Masquerade of Marvel: Chaos Reborn

The gym's shadowed stillness exhaled a stale tang of sweat and rusted iron, She-Hulk's quiet fire a fading ember as Jake stood at the threshold, the Mask heavy in his pocket. Its weight pressed against his thigh, Jen's final nudge—"She's waiting—go to her"—rooting into his chest like a seed he couldn't uproot. He didn't slide it on, didn't call the green flare or the zoot suit's snap—not yet. "Go to her," he muttered, hands flexing at his sides, the words sticking like damp ash. "Like walking into a mirror I didn't mean to hang."

Flatbush wasn't stirring tonight—the air hung soft and thick, green and emerald flares dimmed across the skyline, leaving the gym to cradle its silence in the aftermath. Beyond the boarded windows, Church Avenue stretched quiet—brownstones loomed like tired guardians, their stoops empty, streetlights casting faint pools of glow over the chaos-scarred pavement. He stepped inside, boots scuffing the worn mat, the green light seeping through the cracks pulsing slow—steady, deliberate, like a heartbeat he hadn't asked for but couldn't ignore.

The gym wasn't a ruin—not like the docks or Harlem—just dim and lived-in, weights racked crookedly along the walls, a punching bag sagging in the corner, its leather split from a blow too hard. Jade sat on an old bench press in the center, green skin catching the faint glow, her dark hair spilling loose over her shoulders. She wasn't smashing—no chaos flares, no shattered steel—just sitting, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees, staring at the door. At him. Her eyes—his eyes—locked on, sharp and green, daring him to move.

He stopped a few feet off, hands still loose, the grin he'd worn like armor nowhere to be found. "Jade," he said, voice quieter than he meant, the name tasting real—his kid, Jen's kid, not just a flare in the dark. She didn't blink, didn't flinch—just watched, her jaw set like Jen's but her gaze all his, wild and unyielding. The Mask hummed in his pocket, low and smug: "She's your spark, kid—gonna light it or let it simmer?" He ignored it, swallowing dry, and took a step closer—slow, not rushing, like approaching a flame he wasn't sure would burn.

"You're him," she said, voice steady, not a kid's lilt but something harder, forged—Jen's grit, his edge. "The one who started it." She didn't move, didn't shift—just sat there, her hands tightening slightly on her knees, the green glow in her palms pulsing faint but steady. He nodded, leaning against a rusted weight rack, the metal creaking under his weight. "Yeah," he said, voice rough but soft. "Jake—your… dad, I guess. Didn't mean to start anything."

Her lips twitched—a smirk, faint and sharp, Jen's shadow in it. "Guessin' don't change it," she said, eyes narrowing, the glow in her hands flaring just a hair. "You're the green in me—the wild. Saw it when I broke the courthouse—felt it when I smashed that judge's bench." She paused, tilting her head, studying him like a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve. "Mama says you didn't mean it—says you're scared. That true?"

The words hit slow—not a punch, not a blast, just a weight sinking deep, stirring something he'd buried under chaos and quips. "Scared," he echoed, running a hand over his face, the stubble scratching his palm. "Yeah—terrified. Didn't ask for you, Jade—not you, not the others. Didn't know you were coming 'til you started breaking everything." He met her gaze, steady now, no dodge. "But you're here—real—and I don't know what the hell to do with that."

She didn't laugh, didn't sneer—just watched, her smirk fading, eyes flicking over him like she was tracing the chaos in his bones. "I broke it 'cause it was wrong," she said, voice low, deliberate—Jen's law in it, but his fire too. "That judge—he was dirty, locking folks up for nothing. Saw it in the papers Mama left out—felt it when I walked by. So I smashed it—his bench, his gavel, his lies. Felt right." Her hands flexed, the green glow pulsing brighter, then dimming—like she was testing it, weighing it.

He blinked, the weight shifting—Jade, his kid, not just chaos but why behind it, a purpose he hadn't given her. "Right?" he said, brow furrowing, the idea sticking like wet ink. "You're not just breaking—you're picking targets?" She nodded, slow, her jaw tightening—a flicker of Jen's resolve, his wildness tempered. "Yeah," she said, voice steady. "Saw Mama fight—words, fists, whatever it took. Figured I could too—fix what's broke, smash what's wrong. Your green—it's loud, but I can hear it. Tells me what's off."

The gym's stillness pressed in—weights racked crookedly along the walls, the punching bag swaying faintly, Flatbush's quiet a cocoon around them. He stepped closer, not rushing—just moving, settling onto the bench beside her, the metal creaking under them both. "Fixing," he said, voice quieter now, tasting the word—Jade, his daughter, not just a flare but a kid with his chaos, Jen's justice, daring him to see. "Didn't figure you for a fixer—thought it was all just noise."

She turned, eyes flicking to his—sharp, green, unblinking. "Ain't just noise," she said, voice low, a dare in it. "It's mine—ours. Been waiting to see if you'd show—if you'd hear it too." She paused, her hand hovering near his, not touching—just there, a question in the air. "Mama says you're running—says you don't know how to stop. That true?"

The words sank deep—not a gut-punch but a slow burn, stirring something he'd buried under chaos and grins. "Running," he admitted, voice rough, barely above a whisper, the truth slipping out before he could cage it. "Yeah—been running since it started. Didn't mean to make you—didn't mean to make any of this. Now you're here, fixing what I broke, and I don't know where to start." He met her gaze, steady—past the green, the chaos, to the quiet dare in her eyes, Jen's steel in her spine.

The door creaked—Jen stepped in, She-Hulk's green skin catching the dim glow, her suit scuffed but calm. She didn't charge, didn't speak—just leaned against the frame, watching, her presence a tether in the dark. Jade's hand brushed his—not grabbing, just resting there—warm, solid, a spark he hadn't asked for but couldn't deny. "Start here," she said, voice steady, not pleading—just stating, letting it hang. "I'm waiting—been waiting. You?"

The gym's quiet wrapped them—weights racked crookedly, the punching bag still, Flatbush's hush pressing in like a held breath. He looked at her, really looked—past the green, the chaos, to the kid with his eyes, Jen's fire, daring him to stay. "Yeah," he said, voice low, the weight shifting—Jade, his daughter, not just a flare but a why, a tether in the storm. "I'm here."

Jen stepped closer, her heat brushing him, a quiet smile breaking through—grit and warmth, a steady edge cutting through. "Took you long enough," she said, voice a murmur, resting a hand on his shoulder—not pushing, just there. The Mask hummed, low and smug: "Twenty-six and counting, kid. The dare's yours—gonna take it?"

He stood, the gym a sanctuary of quiet ruin and glowing shadows, Flatbush a battlefield of green and emerald—his kids, his chaos, simmering low. She-Hulk's fire, Rogue's storm, Carol's radiance, Gamora's edge, Mystique's shadows, Pepper's resolve, Jean's ashes, Storm's heart, Sue's bonds, Wanda's flame, Sif's blade—the world trembled under his legacy. Thanos loomed, SHIELD hunted, and the X-Men waited. He gripped the Mask, grin sharp as a quiet dare. "Time to answer the spark."