by Greg Cox
Maybe it wasn’t too late to halt the metamorphosis! He tried counting backwards from one hundred, in hopes of calming his agitated nerves, but it was growing harder and harder to think clearly. Counting back, he never got further than ninety before losing count and having to start over again. The very nature of his thoughts seemed to be changing, growing thicker and harsher and more elemental. How dare this puny human soldier interfere with him anyway? And why did he want to stop the change? Banner had obviously failed. He had been too weak again, as usual. Banner was always too weak.
“Sorry, sir,” the Mountie said, still squinting at the forged passport, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with—”
Officer Craigie’s stern declaration fell silent as he looked up from the papers in his hand to the man he meant to detain. His jaw fell open in astonishment, nothing he might or might not have read about the stranger preparing him for the shocking and grotesque sight before him.
Less than a foot away, Banner was changing into … something else. His light brown beard shrunk into his face as his head expanded outward, the features of his face melting and reforming into a visage far more brutish and inhuman, the nose a flattened snout above a mouthful of large, jutting teeth. Pale pink skin darkened to an unnatural shade of yellowish green. Dark pea-green hair spread like fresh grass through the faux blond hair until only a shaggy, emerald mop remained atop an immense, box-like skull. Banner’s eyes receded beneath heavy, hanging brows so that only a pair of glinting emerald marbles could be seen where his haunted brown eyes had been.
“Ohmigod,” Craigie exclaimed, his eyes wide. He backed away from the counter, his ruddy face going pale. “It really is you. It’s actually happening!”
Agonized grunts and gasps escaped from Banner as his entire body rebuilt itself with frightening speed. Mundane clothing came apart at the seams, exposing bulging green flesh that ripped through fragile garments that were suddenly many sizes too small. The blue windbreaker was torn into shreds, along with the plain white shirt underneath; both hung in ribbons from impossibly broad shoulders. Immense green feet pushed their way free from the sneakers that tried unsuccessfully to confine them, leaving scraps of rubber soles and broken shoelaces upon the floor. Only the worn violet trousers, deliberately purchased to accommodate Banner’s increasing dimensions, hung together, even though the cheap belt snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.
Hunched over in pain, clutching his head in his hands, Banner’s posture partially concealed the full extent of his transformation.
Stop it! he thought desperately, already forgetting why as another personality subsumed his own, forcing its way into his thoughts like a rampaging invader from the darkest depths of his unconscious mind and shoving his own hopes and fears into some desolate psychological limbo. Anxiety gave way to defiance—and a seething sense of anger at the entire world.
Stop it? Stop who? Nobody stops the Hulk!
* * *
WITH a deep, full-throated roar, a colossal green ogre, nearly three meters tall, raised his monstrous head high and shook fists the size of anvils. The last tatters of his shirt and jacket fell off his massive frame, to be trampled beneath Sasquatch-sized feet. His hairless chartreuse chest was at least a meter across and looked constructed of solid muscle. Disordered, emerald hair scraped the ceiling as the Hulk rose to his full height, towering over the flabbergasted border guard, who stammered incoherently and reached for his revolver. Banner’s ersatz passport slipped from the Mountie’s fingers, fluttering unnoticed to the floor.
Sergeant Cameron Craigie considered himself a large man and a tough customer, fully capable of handling himself in a tight spot, but the genuinely incredible Hulk would have dwarfed even the most steroid-enhanced bodybuilder. His looming shadow eclipsed the guard. Photos and film clips of the legendary monster, which Craigie had occasionally seen on the news, had failed to fully convey just how intimidating the Hulk was in the flesh.
I don’t believe it, Craigie thought, part of him sincerely wishing that he had never recognized Dr. Banner from the fax pinned behind the counter. Just look at him. Even his muscles have muscles!
The Hulk’s head swung slowly atop a neck that looked as squat and wide as a fireplug. Beady green eyes swept the customs station, as if he were newly orienting himself to his surroundings. A thuggish sneer suggested he didn’t like what he saw, not that he looked terribly worried about anything.
“Hmmph!” he grunted. Without giving Craigie a second glance, he took one enormous step toward the exit, leaving the remains of his wrecked garments and footwear behind him. His heavy tread shook the floor.
“H-hold it,” Craigie ordered, an atypical quaver in his command. He barely recognized his own voice. Just my luck somebody spotted him in town earlier, he thought. Nervously, he raised his gun and aimed it right at the back of the Hulk’s head. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
With ominous indifference, the Hulk turned his head and eyed the Mountie balefully. Bushy green eyebrows met above his nose. Hostile green eyes narrowed ominously. “Go ahead,” he rumbled in a deep baritone that made James Earl Jones sound like a castrato. “Try it.”
“Just stay where you are,” Craigie insisted, backing farther away from the gargantuan monstrosity. His gaze darted quickly to the phone on the desk behind the counter. If he could just call for help, maybe someone could send an army or two to deal with the Hulk.
Yeah, he thought, let the Yanks handle it. They’re the ones who wanted him caught. He inched closer to the phone, keeping the Hulk safely between his sights. Just because the bloody brute was as big as a house didn’t mean that he was bulletproof, right? Heck, at close range, he was practically impossible to miss!
“Don’t go anywhere,” he warned, his voice sounding a trifle more confident this time. “I’ll fire if I have to.”
“So what?” the Hulk grunted, a smirk upon his prehistoric features. Without warning, he spun around and brought down a heavy fist to crash against the counter. The blow shattered both the counter and the desk as well, leaving nothing but a pile of splintered debris between Craigie and the Hulk. Echoes of the deafening impact hung in the air, and the Mountie almost forgot to breathe. He staggered backwards, barely managing to hang onto his revolver. Suddenly, he wished devoutly that he had never heard of Bruce Banner.
The Hulk snarled, baring enormous incisors, and Craigie feared for his life. The Hulk’s thunderous footsteps rattled the floor as he stepped toward the Mountie. Craigie squeezed the trigger and fired three times, only to watch in dismay as the bullets bounced harmlessly off the Hulk’s bare chest, ricocheting around the room. Panicked, Craigie ducked his head, hearing glass and plaster explode as the deflected bullets wreaked havoc on the walls and furnishings. A framed photo of the Prime Minister crashed to the floor, symbolically assassinated by a stray shot.
Please, Craigie prayed, let me get out of this alive and I’ll never hassle another tourist again!
“Give me that!” the Hulk bellowed. He snatched the smoking gun from the guard’s quaking hand and fumbled with it awkwardly. The blue steel service revolver looked like a toy in the Hulk’s massive grip. For a second, Craigie thought that the Hulk was going to shoot him with his own gun, then the looming green-skinned titan raised the gun over his left shoulder, pointing the muzzle between his own oar-sized shoulderblades. Unable to stick a meaty finger past the trigger guard, the Hulk simply squeezed the entire grip so hard that it collapsed into a flattened wad of metal at the same moment that gunpowder ignited, blasting live ammo at the Hulk’s spine.
“Ah,” he rasped in satisfaction, acrid wisps of smoke rising from his clenched fist. “The only way to scratch those hard-to-reach spots. Thanks a heap,” he said disdainfully, tossing the crumpled revolver at Craigie’s feet.
“You’re welcome,” the border guard whimpered weakly, but the Hulk wasn’t listening. Turning his back on Craigie, and ignoring the clearly-posted exit sign, the Hulk walked straight through the solid s
tone wall across from the smashed counter, leaving a three-meter tall, one-meter wide hole that opened onto the previously tranquil garden outside. Fallen chunks of marble and concrete were crushed to powder beneath the Hulk’s bare feet as he casually brushed a layer of dust and plaster from his shoulders. Screams of panic erupted outside as dozens of startled tourists witnessed the Hulk’s first steps onto Canadian soil.
Nerves frayed almost to the breaking point, every muscle quivering, Sergeant Craigie got down on his hands and started rooting around in the ruins of his office. Through the newly-created door in front of him, he heard the Hulk stomp through the landscaped garden, to the accompaniment of frightened shouting.
Help, he thought numbly. We need help. Lots of help.
He knew there had to be a phone buried somewhere in the rubble.
* * *
BY the time the X-Men arrived on the scene, the Hulk’s arrival at Niagara had become a full-fledged media event. Competing news helicopters circled overhead, jockeying for the best perspectives on the telegenic crisis. Both the American and Canadian armies lined their respective shores, holding back crowds of excited onlookers and scoop-hungry reporters. The nightly light show had been replaced by glaring spotlights, all focused on the wooded island between the Falls, where the rampaging Hulk roared his defiance.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted, his huge feet planted on the northern tip of the island, facing the Falls. He pounded his fists against his chest. “Get outta my sight or you’ll be looking at one less national landmark!”
Viewing the chaos from a video monitor in the cockpit of the Blackbird, Storm felt her spirits sag. “It is far more … public … than I would have preferred,” she commented.
The Blackbird, a sleek black aircraft equipped with the finest in stealth technology, closed on Niagara. Cyclops manned the helm, no doubt watching carefully for the copters occupying the airspace ahead. To the east, Storm glimpsed the first rosy hints of dawn and held back a yawn. By car or by plane, they had been traveling all night in their thus-far fruitless search for Rogue. She rubbed her tired eyes. Lack of sleep did nothing to ease her anxiety. How can we possibly confer with Banner under such volatile circumstances?
“That’s why we wear masks,” Cyclops stated. He took another look at Storm and the Beast. Like Cyclops, they had shed their civilian garb for their X-Men uniforms, but only Scott’s face was covered by his costume; specifically, by his polished gold visor. The Beast, in fact, was wearing nothing more than a pair of black shorts and his own furry pelt. “Well, some of us do. In any case, we might not get a better chance. If the military actually manage to apprehend the Hulk, there’s no way they’re letting us anywhere near him.”
“Perhaps,” the Beast suggested, peering over Storm’s shoulder at the television footage, “our favorite gamma-spawned gargantua might appreciate a timely lift at this particular juncture?”
“Perhaps,” Storm agreed. Aiding and abetting the Hulk in an escape from the authorities would hardly help the X-Men’s embattled reputation, but, realistically, they had very little to lose in that regard. And it might make the Hulk more inclined to assist them in their quest. “What do you think, Scott?”
Cyclops kept his golden visor fixed on the Blackbird’s instrumentation. “Let’s go for it—if we can get the Hulk to cooperate.”
That, Storm knew, was a very big if. Compared to the Hulk, Wolverine was a gentle pacifist. She leaned back into the passenger seat and closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her powers. “I believe a degree of cloud cover may help ensure a measure of privacy.”
At her command, a heavy fog abruptly rose from the river below, blanketing the small island entirely and shielding the Hulk from curious eyes. Forced to retreat by the instant lack of visibility, the news copters turned their floodlights on the roiling mist, but their beams failed to penetrate the dense gray fog, as did the powerful searchlights upon the shore. The mist crouched atop the island like a living entity.
Shrouded by the mist, the Blackbird touched down on Goat Island, executing a pinpoint VTOL descent onto a wide stretch of paved roadway near the center of the island.
“Hurry,” Storm urged her teammates as they vacated the plane. “The conditions here are conducive to fog, but I cannot sustain such an opaque atmosphere indefinitely.” Even now she could feel the early morning breeze attempting to dissipate her fog; it required conscious effort on her part to redirect the winds around the island.
They rushed through the forest, Cyclops in the lead, clearing a path through the brush with his eyebeams, whose incandescent glow also provided a beacon to follow through the clammy mist and shadows that made the woods a murky tangle of flailing branches and clotted undergrowth. Storm almost tripped more than once, her heels sinking into the mossy loam, but managed to maintain a steady pace that still fell far short of the Beast’s rapid progress through the branches overhead. He swung nimbly from trees, as much in his element now as Storm would have been soaring above the clouds.
To each his own, she thought.
Her rough trek neared its end as she saw the densely planted trees begin to thin out ahead. Beyond the obedient fog, she sensed the newborn sun rising above the horizon, casting its warmth upon the early morning hours. Cyclops shut off his beam, their way now clear, only to drop speedily to the forest floor, surprising Storm.
“Watch out!” he warned her, flattening himself against the damp, dewy earth.
Storm glimpsed a full-sized tree swinging toward her like a club and took to the air. A hasty gust of wind carried her aloft, safely above the uprooted spruce tree that swung in a wide arc through the very space that she and Cyclops had occupied only a moment before. The branch-strewn log whooshed beneath her and over Cyclops’s prostrate form.
“Holy moley!” the Beast exclaimed from his vantage point in a nearby bough. “Where in the name of Paul Bunyan did that come from?”
The answer emerged from the fog, still clutching the base of the spruce in one capacious fist.
“Thought you could sneak up on me, didya?” the Hulk thundered savagely. Green eyes squinted through the haze, fixing on Storm and the others. “Well, well. If it isn’t the world’s most famous mutant misfits.” He tapped his leafy cudgel upon the ground threateningly, not far from where Cyclops cautiously rose to his feet, his visor at the ready. “Where’s that sawed-off Canuck, Wolverine?” the Hulk sneered at Cyclops, seemingly unafraid of the X-Man’s potent eyebeams. “He’s the only one in your bunch worth brawlin’ with.”
“Believe it or not, Hulk,” Storm declared, “we are here to help you.” A tamed breeze swelled the cloth wings beneath her arms as she gracefully descended to earth. I had forgotten quite how large he is, she thought, contemplating the Hulk’s tremendous physique. Not even the Juggernaut was as imposing in his proportions, nor as grotesque in countenance.
“Who asked you?” the Hulk growled. His manners were comparable to Cain Marko’s as well, it seemed. He peered about him suspiciously, an idea forming within his misshapen skull. “You responsible for this pea soup muck, weather girl?” he asked her, sweeping his free hand through the fog.
Although still worshipped as a goddess in parts of Africa, Ororo chose to ignore the Hulk’s disrespect. The savage creature could not help his lack of common courtesy, or so she decided to assume. “I had thought that you might appreciate the seclusion,” she explained. “Free from prying eyes.”
He threw the uprooted tree to the ground with surprising force, startling Storm with his sudden fury.
“You thought I needed to hide? From a coupla wimpy armies?” Indignation distorted his already primeval features. Titanic muscles flexed along prodigious arms, the veins standing out like heavy cables. “Listen to me, X-Lady, and listen good. The Hulk don’t hide from nobody!”
Two gigantic hands slammed together, producing a shock wave that tore apart her carefully constructed fog bank like a child’s birthday candle blown out in a single huff. The congealed mist blew off t
he island, propelled by a hurricane-strength force that also sent Storm and Cyclops tumbling backwards, somersaulting out of control through the brush while the Beast hung onto a sheltering tree trunk with both hands, flapping like a furry blue flag above the forest floor. Branches and brambles whipped past Storm, but more than the physical impact buffeted her; a portion of her consciousness had been intertwined with the foggy atmosphere she had fostered, and the violent disruption of her creation sent a psychic shock through her mind that left her dazed and speechless.
Goddess! she thought, ending up sprawled upon the ground, dozens of tiny scratches and scrapes stinging her skin, her brain aching from the neurological trauma. Cyclops groaned nearby, but she lacked the strength to lift her head right at this moment. He’s like a force of nature all his own.
“That’s more like it,” the Hulk grunted, placing his hands upon his hips. His cataclysmic clap had cleared all the foliage from a spit of land at the northern tip of the island, exposing him further to the armed forces mustered on both sides of the Falls, as well as to the hovering news copters. The Hulk clearly couldn’t care less; beneath the bright morning sun, surrounded by a stretch of blasted earth, he roared a challenge to all within earshot.
And then the Avengers arrived.
* * *
“THE Hulk—and the X-Men? This can’t be a coincidence,” Iron Man blurted through his metal mask. “Gamma rays. Gamma Sentinels. And now this.” His automatic vocalizer amplified his voice, making him easily audible over the roar of both the Hulk and the Falls. The motile metal of his gilded faceplate allowed a semblance of his grim expression to come through the mask. “I don’t know about you, Cap, but from where I’m standing two plus two sure doesn’t equal an innocent misunderstanding.”
