job.' It wasn't unusual, but it wasn't right either. She was too curious and stubborn to just drop it because he'd told her to. If he hadn't panicked and waved her off properly, she wouldn't be there right now.

Stupid. So stupid.

This didn't change much—Kilgrave still had to die. But it forced his hand. The timeline had moved up. And now, he had to extract Jessica.

Kilgrave wasn't going to be making it home for dinner.

~~~ Jessica Jones ~~~

The kitchen gleamed under the morning light, warm and inviting, like a picture in a magazine. A kitchen where good, happy people started their day. Everything belonged. Everything had its place.

The coffee smelled rich, dark, comforting. The scent curled through the air in a way that felt like home. Not just any home. The right kind of home.

Jessica smiled.

She moved with quiet efficiency. The napkin folded into a crisp rectangle beneath her fingers—perfect lines, symmetrical creases, exactly as it should be. The ceramic coffee pot, warm and familiar, fit neatly in her grasp. She poured with perfect precision.

Not a drop spilled.

Her lips remained soft, pleased.

She liked that.

Master sat at the table, sleeves of his violet dress shirt neatly cuffed, newspaper spread before him. The image of a perfect man in his perfect home.

Jessica liked that, too.

Master turned a page, the rustle of newsprint slicing through the quiet.

"Disgraceful," he murmured.

Jessica's hands smoothed the linen of the tablecloth.

Across from Master, the mother sat with her fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug. She had not lifted it. Had not sipped.

The coffee had gone cold.

That was fine.

Jessica's gaze flickered over her, taking in the details the way she always did. The woman's fingers had not moved in several minutes.

That was also fine.

Everything is fine.

"People trampled a man at a Black Friday sale yesterday. For a discount on televisions."

Jessica smiled gently, waiting.

He snapped his fingers. A light, effortless sound.

"A few words. A little urgency. And they lost themselves completely."

Master turned the page. "Isn't that fascinating?"

Jessica smiled softly, fingers smoothing the tablecloth.

A few words. That's all it took.

Master smirked. Turned the page.

Jessica placed the last dish down, aligning it just right. Every plate in its proper place. It was beautiful, wasn't it?

Her chest felt light, content. Everything was so clean. So calm.

She liked that.

It was better this way.

A quiet giggle.

Jessica's hand hovered for half a second before setting the plate down.

At the head of the table, the child sat in her high chair, spoon clutched in tiny fingers, violet eyes bright, curious.

Another giggle.

Then—

A ripple.

The air bent around them, gentle but inescapable. A presence that wasn't seen, but felt.

It pressed against Jessica's skin—a whisper breathed against her cheek, a warmth curling at the edges of her mind.

Her fingers twitched—barely. Her breath hitched—just for a moment.

Across the table, the mother's fingers pressed tighter around the mug.

Not much. Just a fraction.

She was fine.

The ceramic barely moved, but the tendon in her wrist pulled taut. The skin over her knuckles stretched white. A statue with breath.

Master turned another page. Not concerned. Not even looking.

"Well, look at that." He sipped his tea. His lips quirked, a lazy amusement.

"She takes after her father."

Jessica's lips remained curved in that quiet, polite smile.

Of course, she did.

Good fathers passed things on to their daughters.

Her body settled.

She picked up the next plate.

Master folded the newspaper with crisp, methodical movements.

He stood.

Jessica's gaze followed—ecause it was right. Because it was expected.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders before adjusting his cufflinks. The deep violet of his shirt caught the light, expensive fabric shifting effortlessly. It suited him.

Master crossed the space, moving with the casual ease of a man who never needed to rush.

As he passed, his hand brushed Jessica's shoulder.

A feather-light touch.

Warm. Familiar. Expected.

Jessica smiled. Soft. Perfect.

Her head tilted slightly, just enough to lean into the touch as she should.

Master smiled first. Jessica mirrored it.

"Good girl."

Her lips remained gentle, content, even as he turned away.

She liked that.

She felt good.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jessica turned back to the table.

The mother did not move.

The child sat content, spoon clutched loosely in one hand, the other waving like a conductor shaping a silent song.

The city outside was waking.

Engines thrummed, sirens called from distant streets.

Inside, nothing changed.

Everything was right.

Jessica's hands resmoothed the tablecloth, aligning the folds.

Her lips stayed curved, placid.

The morning continued.