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Chapter 97 – The Monster and the Man
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 13:58:19 +0000 UTCDonald Blake’s ears were ringing—like church bells buried under sirens. Everything was smoke and shouting.
The ground trembled under his feet. He staggered backward as several armed soldiers sprinted past him toward the towering green behemoth now roaring between ruined buildings. Some of the soldiers broke formation to secure students—yanking frightened kids away from shattered glass and collapsed stairs.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?” Milo shouted, half-hugging, half-shielding Darcy as they backed toward the exit. More soldiers screamed—“GET OUT OF HERE! MOVE! GO! NOW!”
Jane grabbed Donald’s hand, dragging him in the opposite direction, her face tight with fear but focused. They ran. All of them. Boots on floor. Panic in their lungs. Behind them, the Hulk growled—a low, vibrating bass that rattled windows as they passed.
“So…” Donald wheezed mid-sprint, “this happens a lot at Culver?” Jane turned her head, wide-eyed. “You’re joking right now?!”
“Well, New York’s not exactly quiet either.” That got her—just a little. Jane let out a breath of laughter through her nose, half-choked and stunned. Her lips curled. Donald caught the look and, for a dangerous moment, forgot the world was ending.
“No time to fall in love, Donny!” Milo shouted behind him, dragging Darcy toward a parking lot. “Try not dying first!”
…
Culver had become a battlefield. Soldiers flooded the quad. Artillery rolled in from the south access roads. Two attack helicopters circled above like vultures made of steel. And at the center of it all, the Hulk, raging, confused, exposed. General Ross—red-faced, mustached, furious—stood atop an armored Humvee, barking into his comms. “Who the HELL fired the neutralizer early?!”
A stunned soldier nearby stammered, holding the empty tranq sniper. “Sir—I thought we had a shot—!” “You thought?! You just woke up the Goddamn beast!”
He wasn’t just a pizza delivery guy. He was Bruce Banner. And now, he was gone—replaced by something beyond control. The Hulk spun in place, eyes flicking toward every source of noise. He swatted a Humvee with one arm. It flipped through the air and crashed into a tree with enough force to crack the trunk. “FUCK IT,” Ross growled. “Bring out the Alpha Team.”
From behind the mobile command convoy, six black-armored Special Ops soldiers stepped forward. Each one carried heavy-frame weapons—high-impact altilery, reinforced bolters, and a rotary-mounted kinetic disruptor designed to take down strength-class mutants.
“Engage!”
Alpha Team opened fire. Pulses of sound and kinetic force struck Hulk’s chest and arms—each shot like a battering ram. Hulk staggered. Caught off guard. But only for a second. Then—WHOOOM. He clapped both hands together. The shockwave shattered a full floor of windows across the quad, sent soldiers flying, ripped a drone clean out of the sky.
…
A red silhouette stood quietly, far from the chaos. She didn’t move. Just watched. Her sunglasses reflected the battle below. The chaos. The heat. Natasha Romanoff—black jacket, gloved hands, impassive expression. Eyes calm, calculating. She watched the Hulk throw a generator through the side of a lab building. She didn’t flinch.
…
Through the smoke and chaos, a single figure sprinted toward the carnage. Betty Ross. Face pale, heart in freefall. “STOP! STOP!!” Her voice barely carried over the gunfire, the sound cannons, the collapsing buildings.
A nearby soldier lunged and grabbed her, panic in his grip. “Ma’am, this is an active combat zone—”
“He won’t hurt me!”
From across the field, General Ross spotted her. His jaw locked tight. “Hold her back!” he barked into his comm. “Keep her at a safe distance.” Two soldiers broke from formation and pulled her away, arms hooked under hers like she was a danger to herself.
The Hulk, now a battering ram of fury and instinct, reared back—BOOM. He clapped his hands together again. The resulting shockwave cracked a lamp post clean in half and sent half a dozen soldiers sprawling.
He leapt into the air with a ground-shaking roar, landed hard atop a Humvee, and stomped his foot through the hood, crushing it like foil. He reached down. Ripped a full slab of metal from the ruined vehicle—doors, frame, axle and all. Then—HURLED it through the air like a shuriken made by God.
A voice rang out. “HEY! MONSTER!!” BOOM—a grenade launcher fired. The shot slammed into Hulk’s side, staggering him. From the smoke emerged Emil Blonsky, body coiled, grin cocky, eyes wild. He darted forward with a grace no normal man should have. He leapt. Mid-air—fired his sidearm directly into Hulk’s face, aiming for the eyes. It hit. Hulk reeled back, roaring with pain—then with more fury than before.
Blonsky grinned wider. “That got your attention, huh?” He ducked, flipped, spun. Hulk swung, missed. Blonsky moved like a video game character set to “cheat mode.” His speed, reflexes, even his balance—inhuman. From Ross’s command vehicle, his voice barked through Blonsky’s earpiece: “Blonsky! The southwest quad—get him to the cannons. Now!”
“On it.” Blonsky turned and ran. Hulk snarled, gave chase. But Blonsky’s speed wasn’t just fast. It was unfair. He zig-zagged through rubble, past stunned soldiers, outpacing the green juggernaut behind him.
Three military Humvees lined up side by side. Each mounted with a heavy-frame sonic cannon, already spooling up, whining with power. “NOW!” Blonsky yelled, diving behind cover.
The cannons fired. Invisible force exploded outward in a thunderous, vibrating hum that warped the air. Hulk roared, hands over his ears. The sound pierced him. He staggered. Dropped to one knee. His eyes darted. And there—across the yard—he saw her.
Betty. Held back by soldiers, tears in her eyes, screaming something the cannons swallowed whole. Even in this moment of madness, Hulk saw her. And seeing her—gave him purpose. With a scream that shattered the ground, Hulk stood.
Grabbed another hunk of metal. And hurled it like divine judgment. It sliced clean through the front of one Humvee—splitting it in half. The soldiers barely dove out before it exploded.
Then—Hulk jumped. His leap carried him in a blur of motion across the distance. He landed hard beside the other two cannons—and obliterated them with a swing of each mighty fist. Three sonic cannons. Gone.
Blonsky—sweaty, grinning, still high on his own adrenaline—picked up a fallen rifle and began unloading it into Hulk from a safe distance. Click. Click. Click. Out of bullets. He tossed the gun aside, cracked his neck, stepped forward. “Come on. Is that it?”
He spread his arms. Mocking. Daring. “You’re supposed to be a force of nature, right? Let’s see it.” Hulk looked at him. Just looked. Then snorted. And walked forward. FAST. Blonsky’s grin faltered. WHAM.
One leg, one roar, one earth-shaking motion. Hulk’s foot connected with Blonsky’s chest and launched him like a ragdoll into a tree. The crack of impact echoed across the field. Blonsky’s body crumpled, limbs twisted at wrong angles. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even scream.
…
A streak of unnatural wind sliced through the upper atmosphere, dragging behind it a man in black standing tall atop a shifting, writhing cloud that shimmered like mist under moonlight—even in daylight.
Jack Hou, arms behind his back, tail lazily curling, grinned as the sound of distant explosions tickled his ears. “Hmm... that sounds fun. I think the party's down there.” He leaned forward. Zephyr shifted beneath him like a living surfboard, adjusting tilt and speed with fluid grace.
Below, the garden battlefield of Culver University sprawled into view—flaming wreckage, splintered tanks, scattered troops. At the center of it all. Hulk—leaping skyward, Betty Ross unconscious in his arms, hair trailing behind like a flag of grief.
Jack cackled, pointing down mid-flight. “KEKEKEKEKE! So I’m not late for the Harlem Battle, huh?” He let Zephyr dip, descending with theatrical slowness as Hulk vanished over the horizon, Betty cradled close.
The smoke hadn't even cleared before Jack made his dramatic entrance—floating down through the fire haze like a smug deity who'd overslept the apocalypse. Soldiers, already shell-shocked and soot-faced, tensed instantly. Weapons clicked into readiness. “KEKEKEKEKE!” Jack spread his arms wide. “Got yourself a s'mores party, huh, General? What’s with the big fire?” He landed lightly near the burnt shell of a Humvee, tail twitching.
General Ross turned—his uniform scorched, face stone, rage barely contained. Not an inch of humor. His daughter was gone. And now this lunatic showed up. “Seize him.” No banter. No warning. Just an order.
Jack raised both hands, blinking. “Whoa, whoa, no need to be so cranky—” Soldiers moved in. Weapons lifted. Jack rose a few feet off the ground, floating effortlessly, Zephyr coiling beneath him like fog through iron bars. “Just came to give you a tip, really.”
Ross didn’t even look at him. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU CRAZY MONKEY.”
The entire field went silent for a second. Then Jack grinned wide. “KEKEKEKEKEKE. You know, General… humans share over 50% of their DNA with bananas.” He raised a single finger and spun midair. “So in a way… we’re all monkey fruit.”
He zoomed skyward, faster than any of the stunned soldiers could fire. As he disappeared into the clouds, his voice echoed across the battlefield. “COME TO ME FOR MORE INTERESTING MONKEY FACTS—KEKEKEKEKEKEKE!!!”
Smoke drifted. Tension lingered. Ross exhaled, fists tight. “Get every jet in range in the air. Now.”
Jack Hou soared above the clouds on the back of Zephyr, his arms folded behind him like a man enjoying a scenic cruise with just the right amount of smugness. Then—Something flickered below.
A pulse of energy, subtle but buzzed against his spine like a tuning fork. Jack squinted downward, eyes narrowing. “Amusing… KEKEKEKE.” He plucked a single strand of hair from his head. Held it between two fingers like a brush stroke. With a flick—FWUMP.
A perfect clone of Jack Hou emerged midair, hovering beside him, arms crossed. The clone sighed. “Alright. What do you want me to do this time?”
Jack pointed east. Far on the horizon—four jet fighters, sleek and fast, tearing toward them. “Be a stand-in for me, would you?”
The clone looked. Then grinned wide. “KEKEKEKE—made me just to throw hands with jets? Don’t mind if I do.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Good lad.” With that, Jack peeled away, dipping downward like a hawk in freefall. The clone hovered in place, rolling his neck. “Alright, boys… who wants to play dodge-the-cloud?” Then he was gone—rocketing toward the jets.
…
Donald Blake, Jane Foster, Milo, and Darcy stood near a line of evacuation shuttles. The air still smelled like smoke and jet fuel. Military personnel kept students moving with short tempers and loaded rifles.
Jane kept looking over her shoulder. Donald, still shaken, clutched his cane tighter. Then—A shadow swept over them. Jack Hou descended with smooth grace, his feet lightly tapping down on the cracked pavement like he’d been dropped by moonlight.
He grinned wide. “Hello there, Norse god. What brings you here?”
Everyone froze. Donald blinked. “...What?” Milo’s eyes went wide. “Is that—?” From the side, Milo fumbled out his iPhone 3, thumbs dancing. He tapped an article into view. Headline: "Meta Menace Jack Hou Escalates War with Underworld" “Dude,” Milo whispered, “he’s, like, wanted. This guy fought the mafia solo.”
Darcy squinted. “That’s the guy who arranges dead bodies just to ‘make a statement,’ right?”
Jack peered over. “Is that J. Jonah Jameson’s piece?” He snatched the phone midair. “Ah, JJ… Well, he’s not wrong about the mafia thing.” He tossed it back with a wink. “But I’m no meta. I’m a menace—but not meta, see?” He tapped his temple, flashing his golden eyes briefly. “Built different.”
The group didn’t relax. If anything—they tensed further. Jack shrugged. “Relax. I’m just here to see a fellow god. That’s all. I’m very friendly with gods. Usually. Unless they’re—”
“Jack Hou.” A voice, sharp, feminine—cut him off. He turned. Natasha Romanoff, red hair tied back, stepped forward from the crowd like a blade sliding from a sheath. She flashed a badge. “You’re under arrest.”
Jack raised a brow. “Who said that?”
She stepped closer. “Agent Romanoff. FBI task force—”
“KEKEKEKE.” Jack cut her off. “Ahh, SHIELD. Say hi to Nick for me.” He turned back to Donald. “Careful with this one,” he gestured to Natasha. “You think the FBI is covert? Wait till you hear about SHI—”
“Enough.” Natasha lunged, clamping a hand over Jack’s mouth mid-rant. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
But Jack was already gone. A blur, a gust, a ripple—Suddenly he stood on the roof of the Culver admin building, several stories up. In one hand? Natasha’s wallet. He waved it cheerfully. “I take your wallet, okay Miss Redhead? Consider it a deposit!”
Then—he winked, stepped backward onto Zephyr, which caught him mid-air like a ghostly hand. “Next time wear your Black Widow costume, so I can steal one of those fancy little wrist-stinger things—KEKEKEKEKE!!!” And he was gone. Soaring east. The clouds swallowed him like he’d never been.
…
New York at night shimmered. Not just from light—but from exhaustion. From fire trails, smog clouds, rumbling repairs and ghost sirens trying to scream the city back into sanity. But up high, the air was clean. No noise. No war. No people. Just Jack Hou. He sat at the very peak of the North Tower, arms resting across his knees, his hair pulled back, his cheongsam fluttering lightly in the breeze like hanging ink in water.
Below him: the Golden Peach, already rebuilding. His clones worked tirelessly, Zephyr moved shipments, Madam Gao whispered favors into forgotten ears. Up here: just sky. Jack smiled. “KEKEKEKE…” He patted the rooftop beneath him, murmuring low. “I’m so glad you’re not down in 9/11.”
A strange warmth in his voice. Something between irreverence and reverence. Like a man whispering to a friend who didn’t know it was almost their funeral once. He stood, walking slowly toward the edge. The wind toyed with his tail. It whipped, then coiled behind him, bracing him like a sentinel.
Jack inhaled. Then exhaled—long and slow. His eyes scanned the dark city. So much done. So much to do. Golden Peach was nearly secure. The mafia families were dust. SHIELD, for now, held their knives behind smiles. But out there—across Harlem—the tremor had only just begun. Banner. Blonsky. A battle coming. A collision of rage and pride.
He could go. He could watch. Intervene. Test himself. Or he could continue his journey. Head east. China still waited. The dragon bone. The buried names. Bakuto’s forgotten blade.
Jack looked out over the city. Then sat again. But this time—he didn’t sit on the tower. His tail curled upward, hoisting him an inch above the concrete like a throne made of living breath. He folded his legs, lowered his hands onto his knees. Closed his eyes. The wind slowed. Even Zephyr kept its distance, circling far above.
Jack began to meditate—suspended in silence on top of the world, alone with every decision he hadn’t yet made. And somewhere, far below, New York kept grinding forward, never once noticing that a mad god was still deciding whether to stay.
