MTL NOVEL Chapter 9: Chapter 9: "Shadows and Shields"
Jake Carter—Masquerade—leaned against the dented hood of the derelict garage, the faint hum of the city seeping through rusted walls, Gamora's cosmic edge still sharp on his skin. Her parting words—"The Guardians will hear of this. So will I"—echoed in his ears, her lethal touch a spark in his veins from their blade-meets-chaos union. The Mask pulsed in his hand, its grin smeared with oil and glee, its voice a raspy taunt: "Eight queens in your reign, kid—Natasha, Wanda, Jean, Ororo, Raven, Carol, Anna, Gamora. Each one's got your chaos brewing. Ready to dodge a spymaster?"
Jake's chest heaved, a mix of triumph and tension. Eight women—eight nights of reality-warping passion—and the Mask's talk of "brewing" was a thunderclap now. He was seeding chaos across the 616, a lineage of power that could topple this world's order. He slapped the Mask on, green light flaring as his zoot suit spun into place, and grinned despite the storm in his gut. "Guess I'm the green plague of Marvel," he muttered, stepping over scattered tools into the night. The garage's silence broke with a low whine—quinjet engines, closer than ever—and then a voice, clipped and commanding, cut through: "You've had your fun, punk. Party's over."
A figure emerged from the shadows, trench coat flapping, eye patch glinting under a streetlamp. Nick Fury, SHIELD's director, stood flanked by agents in tactical gear—stun cannons, containment fields humming. "Romanoff's report started this," he said, voice like gravel, "but Loki, the X-Men, the Guardians—all pointing at you. You're a walking disaster, and I'm shutting you down." Drones buzzed overhead, red dots painting Jake's chest.
Jake's eyes widened, the Mask cackling: "Oh, he's the boss, kid. Spy vs. chaos—let's play." "Nick Fury?" he blurted, voice a mix of awe and defiance. "SHIELD's big dog? Name's Masquerade, chaos king. Just shaking this 616 cage—saved Black Widow, danced with Wanda, burned with Jean, stormed with Ororo, twisted with Mystique, sparked with Carol, touched Rogue, cut with Gamora. You here to cage or clap?" The Mask's charisma pulsed, but Fury's glare didn't flinch, hardened by years of war.
"You're a threat to stability," Fury said, raising a hand. "Romanoff's compromised, half the X-Men are rattled—this ends now." Agents fired—stun bolts, nets—but Jake dodged, body stretching like rubber, conjuring a giant umbrella to deflect the barrage. The garage shuddered, tools flying, and Fury signaled again—drones swooping, firing EMP pulses that sparked against the Mask's chaos. Jake laughed, "Stability's boring, patch!" and retaliated with a cartoon cannon, blasting confetti that gummed the drones, crashing them in a glittery heap.
Before Fury could escalate, a shimmer rippled the air—a figure fading into view, blonde hair flowing, blue suit hugging a lithe frame. Sue Storm, the Invisible Woman, her force fields flickering as she stepped between them. "Nick, wait," she said, voice calm but firm. "Reed's tracking this energy—it's not just chaos, it's… alive. We need to understand it." Her eyes locked on Jake, curiosity cutting through her shield.
Jake's jaw dropped, the Mask purring: "Oh, she's a stunner, kid. Invisible chaos—grab her." "Sue Storm?" he blurted, voice dripping with hunger. "Fantastic babe herself? Loving the glow—Masquerade, at your service. You?" Her lips twitched, caught by his flair. "You're disrupting everything," she said, stepping closer, "but it's… fascinating." Her field brushed his chaos—green tendrils clashing with her shimmer—and the Mask pushed back, amplifying his pull.
Fury snarled, "Sue, don't get sucked in!" Agents regrouped, but Jake stretched, grabbing Sue and dodging into a side street as drones buzzed. "Stick with me, invisible lady," he grinned, the Mask's pull slamming into her. Her breath hitched, field faltering. "You're insane," she murmured, a mix of caution and want, as Fury's shadow loomed.
Minutes later, they were in a cluttered basement nearby—flickering bulbs, old Fantastic Four gear stacked in corners. Sue shoved Jake against a workbench, her strength subtle but firm, hands tearing his suit open. "You're a menace," she growled, but her lips crashed into his, soft yet urgent, tasting of resolve and curiosity. His shirt hit the floor, and he tugged her suit down, blue fabric pooling at her waist, revealing pale skin and curves refined by heroism. Her breath hitched as his hands roamed—up her spine, gripping her hips—nails digging in as she pressed against him, shimmering faintly.
"Menace is my charm, Sue," he rasped, lifting her. Her legs locked around him, thighs flexing with quiet power, and they crashed onto a table, tools clattering. She yanked his pants free, and he peeled her suit off fully, baring her—her field flickered, cloaking them briefly in invisibility. His mouth found her neck, her breasts, tracing the warmth until she moaned, a sound soft and unguarded. When he entered her—slow, then deep—her cry was raw, force fields sparking, cracking the walls. The Mask surged, sharpening every pulse—the heat of her core, the rhythm of her gasps, the slick friction as she moved with him, fierce yet subtle.
The basement warped—gear levitating, lights strobing—as she rode him, hair wild, eyes blazing blue. Her climax hit like a shield burst, energy rippling, shaking the room, and he followed, spilling into her with a rush that made the Mask roar, green sparks melding with her shimmer. A seed took root, chaos and invisibility entwined, and they collapsed, sweat-slick and panting, her weight atop him a quiet anchor.
Sue traced a scar on his chest, her smirk faint but real. "You're a storm, Masquerade. Too wild for Reed's charts." "Storms need a shield," he grinned, savoring her warmth. She rose, field cloaking her as she dressed, tossing him a look—half-warning, half-longing. "The Four will track you. So will I." She vanished in a shimmer, leaving him with the Mask, its voice smug: "Nine down, kid. The shadows are yours."
Jake stood, the basement quiet, SHIELD's pursuit muffled by distance. Sue's subtlety, Gamora's edge, Rogue's touch, Carol's radiance, Mystique's fluidity, Storm's storm, Jean's fire, Wanda's magic, Natasha's steel—the 616 was buckling under his chaos. Fury plotted, Magneto raged, and cosmic whispers grew louder. He slapped the Mask back on, grinning wide. "Let's hide in plain sight."