The green-skins froze for a heartbeat when they saw the squad in golden power armor.
Then the anger hit.
Their mouths twisted, muscles twitching under that gamma-swollen skin as they glared at the newcomers. In all these decades, no one had ever really stood up to the Hulk Gang. A few dirt farmers with rusty shotguns had tried to argue, yes—but they all ended up paste.
So who did these people think they were?
Who gave them the right to kill one of Banner's sons?
"F*** this—get 'em! Avenge my brother!"
The punk-styled Hulk—hair like a 90s music video, face like he lost a fight with a weedwhacker—roared and tensed. Every muscle corded up, green skin stretched over bone.
He bent his legs, then sprang.
The ground cratered where he'd been standing. Dust fountained up. His body—wider than a normal man by several sizes—cut a green arc through the air, headed straight for the gold-armored line. His eyes blazed madly. Gamma roared in his blood.
He was going to rip them apart.
The white-haired gold-armored warrior at the front—Hawkeye—retracted the crossbow on his right arm and said, calm as a winter morning:
"Fire."
Instantly, every Thunder Warrior moved. In perfect unison, they drew the huge firearms at their waists. The speed of it was beyond human—tight, rehearsed, military.
Each gun was big, heavy, and too elegant for a battlefield—engraved metal along the frames, like weapons made for a royal guard. Every muzzle swung up to the Hulk still in midair.
"Sh—"
The punk Hulk's pupils shrank. He finally realized, mid-jump, how stupid it was to leap at an enemy you didn't understand.
Too late.
Flare in the chambers. The guns spat death.
The rounds poured out like a swarm of metal hornets—dense, punishing. They punched through the Hulk's green flesh in midair, chewing him to mist. Blood burst out in thick clouds, the metallic smell instantly drowning the yard. Meat tore. Bone shattered. In less than a second, the airborne brute was nothing but shredded gore raining down.
It happened so fast even Logan and the other Hulks didn't have time to react.
Blood-rain pattered to the ground, painting the scene a darker, uglier red.
"A-Aaah—w-we don't want the rent anymore! We won't collect from you again!"
One of the green-skins in the back snapped. Terrified, he shoved Logan out of the way and bolted for the aircraft whose engines were still spinning.
The Hulk Gang's swagger, their bullying, their decades of "we're Banner's kids, we own this wasteland"—all of it collapsed in one instant under the overwhelming firepower of the gold suits.
This particular descendant of Banner didn't care about dignity anymore. He just wanted to live.
Yeah, Hulk skin could shrug off regular weapons.
These weren't regular.
"Daddy… what's happening outside?" A small head peeked out from the doorway—Logan's little girl.
That finally snapped Logan out of it. The whole sequence had been too sudden, too violent. He waved frantically and rushed toward the house. "Inside! Go hide! It's a firefight!"
The first runner Hulk was like a button being pressed—every other surviving green-skin started screaming and ran too. Dignity? Gone. They barreled through pitchforks, crates—one was so scared he actually peed himself, leaving a pale trail in the dirt.
Truth was, these Banner brats had never met a real threat. The only "superhero" they'd ever beaten was Logan—who'd gone soft, retired, never fought back, just took the hits like a training dummy.
Now that they were up against an enemy that hit harder than they did, the cowardice under the muscles finally came out.
The gold-armored leader removed his helmet.
Stubborn, lined face.
Hawkeye. Now fully boosted and in power armor.
"Running?" Clint snorted. He tucked the helmet under his arm, raised his left arm, and a small launcher popped from a forearm slot.
Whoosh.
The micro-rocket streaked after the fleeing Hulks, arcing low.
It tagged one right on the butt.
"AAH! My—"
BOOM!
Fire bloomed, shockwaves kicked the snow and dirt up, and the fleeing group was swallowed in a fiery tumble.
When the dust settled, there was no screaming left—just chunks of green meat and scorched earth.
"I've wanted to do that for decades," Hawkeye said, grinning despite himself. Then he strode toward the cabin. "Don't piss yourself, Logan—it's me."
Banner's Den
Far away, in a cold, damp cave, thin light fell through the entrance and spread across the stone floor. Water dripped from the ceiling with slow, patient plinks.
An old sofa sat there, covered with a faded slip.
On it lounged a scrawny old man, wiry and small, propped up on a few soft pillows. Round glasses on his nose. Eyes half-closed at the TV.
On the TV: an old VHS, grainy, colors washed out—"Scent of a Woman," 1992, Oscar winner.
The screen's weak glow lit the old man's face.
Those were better days, the look in his eyes said. Everything was better.
"Dad! Bad news!"
The cold from outside got shoved aside by a gust of panic. A green-skinned man rushed into the cave, face pale, breathing hard.
"What is it?" the old man tilted his head, annoyed, eyes still on the TV. "If you're interrupting me over something stupid—"
On a normal day, that tone would've made the son shrink and stammer.
But right now he didn't dare stop. He stood by the sofa, panting, and blurted:
"Dad, it's bad! Someone's attacking us!"
Translator's Note:
The Book will be on a Haitus for a While.
Read The advance Chapters on My P@treon
patreon.com/WhiteDevil7554