A deep silvery war machine burst out from the storm clouds, blue flames roaring from its thrusters as it surged forward. Behind it, a crescent-shaped aircraft trailed closely in pursuit.
"Computer, once we enter the reservation, scan the terrain for landforms that match the parameters I entered."
Inside the cockpit, Ethan swept his gaze over the cluster of displays before him. The data flashing across the screens was dense and dizzying—rows of figures, codes, and annotations—far too fast to glean anything useful.
Among the streams of information were countless technical terms and abbreviations left by the previous owners of the Anti-Hulk Armor: Tony Stark and Franklin. Ethan couldn't make sense of half of it.
"No problem," replied the AI. Its calm synthetic voice soothed him somewhat. Ethan relaxed a little, looking down through his helmet's visor. Below stretched a sea of dull yellow desert, dotted here and there with sparse, nameless greenery.
The serum injection for all the monks had gone smoothly—none had died from rejection. Still, the enhanced men couldn't yet be sent into battle. They needed time to adapt to their new, superhuman bodies. The old Daredevil had stayed behind to guide them—when it came to psychological adjustment, few were his equal.
The serum extracted from Ethan's blood surpassed even the one used on Captain America in physical enhancement. In speed, strength, and reflexes, it was superior in every way.
"My bow…"
In the Moon Knight's aircraft, Hawkeye sat grim-faced, staring at his composite bow—snapped cleanly in two. The moment his enhancement was done, he'd eagerly tested his aim, only to accidentally pull too hard and break it.
That had been his only bow; the rest were at his safehouse in Hammerfell. There was no way to retrieve them now.
Without his bow, Clint felt an unbearable itch under his skin, like ants crawling all over him.
Hawkeye without his bow was like Captain America without his shield, Banner without the Hulk, or Tony without his armor—his very identity felt incomplete.
"Look on the bright side," Ethan's voice came through the comms, casual and light. "Once we find the Craftsman, you'll have a brand-new bow—better than the last one."
They were heading toward what had once been an Indian reservation, to seek out Forge—the mutant known as the Craftsman, once a member of the X-Men. After the Day of the Fallen Heroes, this version of Forge had built a refuge in these lands.
Forge—no one knew his real name. They only knew he was Native American, with a square face and a red headband tied around his brow.
His mutant ability was to forge anything he imagined—but the process was… esoteric. Not quite mysticism, more akin to how Orks in Warhammer 40K "believe" things into existence.
Even geniuses like Tony Stark or Reed Richards needed to understand the scientific principles behind their inventions before building them step by step.
Forge, however, worked differently. Much of his logical reasoning happened subconsciously. If he merely believed he could create a psychic amplifier—a device to boost telepathic power—he simply would.
Exoskeleton armor, energy cannons, long-range weapons—those were trivial for him.
Once, he even suffered a mental breakdown. When someone compared his mind to a damaged machine, he instinctively used his mutant power to "repair" that mental machine—and in doing so, cured his own insanity.
"Entered the target zone. Beginning full scan."
On the screen appeared a marked area—a vast desert valley surrounded by steep cliffs. Ethan's heart stirred. He knew he had found the place.
"Target locked. Preparing for descent," the onboard computer intoned.
He nodded, adjusting the armor's attitude and guiding it downward. The crescent aircraft followed suit, both descending steadily into the canyon.
The Anti-Hulk Armor and the crescent craft landed almost simultaneously. The aircraft hit the ground with a deep rumble, while Ethan's armor, supported by its jets, touched down lightly and melted into the night.
Silence enveloped the valley—so dark that one could barely see their hand in front of their face.
Scanning the surroundings, Ethan could just make out the faint outlines of dunes in the distance. The entire valley seemed completely cut off from the outside world.
Then, suddenly—spotlights flared from several directions, converging on the silver armor. Shouts followed:
"Turn around and leave! Or… or we'll open fire!"
The voice wavered at the end—its speaker clearly unnerved by the sheer bulk of the Anti-Hulk Armor.
"Activate infrared mode," Ethan ordered calmly.
Ignoring the threats, he spoke to the AI. At once, the display switched to thermal imaging.
About a hundred meters away, seven or eight men in two-legged combat mechs were aiming their weapons at him. The suits looked crude, like downgraded versions of the Titans from Titanfall.
A single glance told Ethan enough: even without its Vibranium coating, his armor could shrug off anything those makeshift mechs could throw.
As the nervous defenders held their aim, Ethan suddenly activated the armor's loudspeaker. His amplified voice boomed across the silent desert:
"Go fetch the Craftsman. Tell him Clint Barton of the Avengers seeks his help."
The sound echoed through the canyon.
The mech pilots froze, exchanging uncertain looks. Clearly, they hadn't expected that request.
"Should we… Really go get him? What if it's a trap?" one of them muttered under the harsh glare of the floodlights.
"Doesn't seem like it," another replied hesitantly. "That guy in the armor hasn't made a single hostile move."
Before they could decide, a calm voice rose from behind them.
"No need. I'm already here."
A man in a mechanic's jumpsuit stepped forward from the group, a red band tied around his forehead.
Everyone turned toward him. His expression was serene, almost detached, as if none of this surprised him in the least.
Both his attire and the way the others regarded him made it clear—this was a man of authority in this hidden refuge.
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