Marvel Monkey King: CH 6 (Patreon)

Jack set the heavy glass bottle back onto the wooden bar top with a muted clink.

The heat of the whiskey lingered in his throat, but beneath the warmth, his thoughts began to coil into a restless spiral.

Looking back across his old life, everything he had done came down to a simple, arrogant truth: he acted because he could. Even when cornered, even when bleeding out in dead-end alleys, he had clawed his way forward with an uncompromising appetite for freedom. He answered to no master, bowed to no altar, and lived by the law of his own fists.

Yet freedom in this new world was a different beast altogether.

This universe belonged to titans, mutants, and shadowed syndicates that could crush a neighborhood with a flick of a pen or the wave of a gauntlet. Without the strength to carve out territory and defend it, freedom was nothing more than a temporary luxury, waiting to be extinguished in the dark.

He had tasted death once. The cold iron taste of his own blood, the fading hum of an engine, the sudden snap of the thread. He had no desire to walk through that doorway again.

Was this the same ancient terror that had driven the Monkey King to erase his name from the ledgers of Hell? Maybe. But beneath all the cosmic myth and ancient arrogance, Jack knew the truth of his own heart.

He simply wanted to live. A good, stubborn, long life, lived entirely on his own terms.

Jack looked down at the polished zinc rail of the bar. His reflection stared back from the metallic sheen: thin wrists, bruised cheekbones, and hollow cheeks that had never known a full stomach. Sean had been a ghost in his own skin, hollowed out by fear until the fire to survive burned down to gray ash.

A crooked, feral grin tugged at Jack's lips.

"No worries, Sean," Jack murmured, tapping his knuckles against the cool metal. "I will live for you, kekekeke. Who am I kidding? I will live for me too, kekekeke."

He set the cap back onto the Jack Daniel's bottle, tightening the seal. That was enough liquor for one morning.

If he wanted to survive in a world where gods walked the pavement, he needed to master this strange new vessel. And if he was going to sleep beneath Luke Cage's roof, he would earn his keep.

Jack slid out of the red varsity jacket, folding it neatly over the back of a barstool. He rolled the sleeves of his gray undershirt to his shoulders, spat on his palms, and walked toward the center of the tavern floor.

The physical labor was immediate, unforgiving punishment.

Every time he bent down to haul a cracked slab of drywall or lift a splintered oak timber, his joints screamed in protest. The heavy debris felt double its natural weight against his frail muscles. Sweat soon cut clean lines through the dust on his neck, his breath wheezing through clenched teeth.

Yet as the micro-tears flared along his forearms and thighs, Jack closed his eyes and pushed his will into the ache.

Deep beneath his skin, an unfamiliar golden warmth answered his call.

He could feel the fibers knitting themselves back together, pulling tight with greater density. Torn muscle sealed shut; bruised bone drank in the strain and hardened. Break, mend, adapt. It was a slow, agonizing forge, but it was the first true step toward understanding what kind of monster he had become.

…

Several blocks away, the biting winter wind blew across the mouth of a cordoned alleyway.

Yellow police tape snapped and fluttered against the snow-dusted brick. Red and blue emergency lights washed over the slush in rhythmic, garish pulses, casting long shadows against the tenement walls.

Inside the alley lay the three dead men Jack had left behind. The two survivors from the beating had long since scattered into the frozen corners of the city, leaving their comrades stiffening under gray wool tarps.

Luke Cage stood on the perimeter, his thick canvas coat zipped tight against the frost, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

Among the circle of dark blue NYPD coats, a familiar figure caught his eye.

"Officer Morales," Luke called out, his deep baritone cutting cleanly through the murmur of the crowd.

Jefferson Morales turned from his cruiser, his breath pluming in the icy air. When he recognized the broad silhouette beneath the streetlight, the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

"Cage," Jeff said, stepping past the sawhorse barricade.

The two men clasped forearms in a firm, unspoken greeting.

"Heard you swung by my building earlier," Luke said, keeping his tone light and unhurried. "Sorry I was out. I have been putting in hours down at the pub."

Jeff sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a gloved thumb. "Canvassing the precinct. A couple of corner boys claimed they saw a big man walking the avenue right around the time the gunfire started. Procedure says I knock on your door."

"I have nothing to hide, Jeff," Luke replied smoothly. "I was out on the street hauling bags of cement and plywood for the front frame. If the detectives downtown want to ask questions, I am happy to ride down to the precinct and give a statement."

Jeff shook his head, pulling a small flip notebook and a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket. "No need to turn this into a circus. Just tell me what you saw and when you were moving between blocks. Let me match it against the dispatch log so I can close my part of the report."

Luke gave his account with steady precision. He spoke of the early morning frost, the quiet blocks, and the sound of heavy trucks on the avenue, carefully editing out the bleeding mutant child he had carried over his shoulder into the warmth of his tavern.

Jeff jotted down the times, nodding as the timeline clicked into place.

As they spoke, a low, predatory engine purred along the opposite curb.

A sleek black Cadillac DeVille rolled through the slush, coming to an idle near the fire hydrant. The exhaust plumed heavy and white into the gray sky, but the cabin remained dark behind impenetrable tint.

Luke did not turn his head, but his peripheral vision tracked the vehicle with quiet intensity. Through the darkened glass, he felt the weight of a gaze watching them with cold, calculated amusement.

Cottonmouth.

Maintaining his easy, casual stance, Luke leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low whisper that barely carried over the rumble of the squad cars.

"Cottonmouth is going to make a move."

Jeff did not flinch. His face remained the calm, impassive mask of a working beat cop writing notes in the winter cold.

"I am a patrol officer, Luke," Jeff muttered under his breath, clicking his pen closed. "The brass downtown plays their own games with Stokes. A uniform on the street cannot stop what is coming from above."

From across the crime scene, a sharp voice barked from the lead cruiser. "Morales! You done taking notes over there?"

Jeff straightened his posture, tucking the notebook back into his coat. "Yes, sergeant! Wrapping up now!"

He looked back at Luke, his dark eyes carrying the weary, honest weight of a man trying to keep his soul intact on dirty streets.

"Be safe, Luke," Jeff said softly.

Luke offered a slow, solid nod. "Stay true to it."

Jeff tilted his head, a quiet, knowing smile touching his lips. "Always."

Across the street, the electric hum of a window regulator sounded faintly through the cold. The passenger window of the black Cadillac DeVille rolled up, sealing the shadow inside before the heavy sedan accelerated smoothly, disappearing into the gray maze of Harlem.

…

Several hours drifted into the gray afternoon.

Luke spent the better part of the day checking the avenues between 110th and 135th, making sure the local shopkeepers and corner vendors hadn't caught the backwash of the morning's bloodshed.

In Harlem, violence was rarely contained; it bled outward, claiming debts from anyone caught standing in the wrong doorway. When Cottonmouth wanted to remind a neighborhood who owned the dirt, he didn't care whose blood painted the curb.

Satisfied that the block was quiet for now, Luke pushed through the heavy winter chill, carrying a plastic grocery bag stuffed with warm styrofoam containers.

When he unlocked the tavern's rear door and stepped inside, the sight halted him in his boots.

The cavernous floor was nearly spotless.

The jagged chunks of broken concrete, the shattered sections of drywall, and the splintered subfloor had all been hauled away and stacked into a tight, orderly pyramid in the far corner. The exposed joists were swept clean, free of nails and loose plaster, ready for new tongue-and-groove boards.

Luke blinked, looking around the cavernous room. 'Did that starved, scrawny kid do all this alone?'

The hall was dead quiet, save for a steady, rhythmic rasp coming from behind the bar.

Luke walked over, his heavy work boots stepping lightly on the joists, and leaned his broad chest over the mahogany counter.

There he was.

Jack was curled on a flattened cardboard box behind the taps, fast asleep, using his bunched-up red varsity jacket as a makeshift pillow. His thin chest rose and fell in deep, exhausted heaves, a faint sheen of sweat still drying along his temple.

Luke set the plastic bag onto the bar with a dull rustle. He stepped around the counter and nudged the heel of Jack's worn boot with his toe.

Jack snapped awake in a heartbeat.

His eyes were wild, golden amber flaring behind the pupils before settling back into pale brown. He blinked at the dim light, realizing it was already dusk outside the dirty windows.

Then his stomach gave an ungodly roar, loud enough to echo off the empty liquor shelves.

Jack sat up, rubbing his neck, his nose twitching as a savory, garlic-heavy aroma filled the air.

"Tell me you brought food for two, Luke," Jack rasped, his voice rough with sleep.

Luke turned back to the room, inspecting the cleared floor with a slow, appreciative shake of his head. "Great job on the floor. Clean enough to lay subflooring tomorrow."

Luke unscrewed the cap of a plastic water bottle and took a long, cooling sip. "So. Made your choice yet?"

Jack grinned, his sharp teeth flashing in the shadows behind the counter.

"Hell yeah I did," Jack said smoothly, climbing to his feet. "Recuperate. Then kill Kingpin."

Luke choked mid-swallow.

Water sprayed from his lips. He leaned against the counter, coughing violently, his broad shoulders shaking before he wiped his mouth with the back of a massive forearm.

He stared at the teenager like the boy had just claimed he was going to drink the Hudson River dry.

Jack was already ignoring him, whistling an off-key tune as he grabbed the plastic bag and hauled out the steaming styrofoam boxes. He popped the lids open on a low laminate table, revealing heaping mounds of yellow rice, braised pork chunks, stewed black beans, and fried plantains.

Luke took a breath, pulling up a stool across from the table. He rested his heavy forearms against the surface, watching Jack dig in with feral enthusiasm.

"Mmm. Dominican," Jack said, his eyes lighting up as he chewed a mouthful of crisp roast pork. "El Barrio, I assume?"

"Yeah," Luke replied, his deep voice carrying a quiet, heavy edge. "Walked past it on the way back."

Luke studied the boy across from him. He looked for the telltale signs: the twitch of the jaw, the darting eyes, the desperate puff of a young kid trying to play tough to hide his terror.

There was nothing.

The kid's posture was completely relaxed, his shoulders loose, his focus undivided between the pork and the beans. He had spoken of executing the most dangerous underworld lord on the eastern seaboard with the casual indifference of someone deciding between two brands of cigarettes.

"Run that back, kid," Luke rumbled. "You are going to kill who?"

Jack shoveled another forkful of rice into his mouth, chewing without hesitation. "Kingpin."

Luke leaned forward, his brow furrowing deep. "With what? You were half a breath from the morgue after tangling with low-rent crooks in an alley. Those boys were the bottom of the food chain, and you barely walked away."

"That was this morning," Jack said, waving a plastic fork dismissively. "My body was hollow, and I had bad footing. I will train. Here is the deal, Luke: I help you rebuild this pub..."

"Bar," Luke interrupted, correcting him automatically.

"Tomato, potato, same difference, kekekeke." Jack snorted. "Point is, I give you free labor, you give me a roof and meals until I am ready to crack Kingpin's skull into paste."

Luke shook his head, though he reached into the second container and pulled out a piece of roasted pork, chewing slowly as he considered the proposal.

"Then what?" Luke asked.

Jack paused with a plantain halfway to his lips. "Hm?"

"Then what comes after?" Luke asked, his eyes leveling with Jack's. "Let us say by some miracle you put Fisk in the dirt. What happens the next morning? You think the streets clean up? You think peace breaks out? All you do is leave a crater. Every vulture, crew leader, and sociopath in the five boroughs will tear Hell's Kitchen to pieces trying to claim the throne he leaves behind."

Jack tilted his head back and let out a dry, wheezing laugh.

"Kekekeke! A hole."

Jack leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with the ancient, rotten cynicism of a man who had lived and died by the rules of the gutter.

"Listen to me, Luke. Any hole in this world can be filled by all kinds of assholes. But just like any hole, if you shove hard enough, it comes out the other end."

Luke stared at him. The metaphor was crude, unhinged, and totally devoid of textbook morality, yet underneath the crude street humor lay a cold, pragmatic understanding of power that no fifteen-year-old had any right to possess.

They ate in silence after that, the only sounds the scrape of plastic forks and the occasional rumble of a truck bouncing over the winter ruts outside.

When the last grain of rice was gone, Jack leaned back, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin with a long, contented sigh.

Luke pushed his empty container aside. He did not move to clear the table. He sat still, his dark eyes locked on Jack, the weight of an unasked question hanging heavy between them.

"Show me," Luke said quietly.

Jack stopped folding his napkin. He looked up, his brow cocked. "Show you what?"

"The thing that killed those men," Luke said, his voice dropping into absolute stillness. "I saw their skulls before the coroner zipped the bags."

Jack held Luke's gaze for three long heartbeats.

A quiet smirk touched the boy's lips. His gut had been right from the beginning: Luke had found the slaughter in the alley first, read the carnage with an experienced eye, and tracked the bloody trail to the curb where Jack had collapsed.

Jack stood up from the table, his hand rising to the tiny rod of dark metal dangling from his right ear.

"Fair enough," Jack said, his grin widening into something wild and untamed. "I will show you."