Marvel Monkey King: CH 9 (Patreon)

A heavy bundle of wool and leather landed squarely on Jack's sleeping face.

Jack bolted upright with a strangled squawk, flailing at the fabric tangled over his eyes.

"Gaah! What the hell?!" Jack yelled, shoving the red and black varsity jacket off his head. "What are you doing creeping in here? I haven't even bought a rape whistle yet!"

Luke stood by the foot of the mattress, his broad silhouette blocking the faint gray light leaking through the blinds. His coat was already zipped to his chin.

"You talk about power like you know what you are doing," Luke said, his voice flat and unhurried. "As if you know what you have right now is not the limit of your strength."

Jack rubbed his eyes, letting out an exaggerated yawn, and flopped back onto his pillow. "Yeah, yeah. Philosophical lectures before dawn. It is freezing in here, Luke. Can we continue this TED talk after the sun shows up?"

Luke didn't argue. He reached down with one massive hand and ripped the thin wool blanket clean off the mattress.

"Get up. Follow me."

Luke paused, blinking down at the bed.

Jack was lying there in nothing but his oversized gray undershirt, completely bare from the waist down, his golden-furred tail curled lazily over his left thigh.

Jack sat back up, entirely unbothered, scratching his ribs. "What? My lower half gets hot in the middle of the night. This tail radiates heat like a steam pipe."

Luke shook his head in silent disbelief, turning toward the hallway. "Put on some pants."

Jack hopped off the mattress, grabbed his dark denim jeans, and stepped into them, carefully threading his tail through the waistband before zipping up. He pulled the varsity jacket on, hugging his chest against the morning chill as he followed Luke down the creaking stairs.

"So where the hell are we going?" Jack asked, shivering as they stepped out the rear exit into the alley.

"Training," Luke answered, locking the heavy deadbolt behind them. "If you want to go after Fisk, you do it right."

They walked to the mouth of the alley. Parked along the snowbank at the curb sat an all-black 1987 Buick Grand National.

The car was a menacing slab of angular steel, its pitch-black paint gleaming under the sodium streetlamps, dark as an oil slick against the dirty white slush.

Jack stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes lighting up. "Whoa. Whose ride is this?"

"Get in," Luke said, unlocking the driver's side.

Jack scrambled into the passenger seat, his hands immediately exploring the interior. He touched the leather-wrapped steering wheel, tested the firm bucket seats, and grinned at the twin-gauge cluster like a kid who had just been handed the keys to a tank.

Luke climbed in, the heavy suspension dipping slightly under his frame. He turned the key, and the turbocharged V6 engine rumbled to life with a deep, guttural purr that vibrated through the floorboards.

Luke shifted into gear, easing the car out onto the avenue.

"You a Star Wars fan?" Luke asked casually, keeping his eyes on the road.

Jack snorted, looking out the passenger window. "Hah! Nerd!"

Luke kept a straight face, his voice smooth and baiting. "Folks who know these cars have a nickname for them. They call it Darth Maul's car."

Jack snapped his head around, taking the bait instantly. "Bullshit! It's Darth Vader's car! Look at it! It is completely black, angular, and looks like a funeral coach with a turbocharger. Pure imperial menace! Maul has red tribal tattoos and horns all over his head. This car is Lord Vader on four wheels!"

Luke smiled faintly, the corner of his lip tugging upward. "Nerd."

Jack narrowed his eyes.

He had walked straight into the trap.

Jack crossed his arms, letting out a low, frustrated growl. "Hhhmmmm... You think you're real funny, don't you? Where are we going anyway?"

"Jersey," Luke replied.

Jack groans, slumping his head back against the headrest. "Oh, come on! Jersey?!"

The Grand National cut through the quiet city streets, heading south toward Lower Manhattan.

Luke remained mostly stoic at the wheel, but Jack's restless presence brought out a rare, lighter ease in the big man. Jack filled the warm cabin with unhinged chatter, complaining about New Jersey's existence, critiquing Luke's driving speed, and wondering aloud if Kingpin wore white suits to hide his baby powder addiction.

As they approached the entrance ramp for the Holland Tunnel, Jack looked out across the Lower Manhattan skyline.

The morning mist was lifting over the water.

Jack froze.

The words died in his throat. His knuckles turned white as he pressed his hands against the cold glass of the passenger window.

Rising tall and proud into the pale blue morning sky, two massive rectangular monoliths of steel and glass caught the rising dawn.

The World Trade Center.

The Twin Towers were standing. Untouched. Pristine.

Jack's heart hammered against his ribs like an alarm. He pressed his face closer to the glass, shouting in sheer, unvarnished shock.

"What the fuck?! The Twin Towers are still there?!"

Luke glanced at him, his brow furrowing with mild annoyance. "Keep your voice down. Why wouldn't they be?"

"9/11 didn't happen?!" Jack demanded, turning to stare at Luke in disbelief.

Luke steered the car into the tiled descent of the Holland Tunnel, looking at Jack like the boy was speaking ancient Greek.

"If you are talking about a Porsche 911, I don't see what that has to do with the World Trade Center," Luke said evenly.

Jack slumped back into his bucket seat, his breath coming in shallow, quiet gasps as the yellow tunnel lights flickered overhead in hypnotic, rhythmic intervals.

The truth settled over his mind like cold lead.

This reality possessed its own history, carved by different hands long before he woke up in Sean's body.

A profound chill ran down his spine.

He could not blindly rely on the comic books or the movies he had consumed in his past life. If something as massive and world-altering as September 11th had never occurred here, what made him think the heroes, villains, and shadows of this world would follow a script?

Characters would not act like movie scenes. They were living, thinking, volatile people shaped by a history he did not fully know.

His Marvel knowledge was a compass, not a map. A tool to be questioned, verified with hard facts on the pavement, never worn like a blindfold.

The car emerged from the tunnel into the flat, industrial sprawl of northern New Jersey, winding past salt marshes, chemical tanks, and quiet freight rail spurs.

Eventually, Luke turned the Grand National down a cracked asphalt service road in the Greenville Yard district, coming to a stop before a massive, hangar-like industrial warehouse. The building was ancient, built of dark red brick and corrugated steel, surrounded by overgrown weeds and rusted chain-link.

Luke turned off the ignition, the engine purr dying into silence.

"Follow me," Luke said, stepping out into the salt-tinged morning wind.

Jack stepped out into the frost, looking up at the cavernous building.

Luke walked up to a reinforced steel personnel door on the side of the hangar. He pulled a heavy brass key from his pocket, inserted it into the deadbolt, and turned it with a heavy, echoing click.

Luke pulled the door open, revealing the cavernous shadows waiting within.

"Come inside."

They stepped across the threshold, and Luke pulled the heavy steel door shut. The latch engaged with a dull, echoing clank that rolled across the ceiling.

The interior was vast, smelling of cold motor oil, dried river silt, and iron filings.

Rusted steel trusses arched high overhead into the gloom, crisscrossed by the pale morning light slanting through dirt-caked clerestory windows. In the center of the warehouse, a wide expanse of smooth concrete had been cleared of industrial clutter, ringed by stacked pallets and disconnected machine parts.

Luke unzipped his heavy coat, peeled it from his broad shoulders, and tossed it onto a wooden crate near the wall. He wore an olive thermal shirt that stretched tight over his massive chest and shoulders.

He rolled his neck until his vertebrae popped like dry kindling, rotated his wrists, and stepped into the center of the cleared floor.

Luke planted his boots shoulder-width apart, his arms hanging loose at his sides.

"Attack me."

Jack paused mid-stride, blinking. "Huh?"

"Let me see what you have," Luke said, his voice flat, steady as bedrock.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Jack's face. The dull fatigue from the early morning drive vanished beneath a sudden surge of heat. He lifted both hands, cracking his knuckles in a sharp, crisp sequence.

"Your funeral, big man," Jack said, his golden tail twitching beneath his jeans. "You are buying breakfast after this."

Jack did not waste time with formal stances. He exploded forward off his back foot.

The soles of his sneakers screeched against the concrete as friction gave way to raw, unnatural acceleration. His small, wiry frame was packed with explosive kinetic fury, far beyond the limits of any heavyweight fighter. He covered the distance in a fraction of a second, driving a piston-straight right hook directly toward Luke's jaw.

Thud.

The impact sounded like a heavy sledgehammer striking a solid steel anvil.

A violent shockwave traveled back up the bones of Jack's hand, jarring his wrist and rattling his shoulder joint. Luke's jaw barely shifted half an inch. The man stood completely unmoved, his feet anchored to the floor like bridge pillars.

Jack didn't freeze. Instinct took over. He dropped his hips, snapped a vicious liver blow with his left, followed by an elbow strike aimed at the collarbone, and drove an open palm toward the throat.

Thud. Crack. Thud.

Every blow landed with enough concussive force to rupture an ordinary man's organs and splinter ribs. Yet striking Luke was like battering a granite quarry wrapped in leather. Superhuman cellular density, impenetrable skin, and an unyielding skeletal frame made the man an absolute fortress.

Frustration flared in Jack's chest. Seeing his strikes accomplish nothing, he dropped low, wrapping both arms around Luke's waist to dig for leverage and hoist the mountain for a belly-to-back suplex.

Luke did not even shift his stance.

With casual, dismissive ease, Luke reached down, took a fistful of Jack's jacket collar and shoulder fabric, and hoisted the teenager into the air like a sack of grain. With one clean shove, Luke tossed him away.

Jack flew twelve feet through the cold air, hit the concrete on his side, and skidded across the grit before catching himself on all fours. His golden tail lashed violently against the floor to stabilize his balance.

Luke stood in the exact same spot, casually dusting a streak of chalk from his forearm.

"You don't seem shocked by my strength," Luke remarked, his dark eyes narrowing with quiet interest.

Jack wiped a smear of floor dust from his lip, his golden eyes glowing with a feral, manic glint.

"Takes a weirdo to save a weirdo, kekekeke," Jack wheezed, his laughter rough and grating.

Jack launched himself off the floor, lunging again.

This time, the gap between them became glaringly obvious. Jack fought entirely on street brutality and primal animal instinct: erratic leaps, wild hooks, and sudden shifts in trajectory. It was lethal against thugs in a Chinatown alley, but against Luke, it was transparent.

Luke had Golden Gloves boxing carved into his muscle memory, hardened by military doctrine from the Marine Corps. He did not waste an ounce of energy. His chin was tucked, his footwork minimal and precise.

Luke didn't even clench his fists. He simply slipped inside Jack's wide swings, using open palms and the edges of his hands to parry momentum, tapping Jack across vital points as their bodies collided.

"Bruise," Luke murmured, parrying a hook and lightly tapping Jack's floating rib.

Jack hissed, spinning for a backfist.

"Cut," Luke said, ducking underneath and brushing two fingers against Jack's exposed temple.

Jack snarled, driving a knee upward.

"Tear," Luke said, checking the knee with his thigh and placing an open palm on Jack's shoulder socket.

Jack threw an overhand left with everything he had left.

"Broken bone," Luke said, blocking the wrist and rapping Jack's elbow hinge.

Jack stumbled back four paces, his teeth bared in genuine fury.

The light taps did not break him, but the clinical precision burned worse than a beating. What irritated him most was the fact that Luke was completely right. Against an enemy with lethal blades or equal speed, Jack would have died four times over in ten seconds.

"Cool your head," Luke said, his voice dropping into the quiet authority of an instructor. "Look around. Use everything to your advantage."

Jack panted, his chest heaving under his varsity jacket, his fingers twitching with heat.

"Fine," Jack spat. "You want an advantage?"

Jack reached up to his right ear.

His thumb pinched the tiny needle. He closed his eyes for a split second, sending a sharp spark of intent into the iron.

The earring detached with a high, metallic hum, expanding in his grip until Ruyi Jingu Bang locked at its two-meter threshold.

The air in the hangar grew thick, charged with the ancient, crushing density of the divine rod.

Luke's eyes sharpened. His posture dropped into a stance that was noticeably tighter, his guard pulled close.

Jack didn't hesitate. He swept the black iron low in a whistling blur to take Luke's legs out. Luke leaped, the heavy staff skimming inches beneath his boot soles, but Jack reversed the torque, bringing the golden butt of the rod upward in a wicked diagonal rise toward Luke's jaw.

Clang!

Luke crossed his forearms in midair to intercept the blow.

The collision echoed like an artillery shell inside the enclosed warehouse. The concussive shockwave rippled through Luke's dense forearms, jarring the marrow in his bones. Luke hit the floor, his work boots skidding three feet backward through the dust, carving dark grooves into the concrete.

Jack pressed the advantage without mercy. He spun, vaulted, and hammered the staff down in a relentless cascade of strikes. Overhead smashes, horizontal sweeps, diagonal thrusts.

Luke dodged and parried with everything he had. He could feel every single impact now. The staff did not shatter on his flesh, instead, the terrifying mass behind it pushed his superhuman frame to its absolute limits. Luke deflected blows by fractions of an inch, ducking under arcs that tore the cold air with high-pitched shrieks.

Yet Luke remained on his feet. He slipped. He absorbed the kinetic energy like a breakwater holding off a storm.

Jack's frustration boiled over. His vision tunneled into red. He was sick of hitting an unmovable wall.

Jack pivoted hard on his right heel, pouring every shred of mental focus and physical vitality into the ancient weapon.

Grow.

Mid-swing, the staff swelled in diameter, its black iron groaning under celestial mass. The sudden increase in inertia dragged Jack with it, the torque threatening to rip his shoulders from their sockets.

Boom!

The weighted staff caught Luke squarely across his ribs and flank.

The kinetic force was astronomical. Even Luke's impenetrable body could not defy basic physics. The impact lifted Luke clean off the concrete, hurling his massive frame twenty feet through the air.

Crash!

Luke slammed into the corrugated steel wall of the warehouse, tearing through two heavy wooden studs and buckling the metal siding outward in a massive bulge. Plaster dust, rust, and splinters rained down in an explosive cloud.

Silence reclaimed the hangar.

In the center of the floor, Jack had nothing left. Pushing the staff beyond his body's current threshold drained him instantly. The violent recoil threw him off balance, and with a shrill whine, Ruyi Jingu Bang contracted, snapping back into the earring on his right ear.

Jack crashed face-first onto the freezing concrete.

Blood gushed from both nostrils, pooling in the gray dust beneath his cheek. His skull throbbed with a blinding migraine that made his vision swim in black spots. He lay there, trembling, unable to lift his forearms.

A faint rustle came from the ruined wall.

Luke stepped out from the cloud of dust. He rolled his left shoulder, brushed white plaster from his sleeve, and walked across the floor with a steady, unhurried gait.

He stopped beside Jack's prone form, looking down at the pool of blood in the dust.

"You've got more to learn," Luke said quietly.

Jack groaned, spitting a mouthful of copper-tasting saliva onto the floor. "Not fair... I haven't eaten breakfast yet."

Luke looked down at him, the corner of his lip twitching with the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Get your bearings," Luke said, turning away. "I'll clean up this mess."

Luke began picking up the splintered pieces of the wooden studs, kicking the larger chunks of concrete into a pile.

As he reached down to lift a heavy timber beam, a sharp, unfamiliar twinge pulled at his left side.

Luke paused. He straightened up, caught the hem of his thermal shirt, and pulled it up to inspect his flank.

Right across his lower ribs, blooming beneath the dark surface of his skin, was a distinct, deep purple bruise.

Luke stared at it in dead silence.

Since the night of the experiment at Seagate Prison, nothing had ever marked his skin. Not even a point-blank gunfire can. His body was an impenetrable shield.

Yet there it was. A real, tender bruise.

As he watched, his accelerated cellular regeneration kicked in. The purplish hue began to lighten, the broken capillaries beneath the skin knitting together, the dull ache fading into warmth until the skin returned to smooth, unbroken brown.

Luke lowered his shirt. He slowly turned his head to look across the empty floor.

Jack had managed to drag himself upright against an empty wooden crate, dabbing at his bloody nose with the sleeve of his varsity jacket. Looked at from a distance, the kid was still half-starved, his frame thin and wiry.

Yet his all-out strike had penetrated through the impenetrable. This was the first time since Seagate that Luke had seen his own flesh bruised.

Luke stood in the quiet warehouse, dust motes dancing in the pale morning light around him.

A quiet thought took root in his chest. The boy was wild, reckless, and half-insane with pride. But maybe, with the right discipline and guidance, he could become someone who tipped the scales for the better.

For the neighborhood. For Harlem. For Hell's Kitchen.

Maybe for the whole damn city of New York.

Luke picked up the heavy timber beam, tossed it onto the scrap pile with a dull thud, and continued cleaning.