"Was it Wolverine?!"
The scrawny old man on the sofa snapped his eyes open. A thin green glint slid across his pupils.
The green-skinned son beside him froze, wiping sweat from his brow. "N-no. Not him…"
"If it isn't Logan, what are you panicking for? He's the only retired cape living on our land." The old man shook his head, then stooped to pick up a bloody severed hand from the floor. "And look at you—dropping your lunch. Wasteful."
Teeth had sunk deep into the hand—huge bite marks embedded in the meat. Dark, syrupy blood dripped from the torn wrist, spattering the stone.
He sighed, clearly unimpressed with his son's sloppiness.
Kids these days. No care at all.
"My bad, Dad."
The green-skinned man grimaced, stuffed the grisly hand into his loose trouser pocket, sticky blood smearing his fingers.
"Come on," the old man said, nudging his round frames up the bridge of his nose. "Let's see who thinks they can make trouble on Banner ground."
His son wiped his hands on his sleeves and hurried after him.
The farther they walked, the louder the noise became.
Outside the cave, a battlefield stretched across the shanty settlement. The RVs and timber shacks scattered around the mouth of the mountain were a roaring sea of fire, flames chewing through everything.
Hundreds of green-skinned bruisers sprinted back and forth, clashing with a smaller force in golden power armor.
The gold-armored troops moved sharp and sure, suits flashing, weapons thunderous. Their volleys hammered the hillside, explosions stringing together in a relentless beat. The Hulks hurled hunks of wreckage like boulders, buying themselves a few feet here and there. Every rush into close quarters had already cost them dozens of bodies—throats slit for charging in without a clue.
Metal strikes, sonic cracks, screams—it all braided into a single vicious note, painting the slope outside the cave like a window into Hell.
"T-they weren't even this far in a minute ago," the green son stammered, fists clenched. When he'd turned to fetch his father, the gold suits had only just appeared and opened fire. How had it flipped this fast?
"Never seen this bunch before," the old man murmured, rubbing his chin. Firelight swam in his dark green eyes, making them look even moodier.
He watched the battle, but his mind chewed on the same question: Who were these soldiers? Other than the paint job faintly echoing A.I.M.'s vanguard rigs, there was nothing in his memory that matched them.
Where did they come from?
The son glanced at his father's placid face and almost burst. "Billy, Oliver, Bill, Rufus—they're dead…" His voice shook. "Dad, if you don't step in, they'll slaughter the rest of us! This is nothing for you—you're Bruce Banner!"
"Don't be rash." The old man watched a musclebound female Hulk get her head taken off by a single shot, and spoke in a bored tone. "Didn't die in a nuclear blast. Survived when the worst men ran the world. You think this dents me?"
The son nearly blacked out from fury. Sure, you'll survive—but in five minutes the only Hulk breathing on this wasteland will be you.
"Still…" Banner's face pinched, that green light in his eyes growing richer. "Killing my people on my land—who do they think they are?"
Ffwep—
A cold arrow came out of nowhere—too fast to track. But just as the point kissed Banner's temple, his eyes snapped toward the firing line and his hand flashed up. Smack. He caught it.
He held the shaft to the light, thumb rubbing the purple lacquer. A crooked grin peeled back yellowed teeth.
"Hawkeye… hmm?"
The frail old man's gaze narrowed. Something on the arrowhead was blinking. He brought it closer to his lenses for a better look—
The world popped white.
Fire and smoke ripped the mouth of the cave. Banner and his son vanished in the blast haze.
"Old trick in a new bottle," Hawkeye's voice drawled from above. "Why does it always work?"
He vaulted from the heights and landed lightly a few dozen meters from the blast. Down the slope, the fight was already all but decided. The Hulk Gang had been driven into corners, chopped apart. Thunder Warriors—even the ones recruited from street punks—had three solid moves on wasteland dirt now, and after days of hard drilling, they could at least follow orders and work as a unit.
Flattening the rest of these Hulks was a matter of time. No hand-holding needed.
"Idiot." The word rasped out of the smoke.
Clint's eyes narrowed. He tracked the voice.
The murk thinned.
Banner stepped through, face cut and bleeding, flecked with metal shards, lips twisted into a snarl. That sly, angry green eye jittered in its socket.
"Long time, Bruce," Clint said evenly, collapsing the wrist-mounted crossbow. Toys like that didn't mean much against the real Hulk. "Or do I say Hulk? Tell me, who's in the driver's seat today—Joe? Don't say it's you. I had you pegged as the gentleman businessman type."
Clint kept talking—and kept drifting back. White Night's briefing was burned into his brain: in this world, even untransformed, Banner's baseline was beyond human.
They still had the field under control.
"Keep farting, Barton," Banner growled. He yanked the metal from his skin without a flinch. The veins in his eyes went red—then green.
"Watch how I tear you into bite-sized pieces."
He stepped forward.
The ground answered—hairline cracks running from his bare feet, a deep rumble waking somewhere beneath the rock.
Clint's HUD flashed a warning.
"Copy," he breathed to no one the others could hear. "Phase Two."
Banner's breath hitched. His shoulders swelled.
And the cave mouth went dark—as a shadow larger than a tank dropped between them, servos whining, floodlights knifing through the smoke.
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