Chapter 84 : The Weight of Transparency – Assumed Continuity
New York, Manhattan – Susan Storm's POV
Hank's dismissal doesn't echo.
It doesn't sting.
It doesn't linger in the air like an insult.
It simply… happens.
A flat sentence, delivered without looking at me, without heat or irritation. Functional. Efficient. As if he were moving an object off a crowded table to clear space.
I step away without anyone asking me to.
Not because I'm offended.
Not because I'm hurt.
Because there is no reason to stay.
A few meters. Just enough to no longer be in their working radius. I don't turn my back on them—I never do—but I angle myself out of the flow. Out of the exchange. Out of the invisible current where decisions are made.
I register it calmly.
I am not useful here.
No one asked for my input.
No one waited for my assessment.
No one needed my powers, my judgment, my presence.
And what surprises me is not that this is happening.
It's that it doesn't register as a loss anymore.
The realization settles quietly: I've grown accustomed to this position. To standing just outside the center. Close enough to act if called. Far enough to be ignored when not.
Transparent.
I've learned how to occupy space without taking it. How to be available without being disruptive. How to wait without making it visible that I am waiting.
It isn't new.
That's the unsettling part.
I don't feel anger. Or sadness. Or even disappointment. There is no internal spike, no emotional backlash demanding attention. Just acknowledgment.
This is normal.
I've been here before—countless times, in different forms. Meetings where my role was assumed but never articulated. Plans where I filled the gaps without being credited for them. Moments where my contribution was essential, but invisible once the outcome stabilized.
I used to notice. Used to feel something about it.
Now I just… adjust.
I take another step back, letting the cold brush against my suit. The temperature inside Jack's zone is manageable. It's winter, not a threat. The air feels heavier than usual, but it doesn't fight me.
I fold my arms loosely, then let them drop again. Not defensive. Just idle.
They're working well together. I can see that. Reed and Tony syncing almost automatically, their focus narrowing into shared abstraction. Hank slotting constraints into place like pieces of a puzzle he's solved a hundred times before.
They don't need me.
And I don't resent that.
I simply acknowledge it.
There was a time when being needed felt essential. When usefulness was the measure by which I validated my place. But somewhere along the way, that shifted. I stopped expecting to be invited in.
I became the one who stays.
The one who smooths.
Who compensates.
Who makes sure the edges don't cut too deep.
Not because I was asked.
Because someone had to.
That feels appropriate.
I'm not invisible.
Just unaccounted for.
And the strangest part is this:
it doesn't hurt anymore.
That realization sits heavier than any insult ever could.
I stay where I am, quiet, alert, present.
The safe zone was quiet in a strange, artificial manner—not silence, but absence of pressure. The cold still lingered, biting at exposed skin, frosting the edges of ruined metal and glass, yet it no longer felt predatory. It was winter again. Ordinary. Manageable.
I wasn't upset.
That realization came first.
Then the voice cut through the space—bright, animated, deliberately misplaced.
"Excuse me," Jack said, tone light, almost musical. "But I must ask you… what is such a beautiful and intelligent crystal statue like you doing all alone in a corner like this?"
I blinked.
Actually blinked.
The words didn't land like a compliment. They landed like a disruption. Something unexpected entering a well-worn groove. I turned toward him slowly, unsure whether I'd heard correctly.
He stood there in all his absurdity—pumpkin head, theatrical posture, hands spread as if presenting a stage. The contrast was almost comical. Around us: ice, rubble, tension held just below panic. And him, performing as if none of it applied.
"Crystal… statue?" I repeated, more to buy time than because I needed clarification.
"Mm-hmm," he nodded seriously. "Rare. Valuable. Completely transparent. Everyone can see it. No one ever actually looks at it."
He tilted his head, as if examining me from a new angle. "Seems like a waste, don't you think?"
The word crystal echoed in my mind.
Transparent.
Visible.
Ignored.
I didn't feel flattered. That surprised me too. Normally, a comment like that—especially from someone wearing a jack-o'-lantern for a head—would either amuse me or irritate me.
Instead, it caught.
Not painfully. Just… precisely.
"I was just giving them space," I said, gesturing vaguely back toward the others. My voice sounded steady. Neutral. "They're busy."
"Oh, absolutely," Jack said, nodding enthusiastically. "Busy people. Very important-looking graphs. Lots of squiggly lines. Serious nodding."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "But you know, from a purely dramatic standpoint? It's always the quiet figure in the corner that ends up being the most interesting."
I studied him more closely then.
The energy was real. The smile—if that could be called a smile—was broad, animated, almost too perfect. He moved like someone deliberately occupying a role, hitting beats with intention. It felt rehearsed.
Not fake.
Performed.
"I'm fine, Jack," I said. Not defensively. Just truthfully. "I didn't wander off because I was upset."
"I didn't say you did," he replied immediately, hands lifting in surrender. "Perish the thought. Spirits of Halloween do not assume emotional fragility. We merely… notice ambiance."
He straightened, then gave a small, exaggerated bow. "And right now, the ambiance says: brilliant woman, temporarily misplaced."
That earned a small exhale of a laugh before I could stop it.
Unexpected.
I hadn't realized how long it had been since someone addressed me without needing something from me.
Or dismissing me.
Jack watched the reaction closely—not hungrily, not intrusively, but with a kind of attentive curiosity. As if this, too, was data.
"May I keep you company for a moment?" he asked, lighter now. "I promise only minimal haunting."
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Sure," I said. "A moment is fine."
And just like that, without raising his voice or challenging anyone, he had pulled me back into the world—not as a function, not as support, but as a person someone chose to talk to.
"Honestly," he said, with mock gravity, "being an unmarried spirit of Halloween isn't easy. You should see the other holidays—Christmas, Valentine's—they've all got their setups. Figures of tradition, established couples, cozy narratives. And here I am. Single."
I raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to indulge the joke or ignore it. He wasn't looking for sympathy. He was performing, or maybe rehearsing an argument only he understood.
"The Christmas spirit, for instance," he continued, gesturing vaguely with one gloved hand. "Perpetually partnered. Respected. Loved. Delivered cookies, got cookies back. What do I have? Candies, tricks, a pumpkin head. And yet—alone."
There was a pause, heavy, deliberately staged. He glanced at me sideways, eyes twinkling behind the mask. I sensed no expectation of a response. Not really. It was a monologue, dressed as conversation.
"Take Tony Stark," he said, abruptly shifting to another subject. "A dozen conquests, every night a new headline. Never alone. Never." His tone held faux wonder, a kind of naive incredulity. "Tell me… does money guarantee companionship? Is there a hidden clause in the billionaire handbook I missed? Iron suits, billions in the bank, charisma for days… yet somehow, he does it effortlessly, and I—well, I don't."
I stifled a chuckle, despite myself. He was ridiculous. But precise in his ridiculousness. Every word, every emphasis, laid out a series of social rules as if he expected me to solve an equation with them.
"And then Reed," he added, with mock exasperation, as if moving from one unsolvable problem to another. "Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. Obstinate. Determined. Immovable. And yet, he has… a lovely, clever girlfriend. Can you believe it? Really. You'd think the sheer force of his mind would repel everyone. Yet there she is. Constant. Supportive. Smiling."
Jack shook his head slowly. "I mean, the math doesn't work. On paper, not a single algorithm predicts that outcome. And still, he wins. She stays. How? What variables are hidden?"
Then he turned his gaze slightly, just enough to include Hank without actually waiting for acknowledgment. "And Hank," he said, the word practically dripping with theatrical disbelief, "someone so… unpleasant. Dry. Anti-social. Difficult. Grumpy. Yet—married. Before. Once." His voice lingered on each adjective, savoring them. "Can you imagine? He's… horrible. And yet, it happened. And here I am, a humble Halloween spirit, perfectly capable, and… nada."
He shrugged theatrically, like a man presenting his misfortune as if it were a cosmic law. "So tell me, Susan. If Reed, Tony, even Hank, can—how is it that I remain perpetually unattached? What am I missing? Charm? Presence? Timing? Or is there a specific hex on spirits of my sort?"
I studied him quietly. He was asking a question, but not really. He was stacking examples like blocks, one absurdly painted, one seriously intended, as if the pattern might reveal itself if I just participated correctly. The exaggeration was deliberate, almost childlike in its transparency.
"Or," he added, leaning slightly forward, "maybe I need advice. Something subtle. A… spell of attraction? A potion of dating competence? Or maybe just a friend willing to explain the rules to a poor pumpkin-head."
I noticed the ease with which he laid himself bare—or, more accurately, the ease with which he performed vulnerability. His gestures, his inflections, were intentionally broad, almost pantomime. Every anecdote, every comparison was exaggerated. Yet underneath the humor, I sensed a genuine frustration.
I answered cautiously, threading humor with prudence. "Well… rules are rarely straightforward. And habits… sometimes they carry people further than clarity. Timing matters. And effort, yes, but not always the kind you think counts."
He nodded eagerly, as if my measured reply were a key unlocking the cosmic mystery. I could feel the conversation curling around itself, layering absurdity and sincerity, blending theatrical complaint with observational analysis.
And as I spoke, I recognized something subtle about him: the loneliness he mimed was different from mine. I had borne solitude for years, wrapped in responsibility and expectation. He wore it as performance, a mask shaped like a smile.
And still, the questions he piled atop each other—Reed, Tony, Hank—painted a tableau I couldn't ignore. The world was uneven, absurd, and yet precise in its inconsistencies.
Jack leaned back slightly, arms crossed, as if he were savoring a punchline only he could fully appreciate. Then, with the same playful inflection, he asked,
"Tell me… do you happen to have a friend… or perhaps advice… for a lonely Halloween spirit with a pumpkin for a head?"
The question wasn't flirtation. Not really. It hovered somewhere between absurdity and curiosity, like a riddle tossed into the air to see if I would catch it.
I paused. My first instinct was to retreat into neutrality, to answer safely, as I had learned to do when the world had a way of dismissing my presence. But something about his tone—light, teasing, almost deliberately ridiculous—made me smile internally. Not a warm smile, not the kind that softens the edges of reality. Just a recognition of the question's oddness.
"Well," I said carefully, "sometimes it's less about tricks or charms… and more about understanding what people actually need. Relationships aren't equations. They're compromises, adjustments, small concessions made consistently over time. Habits can keep them going as much as affection, sometimes more."
Jack's head tilted, a gloved finger tapping his chin, exaggeratedly thoughtful. "Ah, so… you're saying there's a recipe, but it's invisible? Ingredients hidden in plain sight?"
I nodded subtly, though my answer wasn't directed at him. I was talking to the situation, to the reality I'd long ignored—the pattern I had been living without naming. "Exactly. Timing matters. Effort matters, yes, but not always in ways you expect. Some things endure because they're chosen. Others endure because they're assumed. Habit can be the silent glue."
Jack leaned closer, feigning conspiratorial intimacy. "And yet, some endure beautifully… others crumble quietly."
I could sense the subtle difference between him and me. He performed solitude. I had carried it for years, silently, without comment. His questions highlighted that contrast, but they did not unsettle me. They merely illuminated what I already knew: my presence here, in this team, in this role, had never been questioned. Not by me, not by anyone else.
I spoke again, more quietly, almost to myself: "You see, sometimes being here isn't about choice. It's about function. People expect you to be the bridge, the stabilizer… whether you consciously consent or not."
Jack's eyes gleamed behind the mask, like he understood, or thought he did. I didn't correct him. The question had served its purpose: it made me pause, examine my place, and name a truth I had never acknowledged before.
Something about the exchange lingered after my last words settled between us.
Not the content.
The shape of it.
Jack was still smiling—broad, theatrical, animated in a way that drew attention without asking for it. His gestures were expressive, almost exaggerated, as if every emotion needed to be visible from a distance. It wasn't unsettling. Just… noticeable.
Too noticeable.
I watched him as he reacted to my answer, nodding, chuckling, tilting his head in mock contemplation. He played the role well. The lonely spirit. The curious outsider. The self-aware joke. But there was a faint dissonance beneath it, like a rhythm just slightly off-beat.
It occurred to me then that he wasn't feeling what he was showing.
He was presenting it.
I couldn't say how I knew. There was no tell, no obvious break in performance. It was instinctive—the way you sense when someone is reciting a script they've rehearsed rather than speaking from memory. His loneliness was expressive, performative, almost decorative. It existed in the open.
Mine never had.
The contrast was quiet but sharp.
Jack talked about being alone like it was a costume he could put on, adjust, and remove at will. He joked about it, framed it, externalized it. Even when he exaggerated, there was a distance between him and the feeling itself.
I had never had that distance.
I had simply been there.
In rooms where decisions were made without me. In moments where my presence was assumed but my voice unnecessary. In roles that formed around me so early that I stopped asking when they had begun.
Watching Jack, I felt no irritation. No envy. Just clarity.
Whatever he was doing, it wasn't denial—but it wasn't immersion either. He was touching the surface of something I had lived inside for years without naming.
That realization created a small, unfamiliar tension.
Not pain. Not sadness.
Awareness.
Jack's smile remained bright, his tone light, his body language expansive. Yet beneath it, I sensed restraint—not emotional suppression, but something like modulation. As if he were choosing how much of himself to show at any given moment.
I wondered, briefly, what he would look like if he stopped performing altogether.
The thought passed without urgency.
But the feeling stayed.
Something about him didn't quite align—and in that misalignment, I recognized how deeply aligned I had been with my own quiet absence.
The conversation did not give me answers.
That was the strange part.
Nothing Jack said resolved anything, clarified nothing, offered no solution I could apply and move on from. And yet, something had shifted—quietly, irrevocably.
A question had formed.
Not dramatically. Not with pain or urgency.
It surfaced the way certain realizations do when they've been waiting a long time—already complete, simply unacknowledged.
Am I here because I choose to be… or because I have always been here?
The thought didn't accuse anyone. Not Reed. Not the team. Not even myself. It existed without emotion, stripped down to its structure.
I thought of Reed, bent over equations, brilliance folding inward on itself. Of the team, efficient, focused, forward-moving. Of my role—unspoken, undefined, yet constant. I had never been asked to be the stabilizer. I had simply become one.
I had assumed necessity where there had only been continuity.
The realization settled slowly: if I stopped compensating—if I didn't smooth edges, absorb tension, bridge gaps—the structure might strain. It might falter. Or it might adapt.
I had never tested that possibility.
Because testing it would mean stepping back. Letting friction exist. Allowing instability to reveal itself without immediately neutralizing it.
That frightened me—not because of what might break, but because of what might remain unchanged.
I understood, then, that I had never truly evaluated my place here. I had inherited it. Accepted it. Worn it until it felt indistinguishable from identity.
Jack drifted away, laughter trailing behind him, rejoining the others with effortless ease. He had not intended to do this. He had not analyzed, diagnosed, or challenged.
He had simply mirrored something.
And now I could see the pattern.
The cold still pressed against my skin. The distant conflict still echoed beyond the safe zone. Everything external remained exactly the same.
But internally, something had been named.
Once seen, it could not be unseen.
I did not decide to leave.
I did not decide to stay.
I only understood, for the first time, that staying had never truly been a decision at all.
And that question—quiet, persistent—would not go away.