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[There was a lot of pilfered alcohol, fumbled attempts, and finally resignation that had led to this video. Jessica wasn't great at asking for help, or showing that she didn't know what was going on, but this was so far out of her paygrade, she had no idea where to start. She'd poked around the library, but there were things that she couldn't learn there. Not really.

So the network is treated to a semi-annoyed looking dark-haired woman that some might find familiar. The introduction was minor.]

The name's Jessica Jones and I'm looking for- fuck -help with something. I can do this now-

[She'd never been one to shy away from showing what she could do or trying to hide it. She'd always been one of the more open freaks. But like she'd said to Spheeris, people felt safer when they could pretend they didn't know.

So for the camera, she made a fist with her right hand. A small line of concentration creased the middle of her brow and then - Woosh - a sword made of pure fire appeared in her hand. She didn't drop it, though she did flinch because that was never not going to be disturbing. She waved it around a bit. It looked a little like a scimitar, flaring white hot in the center. Then she opened her hand and it disappeared.]

-and that's great and all, but I don't know shit about swords or weapons or anything.

[She was doing an amazing job of not looking like that freaked her out.]

Who's gonna help me figure out how not to slice my other arm off?

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Don't you need to go get drunk somewhere?

[It appears the two of them have started a new ritual of pissing each other off as much as possible.]

My, my. So damn touchy. At least you finally admitted you don't know anything. There's a good start. You'd better hope whoever tries to teach you doesn't end up "accidentally" running you through with that charming personality of yours.

Yeah, actually. But there's not really any somewhere to do that. Still waiting for this place to get 'civilized'.

[Frenemies -- only without the friend part.]

Which is why I'm never coming to you. You'd do it on a good day and think it was hilarious, you nut bag.

When they do, I'll always have a reliable way to find you.

[Then again, Ivar could do with someplace to sit and drink ale occasionally too.]

When I kill you, I'll make it known. I'm not about to just do it abruptly like all that.

Bullshit.

[Hear that? That's the sound of her sarcasm and disbelief hitting you right in the face, Ivar.]

You get something sharp in your hand and happen to be around me when I make another low blow about your shriveled up crotch-raisin and you'll react pretty abruptly. That's a condition, you know. Explosive Rage Disorder. Or something like that. Really, guy. Get therapy.

[There's a ripple across his face of that same inferno-like rage that he'd shown the last time she'd made a comment about his dick. He very nearly explodes again this time and it's only with an effort that he pushes it back down, but the rage still is clearly seen in his blazing eyes.]

I almost think you must want to die with the way you talk to me. So I will gladly oblige you one of these days and take you out of this miserable world.

See, there you go, looking at me with murder-eyes. You can't help blowing your load early. Seriously, kid. Therapy. You need it.

[He wants to smack her so hard right now. It's a good thing to communicate through these devices.]

Try it yourself, sváss. You're as fucked up as I am.

Already have.

[Admittedly, she still didn't think it worked since her dumbass therapist refused to believe that she was speaking in real world issues, not metaphors. She wasn't being hyperbolic about being made to do things... the fact she'd almost thrown him out the window had clued her in that it was just making her angrier. Still, she'd taken something from her therapy. Something to get her out of her attacks. Bully for her.]

Then it clearly didn't work.

[He's not that surprised. The idea of sitting somewhere and talking his feelings over with someone sounds like just about the worst idea Ivar has ever heard. He only trusts about two or three people in the world to be able to do that with. All have abandoned him.]

Why suggest it for me if it failed for you?

My situation was... unique. You're just an angry brat. Therapy helps for some people.

[Just not victims of mind controlling rapists. Sorry, Ivar. She won that round. But still...]

Maybe you'd do better with meds. Prozak.

[He spits off to the side instead of answering at first, showing precisely what he thinks of those two ideas. Apparently, he doesn't like being called a brat, even if he clearly is one.]

I don't need a healer. I happen to like the way I am and that's more then can be said for you.

The way I am works for me. I don't blow up into explosive homicidal rages. See? Works.

[Someone's calling bullshit on that.]

Sure it does. 'Cause you're so happy and well-adjusted.

I don't do happy or well-adjusted. But I know what's wrong with me and why. I know what's workable and what's not. And I know I don't do well with groups or other people.

[Mostly because she didn't trust them.]

Ah well, perhaps that is for the best. My father always said that happiness was nothing.

[There's a fondness when Ivar speaks of his father that he's had at no other point when talking to Jessica. He may not love or care about many people, but Ivar loved his father very much.]

[If she was really the harpy he thought she was, she'd say something bad about his dad. She didn't have to be a P.I. to see the change in tone or posture when he spoke about him- though, that helped.]

Fleeting. It's fleeting. It's a good orgasm or good food or a back rub or a nap you're actually rested from. A second of realizing it's there and then you're back to the shit you were in before.

Hmmmm. Wise words.

[They make sense to him and as to why happiness has never lasted in his own life. Of course, he can't pay Jessica a compliment, no, that would be being far too nice. So instead covers that up with an insult.]

Perhaps you're not nearly as stupid as you look.

[Two can play at that game.]

Ah, so I'm as stupid as you look.

[Smirk.]

Ouch!

[He clasps at his chest in mock-pain and jerks back a little bit.]

You wound me, truly. And here I was thinking we were finally beginning to understand each other.

[They did. But the difference between them is that Jessica really didn't have any homicidal urges. She'd killed twice and both were extenuating circumstances. Ivar seemed like the type to kill everyone around him and then maybe feel bad about it later.]

Yeah, I understand you.

[Like she understood a rabid dog. Keep each other at arm's length.]

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