POV: Bruce Banner
Summary: Bruce observes Garou during combat training. As Garou mimics each Avengers member's techniques with impossible precision, Bruce's curiosity turns to dread. This isn't copying. This is something more—something smarter. Something evolving.
Bruce had seen a lot of things in his life—mutants, aliens, gods with hammers, men in iron suits.
But the man on the mat didn't fit any of those.
Garou moved like a glitch in the system.
The first time Bruce noticed it was subtle. Steve feinted right—Garou mirrored it half a second later. Could've been coincidence. But then Natasha stepped in, feinting low. Garou shifted his weight exactly as she did. Not a second later. Not similar.
Exact.
Bruce leaned in, narrowing his eyes from the observation booth. The mat below was bathed in soft blue light. Tony had upgraded the room to record and analyze every footfall, heartbeat, and blink. It was the most advanced human-performance lab on Earth. And it couldn't read Garou.
He turned to the monitors. "JARVIS, biometric scan. Compare movement patterns. Start with Cap."
"Overlay complete," the AI replied.
Lines appeared on screen. Two human silhouettes, side-by-side: Steve and Garou. Their footwork patterns from the last sixty seconds played simultaneously.
They matched.
Not in general rhythm. In millisecond timing.
Bruce muttered, "That's not mimicry. That's muscle-learning in real time."
He tapped his pen against the desk. Watched again.
Now Garou faced Natasha. She darted in fast—feint, spin, elbow strike. Garou didn't block. He moved with her, like a shadow too smart for its owner.
He didn't look like someone trained in fighting.
He looked like someone designed to adapt to fighting.
A mirror that didn't reflect, but absorbed.
Garou's face betrayed nothing. His eyes weren't focused on his opponents. He wasn't watching their movements anymore—he was watching what came before their movements.
Anticipating.
Bruce turned to the bioscan. Cortisol spike. Pupil dilation. Micro-tremors. Garou's nervous system was lighting up like a learning engine—but not from stress. From efficiency.
Each pattern he observed, he rewrote.
Bruce's stomach turned.
"This isn't a reflex test," he whispered. "It's a rewrite cycle."
The elevator behind him chimed.
Emma Frost stepped in, arms folded, coat gleaming like polished ice. She glanced at the screen, then at Bruce.
"Ah," she said coolly. "Watching the dog play fetch?"
Bruce didn't take his eyes off the monitor. "He's not fetching."
Emma stepped beside him, observing.
"He's rewriting movement signatures," Bruce said. "Not just copying. Upgrading. Integrating."
She nodded slowly. "Yes. He did the same with thought fragments."
Bruce finally turned. "You scanned his mind?"
She smiled without warmth. "I skimmed it. I'm not eager to return. What I saw wasn't thought. It was instinct given form. Imagine a brain made of nothing but reflex loops."
He stared. "That's not possible."
Emma arched a brow. "Neither is a man surviving in the ice without oxygen for half a century, but here we are."
On the mat, Thor entered, beaming.
Garou turned to face him.
Bruce whispered, "He's going to learn Thor's timing now."
Emma's gaze sharpened. "Or break it."
Bruce looked back at the screen, heart thudding now.
This wasn't science anymore.
It was survival.
And they might've just invited something into their tower that didn't evolve like a human…
It evolved past one.