Chapter 70: Departure

Nearly a month had passed since Doom's broadcast shattered Jay's carefully constructed double life, and the fallout was still settling like dust across his relationships.

The Fantastic Four had cut all ties. The X-Men tolerated him now, barely. If not for pulling that adamantium bullet out of Logan's skull and giving Beast back his human form, Charles would probably have outright declared him an enemy. Even their gratitude came with conditions and suspicious glances.

SHIELD had then immediately hired him as a "specialist contractor" the moment they realized how badly they needed his intel on Hydra's infiltration. Fury's pragmatism ultimately prevailed over his principles. Jay was useful, not trusted. There was a difference.

Steve Rogers remained grateful—Jay had given him hope about Bucky, confirmed the Winter Soldier's identity, and provided a path forward. But Steve's hands were tied. Any move to rescue Bucky would alert Hydra to their compromised status. So America's golden boy was forced to wait, knowing his best friend was out there, broken and enslaved, while Steve played politics.

Tony Stark had begrudgingly followed Jay's advice about collaborating with Reed Richards. Together, they'd synthesized a new element—Tony insisted on calling it "Badassium" despite Reed's protests—that made the arc reactor safe. It had been Howard Stark's research, notes that Jay had passed to Reed months earlier, courtesy of Fury. Tony was alive and healthy, but their relationship remained complicated. Gratitude mixed with wariness.

In Hell's Kitchen, rumors were spreading about a man in red with devil horns, swinging through the night and beating the hell out of gang members. Matt Murdock was making his presence known, one broken criminal at a time.

Luke Cage and Jessica Jones had made headlines recently with their new venture—'Heroes for Hire.’ The controversy wasn't just about powered individuals charging for their services—it was about what it meant for everyone else. Insurance companies were scrambling to create "superhero damage" clauses. Small businesses in their operating areas complained about being overlooked in favor of clients who could pay premium rates. But they were making it work, carving out a living helping people while navigating a system that had never planned for superpowers as a profession.

District X had been the biggest political shitstorm in decades. When Vice President Rodriguez proposed converting a Manhattan neighborhood for Morlock rehabilitation, Congress had lost its collective mind. Protests, hearings, and death threats against anyone who supported it.

Media coverage had split along predictable lines—conservative outlets calling it a "radical social experiment that threatens American values," while progressive networks hailed it as "a necessary corrective to decades of mutant marginalization." Corporate lobbyists worked overtime behind closed doors, framing the project as an existential threat to existing power structures and property rights.

The real backlash came from ordinary New Yorkers who'd been priced out of Manhattan real estate for years, watching luxury apartments get demolished for "mutant housing projects." Property values in surrounding areas plummeted overnight. Local businesses shuttered rather than serve "those people." But with SHIELD backing, Stark Foundation's public support and Fantastic Four endorsement, the project was grinding forward through layers of red tape and public outrage.

The transition felt jagged, like stepping from one life into another without warning. Jay stood in his sparse safe house, looking at his packed travel bag sitting on the narrow bed. The weight of the past month pressed against his chest—not just the political fallout, but the slow realization that he'd been running on borrowed time and adrenaline for longer than he cared to admit.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside made him check his watch. Right on time.

Jay opened the door to find Bobby, the old vet who'd become something like a father figure over the past five months. The man looked worn down by the weight of secrets and the constant worry that came with caring about someone in Jay's line of work.

"You really are somethin' else, kid," Bobby said, his Brooklyn accent thick as he leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Settin' up that District X thing, givin' the Network and them Morlock folks more money than they know what to do with, and now you're just... packin' up and walkin' away."

Jay shouldered his bag. "Don't get all sentimental on me, old man."

Bobby's weathered face creased into something between a grin and a grimace. "Sentimental? Kid, I've buried my brother in arms. Sentiment's all I got left." His voice carried the weight of old grief, carefully managed but never forgotten. "But why now? Why, when everything you built's finally takin' root?"

The question caught Jay off guard. He'd been moving forward for so long, he'd barely thought about what he was moving away from. Over the past weeks, he'd found himself staring at walls, forgetting conversations mid-sentence, jumping at sounds that weren't there. The exhaustion had crept up slowly, then hit him all at once like a collapsing building.

"Before all this—before the powers, before the Network, before any of it—my life ran on a schedule," Jay said, setting his bag down. "Hospital routine, mostly. Wake up to the smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of monitors, eat breakfast, treatment, lunch, treatment, dinner, sleep to the sound of other patients' machines keeping them alive through the night." His voice got quieter. "Boring as hell, but predictable. Safe."

"And now?"

"Now?" Jay ran a hand through his hair. "Five months of... this. Planning three moves ahead, sleeping with one eye open, never knowing if the next phone call's gonna be someone finding out my next move." He gestured vaguely at the sparse room. "And after Doom, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I'm starting to think maybe I'm the other shoe."

Bobby stayed silent, watching Jay’s burnout.

Without another word, Bobby walked to his pickup and pulled out a duffel bag.

"Happy birthday, kid. Linda, Maria, Max, and Tom... we all chipped in."

Jay stared at the bag. In all the chaos—the political maneuvering, the District X negotiations, the constant weight of other people's lives in his hands—he'd lost track of simple things like dates. He was twenty-six today. Jay chuckled at the universe's poetry.

His hands trembled as he opened the bag. Inside, wrapped with the kind of careful attention that only came from people who truly gave a damn;

A leather jacket, clearly secondhand but lovingly maintained. Maria's work—she'd been after him for weeks about proper winter clothes, muttering in Spanish about "skinny boys who don't dress right."

A thermos with "World's Okayest Mutant" etched in Linda's careful script. The joke was layered—she'd been calling him that since he'd accidentally healed her hangover and then complained about the headache it gave him.

A photo of all five of them at the diner, taken during one of those quiet evenings when the world had felt manageable. Max had insisted on it, saying they needed proof that good things happened, too.

And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper like it was made of glass, a Saint Christopher medal on a thin silver chain. Tom's contribution—the man barely spoke above a whisper, but his faith ran deep as bedrock.

Jay's chest tightened. The careful attention in each gift, the way they'd thought about what he needed rather than what they wanted to give—it was more consideration than he'd received from anyone in years.

"What about you, old man?" Jay managed, voice rougher than he intended. "What's your contribution to this guilt trip?"

Bobby's answer was to step forward and pull Jay into a hug that came from somewhere deeper than politeness—fierce, desperate, the embrace of someone who'd watched too many people walk away and never come back.

"My gift is knowin' you'll come back," Bobby said against Jay's shoulder. "Because that's who you are, kid. You don't abandon family."

The word 'family' broke something loose in Jay's chest. He'd been holding himself together through pure stubbornness for weeks, but Bobby's steady warmth and the weight of gifts chosen with love finally cracked his defenses.

"You are scaring me, Bobby." The admission came out muffled, broken. "I'm twenty-six years old and I haven’t had a proper vacation like ever, so don’t worry, I'll be back and I'll bore you all about my adventure when I return."

They stood there under the flickering streetlight, two broken people who'd found something worth saving in each other.

When Bobby finally let go, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, unashamed. "You call us, you hear? Every damn week. I want postcards and stupid tourist photos and stories about whatever trouble you're definitely gonna find."

Jay laughed despite the tears still threatening. "You know me, old man. Trouble finds me whether I want it or not."

Bobby's smile was fierce and proud. "Kid, you don't attract trouble. You walk into rooms where trouble's already waitin'.” He climbed into his pickup, the old engine coughing to life. "Just... try to remember to take care of yourself too, yeah? We need you in one piece when you come home."

The truck rumbled down the street, taillights disappearing around the corner, leaving Jay standing on the sidewalk with a duffel bag full of love and a heart too full for words.

As he drove through the familiar streets of New York one last time, Jay caught glimpses of the city he'd helped reshape. Construction crews working double shifts on District X infrastructure, their work lights turning the night harsh and bright. SHIELD agents trying to look casual while obviously standing guard. Small protests still gathered at the site's perimeter—mostly older residents holding signs about property values and "neighborhood character."

The changes rippled outward in ways he'd never fully calculated. Bodegas in the area had started stocking different products, trying to guess what their new neighbors might want. Real estate agents fielded angry calls from clients who'd lost money on investments near the construction zone. Night shift workers complained about increased security checkpoints that made their commutes longer.

His phone buzzed with messages he didn't read, but Jay turned the phone off entirely.

At JFK, he returned the sedan to long-term parking and grabbed his bags. The international terminal buzzed with the usual chaos of people escaping or returning to their lives.

As he walked toward his gate, Jay caught his reflection in a darkened window. He looked older than twenty-six, the enhancement having given him a perfect physical form but unable to erase the careful way he held himself, the perpetual readiness for violence or flight that had become second nature.

Five months ago, he'd been a frustrated hospital nurse with nothing to lose and frustrated with his stagnant life. Now he was something else entirely—something more and less than human, carrying secrets that could reshape the world.

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. Jay shouldered his bags, feeling the weight of Bobby's gifts and a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding for months slowly releasing from his chest.

Somewhere out there, Bucky Barnes was waiting to be saved. District X was taking its first tentative steps toward reality. The world kept turning, crisis by crisis, hero by hero.

But for now, none of it was Jay's responsibility.

Behind him, New York glittered in the darkness—eight million people living their lives in the wake of changes they'd never know he'd made or the ones he'd yet to make.

Ahead lay the unknown, wide and full of possibility.

Jay took a deep breath, exhaling months of tension he'd carried without realizing, and stepped onto the plane.