Harlem, New York.
Once a cultural hub for jazz and soul food, it now looked like the aftermath of a gladiator match between two unstoppable forces. Storefronts lay in ruins, windows were blown out, and the streets had been turned into a chaotic obstacle course of twisted metal and rubble. People stood in stunned clusters, asking the same question over and over: what happened?
Most of them had been having an ordinary evening—eating, laughing, living—until two titans crashed into their lives.
"Roar!" Hulk's bellow rolled through the neighborhood. He ripped a yellow taxi from the curb and hurled it like a baseball at the creature opposite him.
The opponent was Abomination—Emil Blonsky—a warped product of military ambition and mad ambition. Furious and jealous of Banner's power, Blonsky had used Banner's blood and a crude super-soldier procedure on himself. The result was a hulking, bestial form that wanted nothing more than to prove itself superior.
Blonsky didn't dodge the thrown cab. He crushed it in midair with brutal ease, snarled, and punched the wreck into scrap. "Too weak, Bruce!" he taunted. "Is that all you've got?"
Every collision between them sent tremors through the asphalt. Fire hydrants were uprooted and exploded; water geysers burst into the air. Buildings that had stood for decades crumbled like cardboard under the onslaught. Reinforced concrete split as if it were baked clay.
Up above, military helicopters circled and opened fire, spraying machine-gun streams at both monsters. The rounds glanced off like puffs of dust. Whoever planned to stop them with bullets hadn't accounted for scale.
"Increase firepower! Pin him to the ground!" General Ross barked into his headset, face flushed with anger. He'd promised to capture the Hulk—and maybe use that power for something he considered patriotic. But the plan had spiraled out of control. The Abomination had become a liability; Ross's project was collapsing into catastrophe. Tomorrow the Pentagon would want answers, and he would be the one to give them.
"Contact ground units. Prepare sonic countermeasures," he ordered, grasping for options. His frustration was almost physical; if he could channel it into the Hulk, maybe the green giant would finally do what Ross wanted. Anger made the Hulk stronger—wasn't that the theory?
A few blocks away, a convoy of black S.H.I.E.L.D. Suburbans formed an ad-hoc command post. Agents moved with trained calm, monitors and drones tracking the fight. Phil Coulson, in his always-neat suit, peered through a scope and delivered a running commentary that tried to be useful and surprisingly wry.
"Sir, I'm on scene," Coulson reported to Nick Fury. He watched the two monsters batter each other and quipped, "The demolition efficiency here is incredible. We should add them to our contractor list."
"No jokes, Coulson," Fury replied in that low, serious tone. "Evacuate civilians, establish perimeter control. Find a way to stop them before they level the city."
Coulson adjusted his tone. "Understood. We don't have a hammer big enough for those two. Priority one: clear the area and limit civilian casualties. Priority two: gather data for containment."
From the air, the scene looked apocalyptic. Abomination had caught a weak opening and delivered a brutal series of blows: Hulk was slammed through an apartment block and knocked backwards, leaving a cratered hole in the façade.
"Seems our green friend's at a disadvantage," Coulson said, but he spoke too soon. Hulk's fury is not a momentary thing—every hit only fed the rage. He scrambled free of the rubble, an even wider blaze of anger in his eyes, and charged anew.
The fight crawled toward the city center, leaving devastation in its wake. Cars, lamp posts, and concrete signage were improvised weapons; whole intersections became catapults. The Abomination taunted Hulk relentlessly, trying to drag him toward an uncontrollable frenzy.
"You call that strength? Hulk, you disappoint me!" Blonsky jeered.
Hulk's reply was always the same single, primal sound: "Hulk!" Then the two titans collided again, and the world around them shuddered.
On the ground, S.H.I.E.L.D. teams tried to set up a defensive ring, but no one dared to engage directly. The prevailing tactic was evacuation and observation—get people out, collect samples, and hope the monsters burned themselves out. For once, admitting you didn't have a solution was the responsible call.
A young field agent asked, voice tight, "Sir, really nothing we can do?"
"Sometimes admitting you're outmatched is professionalism," Coulson said quietly, clapping a hand on the kid's shoulder. It was a bitter comfort.