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I wanted to be physically erased and start over again. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be there. I guess I wanted to be nowhere, I wanted to listen to my brain talk inside of nothingness. I wanted to be untouchable and have no need.
-David Wojnarowicz, Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration
*
Ben thinks he can see what Quentin liked about being Mysterio as the mesh of an illusion wraps around him, wireframes twisting into new shapes. For a moment nothing but the mirror-ball helmet, a grinning skull someone threw together for kicks, and then-
The jack o’lantern in the mirror grins to match him, with impossibly sharp teeth carved into its face. If he’s indulgent, he’d call the light spilling from inside hellfire. As it is, it’s quite the effect as he taps at the modified tablet in his hands, tweaking the color saturation so the inner light is a little richer, the shadows of the face deeper. The face-tracking algorithm seems to be operating as the mouth flattens out into a neutral line to match his own resting expression, the gourd shifting this way and that as he tilts his head to the side.
The eyes don’t seem to be tracking due to his glasses, though, lending a strange edge to the whole thing. He likes it. That uncanny feeling that the eyes are always focused, little to no indication of a raised eyebrow or widened eyes.
No scrap of emotion, everything else safely hidden by the guise of something other. Not a man, not a god, nothing so vulnerable.
(“We’re fucking ants in a world of gods,” Quentin had murmured against his jaw years ago, lingering ash still caught underneath their nails, a hollow-haunted-hunted look on his face that didn’t go away until three years in when it changed to rage instead. “And they abandoned us, they keep doing it-”)
He pushes his glasses up out of habit. The plastic is cool, familiar. Not metal. He can only feel the cool glass of the tablet in his other hand, with the rest safely contained in some rubber tablet cover meant for sticky-fingered children who drop things. When he scratches at the back of it, his nails catch on the edge of a sticker.
It takes him what feels like far too long to look at his reflection again, as he keeps picking at that damn sticker. I was a teenage anarchist, in stark black on white. A fucking joke. Ben hasn’t been a teenager in a long time. He hasn’t been plenty of things in a long time.
Something sour creeps up in the back of his throat. He swallows past it, watching the pumpkin bob a little with the motion. Interesting. He’ll have to take a look at the stabilizing options, and see if he could rig the head to move with the shoulders, rather than the neck. A little sleight of hand and playing with height wouldn’t be a bad cover. Muddy things up in a good sort of way.
“Well, aren’t you quite the handsome gentleman,” Ben muses, and his voice feels so oddly loud bouncing off of the bathroom tiling. It’s somehow less off-putting to watch the sharpened mouth follow his phrasing, the twist of the head that follows his own slow inquisitive tilt to the side. “A real devil, even.”
Now the grin looks more like a slash carved into the face, and- well.
Well, well, well.
He reaches out, carefully pressing his hand to the mirror. Traces the bottom curve of the jack o’lantern, mentally taking notes on how far up a collar should probably go, how to tweak the existing costume framework into something less…
Ostentatious. Not a soldier from another world, as the illusionary gold on his forearm catches his eye. He’s already using an old draft of the Mysterio framework as a base to work off of, something rougher around the edges. Rudimentary. A few rips and tears wouldn’t go amiss, add to the ambiance.
No, he won’t be taking cues from gods here, or some mere man rising to some ‘glorious purpose’. Leave the Elementals in their mothballs. Ditch the eyeball motif, and keep the mist- fog? Smoke instead, maybe, smoldering embers and ash, that’s a good one-
(Stained fingers tangling in the front of his jacket, that half-feral look that was somehow terrifying and electrifying all at once, he should’ve expected the other man’s vice to be smoking in a world like this-)
Hellfire, smoke, and a grinning face. Ben can work with that. He won’t need any script, or convoluted backstory, or whatever it is people like them end up having.
(That phrase is so oddly funny, people like them. Like Quentin was anything more than a fraudulent hero. Like Ben will be any better when he finally figures out what the hell he’s doing with all these broken pieces.)
No god, no man. Just a thing. Something full of rage and brimstone, with that knife-carved smile. The familiar crackle of circuitry. Just another trick. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, and who’s ever looked at him at all?
When everything’s turned off, he’ll slip away into the crowd just like he always has. Foolproof.
*
Tweaking the green of the bodysuit from iridescent scales to a darker wool-like texture takes, frankly, an embarrassing amount of time. Ben’s no digital artist, and the texture packs for Mysterio aren’t exactly unlimited. But switch the iridescent sheen to the gloves and boots once the eyes have been taken off of the backs of the gloves, round the edges off the harsher corners of the bracers, and-
Et voilà .
He studies the projection of the modified figure carefully, making the base model do a loose 360 spin with an even looser gesture. Just a curl of two fingers towards the left, the sensors he cobbled together for the gloves working just as expected. There’s a delay in processing, sure, but-
He doesn’t need this in real-time just yet. Ben isn’t some Stark employee anymore, with access to powerful processors or unlimited bandwidth. Not part of the great Mysterio’s crew any longer either, with access to a stockpile of projectors. He can iron out any kinks later. The fact the independent projection can sync to his gestures is enough for now.
His phone buzzes. Trills the opening riff of some Bob Seger song as he stills in place. Fight, flight, or freeze, and he’s frozen-
It ends. The ten seconds it rings feels like ten years, fingers curling, the sensors there digging harshly into his palms. He’ll have to fix that at some point, the thought registering hazily as he pushes up his glasses. This time he can’t feel the plastic or glass. The loss grates more than it rightfully should.
Barely a breath later, and his phone is buzzing again. Stevie Nicks. A song about songs, and birds, and whatever the fuck else as his shoulders tense up, creep up to his ears-
It ends again. One minute passes. Two. And still Ben’s frozen, waiting, waiting for-
The way his father’s voice curls around Bennie, warm and fond. Asks if he’s made any robots recently, because of course all engineers must know how to do that. How his mother always asks if he’s been eating enough, keeping himself fed around ‘all those projects of yours, sweetheart. Can’t change the world on an empty stomach.’ The sound of someone else on the other end of a phone, instead of dead air.
He’s used to dead air, though. Familiar with it. Fine. Absolutely goddamn fine.
Seven hours later, Ben manages to change the illusionary cape into more of a tattered shroud, complete with singed edges, smoldering burns, and claw-like tears. He doesn’t look at his phone once, or the message notifications blinking there.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it does.
(When an unknown number calls him later, he doesn’t even think before dismissing it. He’s got better things to do.)
*
It’s people online who tag him with the Mad Jack moniker after his initial debut around Halloween. Just a bit of smoke and mirrors to stir up some chaos, divert attention so Ben could snatch some components he needed. There’s a funny kind of symmetry with the names when he thinks about it later, half-draped on the couch he hadn’t sold, and throwing a ball of wiring at the ceiling before catching it. The smell of smoke still lingers on his clothes.
Mysterio, named by the public (a child , a fucking teenager) because of a charming mistranslation of a news report. Mad Jack because Ben hadn’t exactly planned to announce himself, and things just… ran ahead of him. People chattering with each other, trying to dissect whatever gimmick or charade he was pulling, and- well.
Mad Jack works. A name for a cackling, shambling thing that’s more nightmare than reality. No backstory, no ties to pre-existing things. Just a… blank slate. Memorable but independent, even if Ben knows where the broadness in the shoulders come from, the span of the hands and the curve of a hip.
People reinvent things all the time. This isn’t any different.
It doesn’t matter sometimes how, when he peels the illusion apart, a small part of him still expects Quentin to appear instead of himself. Waits for the sharp cut of a grin, that ridiculous goddamn bodysuit, and-
Nothing. Ben misses his catch, and when the ball of wiring bounces off his chest, he doesn’t go lunging for it. There aren’t many places for it to get lost.
And just like the name he’s been saddled with, time also slips away for a bit. Just enough for his back to start aching, his neck to pop when he tilts his head just-so, and he makes a low, frustrated sound as he rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses. Swears just a lowly when he has to haul himself upright, one of his knees protesting and-
He should be used to soot stains on this couch. Used to smoke and metal and the smoothness of insulated wiring. Ben still ends up staring at the new marks left behind, though, unable to bring himself to move. Tries to remember if any of Quentin’s ridiculous hair gel smeared there as well from years ago, or if it’s just what it’s always been: something he made up from shreds of memory. Some little thing he’s clung onto because there wasn’t anything else.
He’s still staring at it when his phone rings. The click of a drum like a heartbeat, the low thrum of bass, some pseudo-siren and- Joy Division. Fucking Joy Division, something he picked as another dig, another tease to see Quentin roll his eyes, act like he was in fucking agony over that being his ringtone (how cliche, he’d complain, thinking I’m some bleeding heart goth) when Ben had seen that playlist he’d put together, glimpsed it over his shoulder before he switched to coding one late night at the end of the world-
I should have given you fucking Eno, Ben thinks viciously, jaw tense and fists clenched, you fucking son of a bitch, if you’re calling me I’m going to rip out your innards and make them your outters, you fucking piece of shit-
(A part of Ben wants shattered glass, ash underneath his nails, the weight of his old canvas jacket on his shoulders. Wants the end of the world again, because he’s in the same apartment, the same living room, has the same couch still, and Quentin can’t be calling him because he should be fucking cremated by now-)
So Ben answers the call. Feels like he’s standing outside of himself as he says “I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to make it stick, Quentin, I swear to god-” already looking for his keys, his jacket, because that’s another part of their back and forth too, once a few layers are scraped away.
Quentin called, and Ben followed like a lovesick dog because he had (has, present tense, as if it matters) nothing else. He follows because he wants to sink his teeth into something right now, wants to scream and hammer his hands against the other man’s chest and demand to know why he’s done this, all of this, what was the point-
Quentin should know by now what it’s like, being left behind. Abandoned, forgotten, thrown aside like yesterday’s garbage. Pulling this goddamn stunt is- it’s cruelty, even beyond what Quentin is capable of. He was a jackass egomaniac with terrible taste in science fiction, sure, but this is-
It was the one line in the sand. The one surety. Ben would keep coming back as long as Quentin stayed, and then Quentin died. If he hasn’t actually been dead this entire time, pulled some kind of- of hare-brained stunt to trick SHIELD or whatever bullshit excuse he’d pull out of his pocket, wearing that smug, infuriating grin Ben wanted to smear off his fucking face with his hands and his teeth, Ben is going to kill him-
“So, you do know my cousin. Good to know. Hey, mind getting the front door? Think this might be a bit easier face-to-face,” someone else says on the other end, wry and amused. Not Quentin. Ben’s already halfway into his jacket by then, and things go-
Numb. Like everything’s behind a pane of glass as he replies with a sharp “Who is this?” Mind working rapid-fire, wondering if he has enough time to find his tablet, the gloves, do something to disappear because he’s good at that, disappearing, being nothing, he doesn’t appreciate being tricked-
A laugh. Higher than Quentin’s, but that same sort of… punched-out quality to it. That same startled edge that feels so genuine, so real when it was followed up by that self-conscious absolutely bullshit smile. Ben should know. He’d seen Quentin do it handfuls of times. “Open the door and find out.” they say, carefree and easy. Like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth.
Ben snorts, unable to help himself. Slots his keys between his fingers as he plays casual right back, holding his phone between ear and shoulder. “I’m not that kind of man. I need more than a mystery to catch my eye.” He manages to slant his voice into something joking, like he’s not already planning what he’ll have to do if this person’s a threat. Calculating soft spots in the throat, the face, places to bite-
(Quentin was good at that. Knowing all the right places to sink his teeth into, his hands, where to dig, and-
Things felt so much easier then. Ben wants it back.)
“Ben, honey,” they say, nearly sighing, and he can hear it on the other side of his door as he creeps up. A slight echoing delay. “You are Ben’s Smirking Revenge, right? That’s what your contact name is in here, and believe me, I know my cousin’s act. How he does this whole ‘mystery man’ schtick, schmoozes a little, ropes you in like that, then he-”
He rips the door open, interrupting anything else that’s said, and-
The first thing he learns about Maguire Beck is this: she has her cousin’s eyes, and they make him want to slam the door in her face. The second thing he learns is that she wears thick work boots, steel-toed, because she shoves one right between the door and its frame without flinching when he does try to slam it in her face. Ben recognizes the type because he has his own pair in the back of his closet. Old and worn but still… there, like plenty of other things.
Like a ‘teenage anarchist’ sticker, the curve of an illusion’s shoulder, and those goddamn eyes, some things remain.
“Ben!” She says cheerfully, flipping a phone shut with a satisfying clack. Some kind of burner, if he had to guess, with a stripe of blue on the outside of it. He can’t make out what’s written on it before it disappears into her jacket. Her smile is less a knife and more of a sledgehammer, weaponized pleasantness as she drives her shoulder into the door to open it further. His keys are digging into his palm now, rather than into somebody else’s face.
“Nice to finally meet you. I’m Maguire, hi, and you know, this is a pretty nice place! Not anywhere I’d expect Quentin to be, but-” she shrugs, eyes gleaming, grinning in a way that tries to invite him in on a joke, just like-
Ben’s jaw tenses up. The weight of his jacket is familiar as he rolls his shoulders back, tries to be- something else. Something sharp and cold, easily tucked away. Nothing unnecessary, no emotions.
(“I like that about you,” Quentin had said one of those nights before Mysterio was even a glimmer, that hazy time either late at night or early in the morning where time stretched like taffy and nothing mattered. “My own repressed Edward Norton.” Fingers tugging at his shirt, that grin, those eyes-)
“Quentin is Quentin,” he says as cool as he can manage. The words taste like ash in his mouth. “And Quentin is dead. Why do you have my number? That phone?”
Something about her sharpens. The same kind of rapid-fire calculation, but she doesn’t gesture grandly like Quentin did. She just… tilts her head to the side, like a scientist inspecting a specimen pinned in place. Some sweet, mildly pacifying edge to the whole thing as she slouches afterwards. “Aw, Mr. Revenge, don’t you trust me? Just little ole me, wanting to know what happened, trying to piece things together about him? Mister Big-Time himself, king of the tv screen, the great Mysterio?” Maguire asks, smile sharper than before, and the last word is a knife between the ribs.
Leaves Ben frozen in place, able to taste blood in his mouth as he bites through something.
Just like Quentin Beck, Maguire Beck can smile like a goddamn lion when she wants to. Can make the jump from mere prey to predator with just the curl of the mouth, a word in the right place, an oh-so-casual gesture. He wants to rip out her teeth, eyes, everything, and the anger behind it is enough for him to choke on. Still, he stays in place.
“Quentin had his secrets. But just like you hold some of them…” She shrugs, all loose and easy. Treating this like they’re friends catching up over lunch. “I hold a few too. Now, are we going to compare notes, or keep up this little tête-à-tête farce until one of us cracks?” And like a fool, she moves closer. Still grinning that goddamn, infernal grin as she says, sotto voice, “Between you and me though, what’s a few cracked eggs? Can’t make an omelet without ‘em, right?”
And something in him must be well and truly cracked, because his first instinct isn’t to throw his keys at her face. It isn’t to bite anymore, scratch-tear-scream, because-
Since he left the crew in the dust with a crate of stolen equipment and spare parts, no one else talks to him like this. No one knows about Quentin, the fucking pit that’s opened up underneath his feet, the old-new-familiar feeling of broken glass caught on his shoes and metaphorically in his lungs, and-
Ben breathes in, breathes out. Tries to ignore how it shakes in the back of his throat as he reaches up to fix his glasses, because contacts have felt like too much effort recently. Plenty of things have felt like too much, overwhelming to the point where he stayed in his apartment most of the time, only left for essentials and his test runs with the projectors.
Maguire isn’t glazing over him, eyes still focused on his face. Hasn’t made any other move, said another word, just… waiting. Watching. Familiar yet not, because dark hair, blue eyes, and a good jaw could belong to anybody. He wouldn’t be able to pick her out in a crowded room besides those eyes.
He thinks, just maybe, she’d already know how to find him though. And what a strange feeling, knowing somebody would search him out. Not looking for who he used to be, but who he is now.
“Food. I’m not doing this without food first.” He eventually manages to get out, and he’s already got his jacket, keys- wallet. That’s the missing piece, he can grab it on his way out just fine. “The bodega a few streets down does egg sandwiches. Want one?”
She snorts, and that’s- different. Less polished. Rubs the back of her neck as she says “Sure. Mind if I dump a few things off first, though?”
He waves her off vaguely, do as thou wilt, and it’s- a sketchbook. Purple, cloth-bound, removed from an inside pocket and set on his entry way catch-all table. Some peeling masking tape along the spine says ‘2019 to ’ in black marker, and he’s seen it before. Remembers scraps of coding done in colored pen glimpsed over a shoulder, rough diagrams of stage directions and electronic wiring, a few sketches of-
Of the buildings across the way. One of the trees that you have to really crane your neck to see from the kitchen window that’s been half-dead for two years now. Maybe even other things, but Ben had never asked.
He never asked because it was the end of the world, and he liked watching Quentin sharpen pencils with a knife. Liked the smudge of ink on his fingers, how he’d sink into a project for who knows how long and stay there for hours until it was just right. He liked how Quentin’s hands moved over the pages, graphite and ink and whatever else staining the side of his hand. He’s never going to see that again.
For once, though, maybe Ben’s not the only one left to remember all that. It’s a cold comfort but he’ll take what he can get. He’s used to it by now.
(Maguire Beck has her cousin’s eyes, hair a shade or two lighter, and was an engineer like the rest of them. Mechanical, she explains as they walk back, not computer. Not my scene even if Quen was all over it. My pops was similar. They were dreamers. I liked the grease, though. The effort. Felt good, y’know?
It does, Ben agrees, taking a sip of his coffee. It scalds his tongue. He takes another sip anyways. I completely get it.
And it’s the easiest thing he’s said in months.)
*
Ben stays, and Maguire doesn’t leave.
It’s another strange kind of symmetry. Maybe the universe is trying to warn him off of Becks with their blue eyes and sharp minds, those with too many teeth in their smiles. Maybe it’s telling him things like this always end in ruin, because she’s been Schrodinger’s woman for the last five years and won’t even understand how things changed, how Quentin had changed from the man she knew.
But he likes it in the same way he likes Mad Jack’s razor grin, though, the flare of a tattered shroud and the curling smoke that follows at his heels. He likes how Maguire texts rather than calls, and the way she can see between the cracks of unspoken words, half-said conversations, and find something whole.
She still has Quentin’s eyes, but her sharpness is all her own. He thinks he’ll keep this.
And if Mad Jack’s tech gets a bit beefier, the illusions sharper, well. That’s something else all Becks seem to have: a flair for the dramatic. A sense of humor that’s a little too sharp, a little too callous, but like he said to her that first day they met: he completely gets it.
(When Maguire wants in on the act, he doesn’t even think before saying “Yes,” and showing her everything he has, everything he’s pieced together since things fell apart. Time wasn’t kind. Why should they be?)