NOVEL WEB Chapter 27: Chapter 27: "Chaos Womb and Scarlet Threads"
The alley's fractured brick exhaled a damp chill, Natasha's sting a fading jolt as Jake slumped against the wall, the Mask dangling from his fingers like a spent fuse. Its grin caught the sodium glow of a flickering streetlamp, her words—"Fix it—or we will"—cutting deeper than her widow's bite ever could. He slid it on, green light flaring, the zoot suit snapping into place with a swagger that felt more like armor than bravado now. "Fix it," he muttered, kicking a shard of glass into the shadows. "How do you fix a storm you started?"
New York wasn't breathing easy—the air thrummed with a wrongness, a pulse that wasn't just the city's usual grind. Beyond the alley's mouth, green flares streaked the skyline—his kids, waking, breaking, their chaos tearing through concrete and steel like it was paper. A distant scream echoed from Harlem, another from Brooklyn, each one a punch to his gut. The Mask's rasp slithered into his skull, smug as ever: "They're your blood, kid. Chaos runs deep—deeper than you figured." He clenched his jaw, the grin he'd worn like a shield cracking at the edges. "Blood I didn't ask for," he shot back, voice rough. "This was supposed to be fun."
The ground shivered—a new pulse, sharper, closer, ripping through the asphalt a block away. He bolted out, boots slapping wet pavement, and skidded to a stop as a figure emerged from a cratered street. She was maybe twelve, red hair wild like Jean's, but her hands glowed crimson, not green—chaos twisted with something else, something rawer. "Wanda's?" he breathed, heart lurching. She turned, eyes blazing red, and a wave of scarlet energy lashed out—streetlights bent, cars flipped, the air itself warping like a nightmare folding in on itself.
"Fun's over," a voice cut through, low and threaded with a Sokovian lilt. Wanda Maximoff stepped from the shadows, her coat a dark slash against the flickering chaos, hands aglow with that same crimson power. "She's mine, Jake—ours. And she's not alone." Her gaze pinned him, sharp as a hex, but there was a tremor in it—anger, yes, but something softer, fractured. The Mask purred: "Red witch is back, kid. She's got your spark—and then some."
"Wanda?" he said, stretching to dodge the girl's next blast, the energy grazing his chaos tendrils, sparking a jolt that felt too familiar. "Scarlet Witch with the mojo? Didn't figure you for the mom type." Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk, but her eyes stayed hard. "You didn't figure a lot of things," she snapped, voice tight. "They're waking—your kids, my daughter. She's tearing Brooklyn apart, and I can't stop her alone." The girl—her girl—hurled another wave, and Wanda countered, crimson threads tangling the chaos, but it only grew wilder, shattering a hydrant into a geyser.
The sky rumbled—Thor soared in, Mjolnir crackling, Storm's lightning flaring beside him. "Thy spawn wreak havoc!" Thor bellowed, hammer swinging—Jake ducked, chaos vortex clashing with the strike, sparks raining. Storm's wind pinned him, her voice cold: "They're yours—control them!" Jean's Phoenix flame flared nearby, her telekinesis snaring the girl's next blast, but it slipped free, wilder than before. "She's mine too," Jean said, voice layered with the Phoenix's hum, eyes locking on Wanda's with a shared, brittle weight.
"Control?" he laughed, sharp and hollow, stretching to dodge Thor's lightning. "I didn't sign up for daycare—I'm a goddamn tornado, not a dad!" The Mask's cackle rang louder: "Too late, kid. You sowed—they're reaping." The girl's red-green chaos surged, a building groaning as it twisted—then a deeper quake hit, cosmic, unyielding. The sky split purple, and Thanos descended, his throne a slab of menace, the Black Order at his heels: Proxima's spear, Cull's bulk, Maw's smirk, Corvus' blade.
"Your lineage unbalances existence," Thanos rumbled, voice a low quake, gesturing—Outriders spilled forth, a black tide clawing the streets. "I will prune it." Jake's grin faltered, sweat beading under the suit. "Prune my kids?" he snapped, chaos flaring instinctive—tendrils lashed, tangling Outriders, smashing them into pulp. Wanda's crimson joined, weaving with his green, a chaotic tapestry that held the tide—barely. "They're not weeds," she hissed, her hand brushing his, a jolt of heat sparking between them.
Thor's hammer clashed with Cull, Storm's lightning seared Proxima, Jean's fire burned Maw—but the kids' chaos grew, green and red pulses tearing through the fray. Natasha darted in, widow's bite crackling, pinning an Outrider. "They're ours," she said, voice steel, eyes meeting his with a fierce, unspoken plea. She-Hulk roared, tackling Corvus, her green matching the kids' wild light. "We're in this, Jake—deal with it."
The street was a warzone—New York's jagged heart bled chaos, buildings sagging like wax, streets a snarl of twisted metal and screaming light. Wanda pulled him into a shattered storefront, glass crunching underfoot, the battle's roar a dull pulse beyond. She pinned him to a counter, her strength a mystic storm, tearing his suit with hands that glowed red. "You did this," she growled, but her lips crashed into his, tasting of ash and chaos, a desperate edge cutting through.
The storefront was a tomb of broken shelves and flickering neon, the city's chaos a howling beast outside. Her coat fell, hands fierce as she shredded his suit—her breath hitched as his traced her, sinking into her heat, fingers clawing at her core, chaos sparking crimson-green between them. "Did you too," he growled, lifting her—legs locked around him with sorcerous grip, crashing against the counter, glass shattering beneath. Her suit peeled away, baring skin kissed by scars and power—his mouth roamed, drawing a moan, raw and resonant, laced with a witch's fire. He entered—slow, then fierce—her cry a scarlet flare, twisting the air with chaos threads.
The Mask surged, sharpening every pulse—the molten heat, her gasps, the rhythm as she matched him, wild and unyielding. The storefront warped—shelves trembling, neon strobing—as she rode him, hair a wild cascade, eyes glowing red with chaotic want. Her climax hit like a hex's rupture, energy surging, cracking the counter, and he spilled into her, a flood that made the Mask howl, green sparks threading through her scarlet blaze. A seed deepened, chaos and magic fused anew, and they slumped, slick with sweat, her weight atop him a glowing anchor.
Wanda's eyes flickered, a storm of red and regret. "You're a tempest, Jake—too wild to escape." "Tempests need a witch," he rasped, her heat still coiling in his chest. She rose, coat snapping back, her glance a mix of fury and something tender. "Help us—or lose them." She stepped into the fray, leaving him with the Mask, its voice smug: "Twenty-six down, kid. The threads are snapping."