Max_Striker
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Chapter 32 – Fault Lines
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 14:23:33 +0000 UTCThe monitoring equipment hummed steadily around Jay as electrodes tracked every neural impulse. Reed's lab had been transformed into something resembling a high-tech medical facility, with Hank's additional equipment creating a maze of cables and blinking displays. Jay tried to focus on the readouts, but his mind kept drifting to the upcoming enhancement procedure.
The irony wasn't lost on him—here he was again, surrounded by medical equipment, his life measured in beeps and data streams. Just like Metropolitan General, except now he was the patient instead of the practitioner. It should have felt liberating, but instead the weight in his chest grew heavier with each steady beep.
"Neural pathways look stable," Reed murmured, adjusting something on his tablet. "Hank, are you seeing any anomalies in the mutant gene expression?"
"Nothing unexpected," Hank replied from behind a bank of monitors. "Though I must admit, Jay's physiology continues to surprise me. The sheer instinct of his genetic material to protect itself from any foreign interference is remarkable. It's almost as if your body is designed to reject any attempt at external control or manipulation."
Jay's stomach twisted at those words. External control. Manipulation. Even his own DNA was calling him out.
The shrill buzz of Jay's phone cut through the scientific chatter. The caller ID made his stomach clench—Bobby, and it was the emergency line.
"Excuse me," Jay said, pulling off the monitoring leads. "I need to take this privately."
He stepped into the soundproofed corner of the lab, pressing the phone to ear. "What's happening?"
Bobby's voice was tight with controlled panic. "Masque is gone."
The world seemed to tilt. "What do you mean gone?"
"Two guards are dead. Professionals. They left no evidence, knew exactly how to avoid Caliban when he was out searching for other Morlock-like groups."
Jay's hand clenched into a fist. How could he have been so careless? Masque was irreplaceable—without his power to restore the Morlocks efficiently, Jay's carefully constructed position as their messiah would shatter. And if someone forced Masque to use his power maliciously, to take mutations away and dump them on innocent people...
The familiar weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a lead blanket.
"Maria?" Jay asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.
"Already on it. She touched him yesterday during the supervision check, so she can track his exact location. He's at 840 Fifth Avenue."
Jay's blood ran cold. His comic knowledge kicked in immediately—the Hellfire Club. Of course. Sebastian Shaw, Emma Frost, the Inner Circle. People who made games out of other people's lives, who collected mutants like chess pieces.
People exactly like him.
"Caliban reading anything there?"
"Heavy mutant presence. Direct extraction would be suicide without serious backup."
"Why didn't you just give Masque's power to Maria or Max?" Bobby's question hit like a physical blow. "Someone from the inner circle could have—"
"Because we need HIM," Jay snapped, louder than he intended. "His power is specifically attuned to flesh reconstruction. Dealing with human physiology requires expertise and precision that comes from lived experience. I can't just hand that off to someone else and hope it works the same way. The Morlocks need precise restoration, not experimental surgery."
Even as he said it, Jay heard the lie. He could absolutely transfer the knowledge along with the power—he'd done it before with other abilities. The real reason was control. His control.
And now, someone else had turned that same philosophy back on him. Outmaneuvered him. Played him.
"There's a mole," Jay said quietly. "Has to be. Use the truth powers you have—justify your codename 'Lasso' and find them. Have Maria track their movements and contacts for the past week. And get Linda monitoring Masque's vital signs. They won't kill him yet. He's too valuable as leverage."
"Already started the process," Bobby said. "What about you?"
Jay looked back at the lab, at Reed and Hank preparing equipment that might fundamentally change him.
For a moment, the thought came, unbidden and sharp: If he used Kilgrave's powers, this wouldn’t be happening. He could see it—Bobby smiling in utter devotion, Maria kneeling in gratitude, Ben telling him he was “the best friend I ever had” with unwavering sincerity. A single word and every potential enemy would be gone. No betrayal. No uncertainty. Just obedience.
The slap echoed through the lab like a gunshot. Jay's hand stung from the impact with his own face, his nose immediately began bleeding, and everyone in the room froze.
"Jay!" Reed dropped his tablet and rushed over. "What happened? Heal yourself!"
"I was just about to do something idiotic," Jay muttered, wiping blood from his nose. The pain was grounding, real in a way that cut through the spiral of dark thoughts. "Need some fresh air."
He was already moving toward the exit when Hank's concerned voice followed him. "Perhaps the stress from the upcoming procedure is affecting his judgment."
Ben had been leaning against the wall by the door the whole time, arms folded. He straightened as Jay passed, concern etched deep into his rocky face. Without a word, he followed him out.
The alley behind the Baxter Building was mercifully empty. Jay leaned against the brick wall, letting the cool air clear his head. What was wrong with him? He'd just seriously considered using mind control—the one power he'd sworn he'd never touch. The line between him and Kilgrave had felt paper-thin for a terrifying moment.
He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be free—free from the suffocating expectations of his old life, free to make his own choices. Instead, he'd built another prison, just with different bars.
"Here." Ben's gravelly voice interrupted his spiral. The large man held out a napkin. "You're still bleeding."
Jay accepted it gratefully, pressing it to his nose. "Thanks."
"Come with me," Ben said. "I want to show you something."
Despite everything, curiosity won out. Jay nodded and followed Ben through the streets of Manhattan. They walked in companionable silence, interrupted only by the occasional person asking for Ben's autograph or shouting encouragement from apartment windows. The warmth in their voices was real—not fear, not obligation. Jay couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that.
Eventually, they stopped in front of a small SoHo studio apartment building. Ben's entire demeanor changed as they climbed the stairs—the rough edges of his voice softening, his massive frame somehow becoming less imposing.
The woman who answered the door was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with conventional standards. Her dark hair framed a face that radiated warmth and intelligence, and when she turned toward Ben's voice, Jay realized she was blind.
"Ben!" Her face lit up with genuine joy—not relief that he could help her, not calculation about what he could do for her, just pure happiness at his presence. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"I know, darlin'," Ben's rough voice gentled in a way Jay had never heard before. "I brought someone I wanted you to meet. This is Jay—Dr. Jay. Jay, this is Alicia Masters."
Jay's comic knowledge supplied the rest—Ben's future wife, one of the few people who had ever seen past his monstrous appearance to the man underneath.
"Coffee?" Alicia offered, already moving toward the kitchen with the easy confidence of someone navigating familiar territory.
"Water would be great, thank you," Jay said, feeling oddly intrusive in this intimate space.
The apartment was small but filled with sculptures—beautiful, expressive pieces that captured emotion in ways that seemed impossible for someone who couldn't see. Jay found himself drawn to a piece in the corner, a sculpture of The Thing that made him stop breathing.
This wasn't the monster the world saw. This wasn't even the tragic hero Ben thought himself to be. The sculpture's rocky surface somehow conveyed gentleness, protection, even tenderness. Every line spoke of strength used to shelter rather than destroy, of power wielded with infinite care.
Alicia’s fingers brushed the edge of the piece. “It’s funny,” she said softly. “People think the surface is the truth. But sometimes the real shape of someone isn’t on the surface at all.”
This was how someone who loved him saw him.
"That's my Ben," Alicia said softly. "I made it after our third date. Took me six tries to get it right."
"Why six tries?" Jay asked, his voice rough.
"Because I kept trying to sculpt what I thought he looked like. Had to learn to sculpt what he felt like instead."
Jay looked between the sculpture and Ben, seeing the same essential qualities in both—but more than that, seeing the love that had transformed perception itself.
Ben settled onto the couch with surprising grace for someone of his size. "Jay, you know why I really brought you here?"
The seriousness in Ben's tone made Jay take a seat across from him.
"When I first got changed into this thing," Ben gestured at his rocky form, "I wanted to die. Spent weeks locked away, wouldn't even look in a mirror. The dame I was gonna marry took one look at me and ran screaming. Can't say I blamed her."
Alicia's hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his massive stone digits.
"What changed?" Jay asked, though he knew he was still afraid of the answer.
"You did, kid. Three months ago, you showed up and gave me somethin' I thought was gone forever—hope." Ben's voice roughened. "After you healed that callus, showed me what might be possible, I finally had the guts to step outside again."
The words hit Jay like a physical blow. He'd done that healing as a demonstration, a way to build trust and establish his credentials. A calculated move in his larger game.
"That's when he literally bumped into me at the art supply store," Alicia added with a gentle smile. "Knocked over half my clay samples."
"She didn't run," Ben said simply. "Asked if she could touch my face, said she wanted to know what I looked like. When she did..." his voice caught, "she just smiled and said I had kind eyes."
The room fell quiet except for the soft tick of a clock.
"You gave me hope for a cure, Jay. But she gave me a reason to want one." Ben leaned forward, his voice turning urgent. "But if there's even the smallest chance this procedure could kill you, I'm walking away right now. You understand me, kid? Right now."
The words shattered something inside Jay's chest. His breath caught, eyes suddenly burning with tears he couldn't stop.
When was the last time—when was the first time—someone had valued his life over what he could give them?
At the hospital, he'd been valuable for his skills, his willingness to work overtime, his ability to handle difficult patients. His mother called because she wanted grandchildren, status, the life she'd planned for him. Even his friends back home had only reached out when they needed medical advice or help.
Here was someone willing to sacrifice their deepest desire to keep him safe. Not because of what he could do, but because of who he was to them.
And it was all built on lies.
"Ben..." Jay's voice cracked, the tears coming freely now.
"I mean it," Ben said fiercely. "I've lived as this thing for months. I can live as it for the rest of my life if it means keeping you safe. That's what friends do."
Friends. The word hit like a sledgehammer.
"The procedure isn't for you," Jay said suddenly, his voice harsh and cutting. "Don't flatter yourself, Ben. This is for me. My enhancement, my risk, my choice. You getting cured is just a convenient side effect."
He was standing now, pacing like a caged animal. "You think I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart? You think I'm some kind of saint? I'm not. I'm doing this because I need to be stronger. The fact that it might help you is just—just coincidental."
"Jay, that's not—" Ben started to rise from the couch.
"It IS true!" Jay shouted.
Alicia flinched at the volume of his voice, and that small reaction sent another wave of shame through Jay. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I'm sorry, Alicia. You didn't deserve that. Neither of you did."
He was at the door before either of them could respond, slamming it behind him as he fled into the street.
He wondered if anyone would ever sculpt him like that—and if the clay would crack the moment they touched it.
