MTLNOVEL Chapter 1: Chapter 1: "Green Dawn"
Jake Carter's death was a cosmic fluke, a glitch in the universe's script. He'd been slumped on his ratty couch, surrounded by a moat of empty energy drink cans—neon-green liquid pooling on the carpet—while The Mask flickered on his dying TV. Rain pounded his leaky apartment, a storm raging outside that matched the restless ache in his 28-year-old soul. He was a nobody—overworked, underpaid, a comic nerd whose only escape was the dog-eared pages of Amazing Spider-Man and X-Men. Then lightning struck. The bolt tore through the window, a jagged lance of fury that hit the puddle at his feet. Electricity surged—sharp, sour, like biting a live wire—and his body convulsed, the last thought a bitter "Seriously? This is it?" Then darkness. But as his consciousness faded, something else stirred—a green pulse, a whisper from beyond, yanking him back from oblivion.
He woke gasping, lungs clawing for air, sprawled face-down in an alley that stank of burnt rubber and blood. The sky above was a bruised mess—crimson streaks bleeding into gold, punctuated by the distant boom of explosions. This wasn't his world. His hands—holy crap, his hands—were wrong: bigger, stronger, knuckles sharp where they'd been doughy. He stumbled to his feet, head throbbing, and caught his reflection in a puddle rimmed with oil. Same brown eyes, same messy black hair, but the face was younger—20, maybe—with a jawline like Captain America's and a body to match: lean, muscled, draped in a faded hoodie and jeans that clung to thighs he'd never earned.
Then he felt it: a weight on his face, cool and smooth, like wood kissed by frost. His fingers brushed it—a mask, green as venom, carved with a leering grin that seemed to breathe. Panic hit, but curiosity won. He yanked it off with a wet schlurp, and it dangled in his hand, pulsing faintly. A voice slithered into his mind—raspy, gleeful, laced with static: "Welcome back, kid. You're mine now. Let's have some fun." His voice came out deeper, richer, edged with a confidence he didn't feel. The mask shivered, and images flooded his brain—flashes of fire and void, a golden tree, a horned figure laughing, a realm of shadows. Words followed, unbidden: "I'm older than your gods, forged in chaos, tossed by fools. Loki made me, Odin lost me, Dormammu cursed me. Now I'm yours—wear me, and we'll rewrite this mess."
Jake staggered, clutching his skull. The Mask wasn't just some movie prop—it was a relic, born from the Marvel cosmos he'd devoured in comics. A shard of the Chaos Force, forged when the One-Above-All and the Living Tribunal clashed with the Beyonders at the multiverse's dawn. Loki had shaped it from Yggdrasil's wood, infusing it with Asgardian mischief, only to lose control as it drank from the Phoenix Force, the Quantum Realm, and the Dark Dimension. It had drifted through the Negative Zone, landed on Earth-616, and now—somehow—chosen him. Was this reincarnation? A comic book fever dream? Before he could process, a scream cut through the haze—sharp, desperate, followed by a crunch of fist on brick.
He ran toward it, mask in hand, boots pounding pavement littered with shattered glass and bullet casings. He rounded a corner and froze. A woman in a black suit—torn at the shoulder, blood trickling down pale skin—fought a hulking figure in spiked armor. Her red hair whipped as she dodged a blow that cratered the wall, brick dust choking the air. Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. 616's deadliest spy, raw and real, her green eyes blazing with fury. Her opponent—Hammerhead, all muscle and rage—snarled, charging again. She was tiring, her movements slowing, but still lethal.
The mask pulsed hotter: "Put me on. Save her. Start the show." Jake's heart raced—fear, awe, and a reckless thrill he didn't recognize. He'd died once. What was left to lose? He slapped the mask on, and reality shattered. Green light erupted, a supernova of chaos swallowing him whole. His body spun—bones stretching, muscles swelling, skin prickling as if ants of wildfire danced across it. His hoodie and jeans shredded, reforming into a pinstriped zoot suit—yellow and black, garish and perfect—with a wide-brimmed fedora plopping atop his head. His face warped, lips curling into a manic grin, teeth sharpening into gleaming daggers. When it settled, he was taller, broader, a six-foot-something caricature radiating power and madness. Jake was gone. Masquerade had arrived.
"Smokin'!" he crowed, voice a wild blend of his own and something unhinged—a cartoon gangster on a sugar high. Natasha's eyes flicked to him, narrowing, but Hammerhead roared and swung, fists crackling with brute force. Jake moved. His arm stretched like taffy, coiling around a dumpster twenty feet away, and he yanked it free, hurling it at Hammerhead's skull. Metal screamed as it struck, and the thug crumpled, pavement splitting under his bulk like a shattered eggshell. Jake spun to Natasha, who'd drawn a pistol—sleek, deadly—its barrel aimed at his chest.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice like silk over steel. Up close, she was a vision—sweat beading on her brow, lips parted, her suit clinging to a body forged by war and will. Her scent hit him: gunpowder, leather, jasmine—a punch to his senses. "Masquerade, doll," he said, tipping his fedora, which materialized mid-gesture. "Just a fella with chaos on his face and a heart full of—call it gusto." The mask's energy flared, flooding the air with charisma so thick it hummed, a magnetic pull that made her gun waver. Her pupils dilated, a flush creeping up her neck, but she held firm.
"You're not SHIELD," she said, eyes narrowing. "Not Hydra. What's your play?" "Play's simple, Red. Save the day, break some heads, maybe steal a dance with a legend." He winked, the mask turning it into a weapon, and her breath hitched. "How's that grab ya?" "Bold," she murmured, voice dropping, dangerous and intrigued. "Stupid, but bold." "My brand." He offered a gloved hand—white, cartoonish—expecting a bullet. She holstered her gun and took it, her grip electric, sparking something deep in his core.
Hours later, they were in a SHIELD safehouse—a grimy Hell's Kitchen flat, walls stained yellow, bulb flickering. Hammerhead was zip-tied in the corner, out cold. Natasha had grilled him, her questions sharp as widow's bites, but the mask's charm kept her close. They'd sparred to test his powers—her flips and kicks against his rubbery dodges—and the air thickened with tension. Banter turned heated, glances lingered, and then she shoved him against the wall, her lips crashing into his. Natasha's strength was a shock, her hands fisting his suit as she pressed against him, all heat and steel. Her suit unzipped to her navel, baring a taut stomach, scars weaving a story across her skin, breasts straining against the fabric. Her breath scorched his neck, ragged, and her nails dug into his shoulders, a growl escaping: "You're insane."
"Insane's my superpower," he rasped, hands gripping her hips, sinking into leather. He lifted her—the mask making her light as air—and her legs locked around him, thighs flexing. They hit the couch, springs groaning, her atop him, red hair spilling like wildfire. Her lips were brutal, tasting of salt and defiance, tongue warring with his as she yanked his shirt open, buttons scattering. He peeled her suit down, baring her fully—lean muscle, soft curves, freckles dotting her thighs. His mouth traced her—neck, collarbone, breasts—teasing until she moaned, low and raw. Her hands shoved him back, straddling him, and when he entered her—slow, then deep—she gasped, legs tightening.
The mask flared, sharpening every pulse: her heat, her heartbeat, the slick rhythm as she rode him, fierce and unrelenting. The room bent—walls warping, bulb strobing—as she climaxed, a cry tearing free, her body pulsing around him. He followed, spilling into her, a rush that sparked green in his vision, the mask cackling as a seed took root. They collapsed, sweat-slick and tangled, her weight atop him a perfect anchor. Her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest, her smirk faint but real. "You're trouble, Masquerade. I don't do trouble twice."
"Liar," he murmured, grinning as she kissed him again—slower, softer, a promise in the press of her lips. She slipped away into the night, leaving him staring at the cracked ceiling, the mask in his hand pulsing faintly. Its voice whispered: "One down, kid. The multiverse awaits." Jake's mind raced—Natasha, the Mask, this 616 chaos. A harem was forming, a legacy brewing, and the Marvel universe—every mutant, god, and cosmic freak—was about to feel the green dawn.