Smith's frown deepened as the Abomination stopped mid-attack, its arms dropping to its sides. The creature's sudden passivity triggered his combat instincts—a feint, perhaps, or some other tactical ploy.
No. This was surrender.
Smith's lip curled in disgust. The Abomination couldn't grow stronger through rage like the Hulk—it was just a failed imitation, all the physical enhancement without the emotional feedback loop that made Banner's alter ego truly dangerous. Without that escalating power, it was just dead weight in this fight.
Better to remove it from the equation entirely.
Smith launched himself forward, his fist already cocked back for a knockout blow that would send the creature into unconsciousness for the next several hours.
"Mr. Smith, I'm Blonsky!" the Abomination's voice cracked with desperation, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush.
Smith's fist stopped.
The air displacement from the aborted punch washed over the Abomination's head, strong enough to whip its grotesque features sideways. The creature's yellow eyes were wide, fixed on the knuckles hovering inches from its skull.
"Then change back," Smith said, his voice flat and cold. "And don't get in my way here."
His glare could've frozen blood. The Abomination—Blonsky—had been all savage aggression and bestial fury just minutes ago. Now, faced with real consequences, he wanted mercy?
Pathetic.
Sweat beaded on the Abomination's scaled skin, an almost comical sight on something so monstrous. The droplets traced paths down its face, betraying the very human fear lurking beneath the gamma-enhanced exterior.
Blonsky's mind raced. He'd made his choice—injected Banner's blood, embraced the transformation, reveled in the power. But he'd underestimated the opposition. Smith Doyle had beaten the arrogance out of him in less than five minutes, forcing his tactical mind to reassert control over the berserker rage.
"I'll try," Blonsky stammered, his voice still distorted through the Abomination's physiology. "I'll try."
He swallowed hard, the gesture oddly human. "This is my first transformation. I haven't mastered it well yet."
Smith stepped back, giving him space but keeping his attention divided between the Abomination and the Hulk. If this was a trick, Blonsky would regret it.
The Abomination's body began to shrink. Muscle mass deflated like a punctured balloon, scales receding into pale skin. Bone structure compressed, facial features rearranging from monstrous to human. The process took nearly thirty seconds—agonizingly slow compared to Banner's transformations.
When it finished, Emil Blonsky stood naked in the middle of Broadway, breathing hard, his skin still flushed from the exertion.
Smith filed that observation away. Unlike Banner's two-consciousness system where the Hulk operated as a separate entity, Blonsky maintained singular control. One mind, one will, but without the Hulk's rage-powered escalation. A super-soldier on steroids, essentially, but nothing truly extraordinary.
The Hulk, though—the Hulk was unique. Two consciousnesses warring for dominance, with power that scaled infinitely with anger. The angrier he got, the stronger he became, with no apparent upper limit.
That was worth Smith's time.
Blonsky didn't wait for dismissal. He turned and sprinted toward the military cordon, his enhanced physiology letting him cover ground despite his human form. Smart move—get to safety, get to Ross, start the damage control immediately.
Smith was already moving in the opposite direction, his attention locked on the Hulk.
The Hulk saw Smith coming and roared his name like a curse.
"SMITH!"
There was recognition in that bellow—and grudge. This was the second time Smith had appeared to beat him down. The Hulk's memory might be fragmented and emotion-driven, but he remembered humiliation. Remembered pain.
He swung with his full strength, a haymaker that could've pulverized a battle tank.
Smith met it head-on.
Their fists collided with a sound like a bomb detonating. The shockwave rippled outward, shattering every remaining window within three blocks. The few intact storefronts exploded into glittering fragments. Car alarms shrieked and died as their electronics fried from the concussive force.
The handful of idiots still lingering to watch finally got the message. They ran, stumbling over debris, scrambling for any distance they could get from the epicenter.
Even Blonsky didn't stop running until he'd cleared Broadway entirely.
Blonsky spotted a military vehicle two blocks out and made a beeline for it, still naked, still breathing hard. The soldiers manning the position raised their weapons reflexively, then lowered them in confusion as they recognized his face.
"This is Blonsky," he gasped, reaching the vehicle. "Connect me to General Ross. Now."
One soldier immediately tossed him a spare uniform while another worked the radio. Blonsky caught the bundle and started dressing, not bothering with modesty. Military life had long since burned any shame out of him.
The radio crackled to life.
In the helicopter, Ross had watched Blonsky's transformation through the soldier-mounted cameras. When the communication request came through, he accepted it immediately.
"Blonsky. What's going on with you?"
Blonsky's voice came through slightly distorted but perfectly coherent. "General, I succeeded."
He took a breath, organizing his thoughts, knowing he had one chance to sell this. "The other big guy—that was me. I injected Banner's blood, and after transformation, my will controls the body."
Ross leaned closer to the radio, his attention razor-sharp.
"However," Blonsky continued, "the first transformation triggers violent impulses. They need to be vented or suppressed through willpower. Once released, there are no lasting effects. With sufficient will and focus, I can suppress the rage and return to normal."
Blonsky wasn't stupid. He knew his unauthorized injection and subsequent rampage through Broadway had consequences. Military court. Dishonorable discharge. Prison—possibly execution if they decided he was too dangerous to contain.
Unless he could prove his value outweighed his crimes.
"The transformation is controllable, sir," Blonsky emphasized. "I can transform at will and maintain tactical thinking throughout. I'm not a liability—I'm an asset."
Ross's eyes lit up. There it was—the confirmation he'd been hoping for. Banner's Hulk was powerful but uncontrollable, a weapon that chose its own targets. But Blonsky? Blonsky could be directed. Commanded. Used.
"Come to my helicopter," Ross ordered. "It seems we need to have a good talk about your unauthorized injection."
"Yes, General!" Blonsky's voice carried the crisp efficiency of a soldier who knew he'd just avoided the firing squad.
Ross watched Blonsky's tiny figure in the distance snap to attention despite the chaos. Good. The man was still a soldier at heart, still responsive to authority and chain of command. That discipline could be leveraged.
But Ross needed to see it in action. Needed to confirm that Blonsky's transformed state maintained that same obedience, that same tactical mindset. If the creature could follow orders during combat...
The possibilities were staggering.
Smith pressed his assault on the Hulk, his strikes calculated to push the green giant to his limits without overwhelming him completely. Each punch landed with devastating force, but he pulled back just enough to keep the fight going.
Between exchanges, Smith spoke, his words designed to needle and provoke.
"Is that all you've got? I expected more from the incredible Hulk."
"Come on, Hulk—I know you're in there. Show me what you're really capable of."
"Pathetic. I've fought Vampire with more backbone."
The taunts worked. The Hulk's roars grew louder, more furious. His attacks came faster, hitting harder. The gamma radiation in his cells responded to his emotional state, flooding his muscles with more power, more speed, more everything.
Smith's scouter tracked the readings as they climbed. 350... 400... 450 points. The Hulk was burning through the inhibitors still in his system, rage overriding the chemical suppression through pure force of will.
Smith ramped up his own output to match. This was what he'd been craving. A real test. A chance to see what his new fusion template could do against an opponent who wouldn't break.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three rapid exchanges, fists meeting fists in thunderous collision. The Hulk stumbled backward, green skin split and bleeding. The wounds closed almost instantly, tissue knitting back together as his healing factor kicked in.
He roared and charged again, learning nothing.
Smith crossed his arms and pivoted, his leg sweeping up in a devastating kick that caught the Hulk in the chest and drove him into the pavement. The street cratered under the impact, asphalt exploding upward in jagged chunks.
"Go on," Smith said, his smile predatory and eager. "Let me see your true strength."
The Hulk's hands slammed into the ground, his entire body tensing. A roar built in his chest, starting low and building to an earth-shaking crescendo.
"HULK!"
The transformation was visible—gamma energy crackling around his frame like green lightning, muscles swelling, bones thickening. His combat power spiked on Smith's scouter: 450... 500... 550... 600.
The Hulk launched himself forward in a shoulder charge, moving faster than he'd managed before, hitting harder than should've been possible.
Smith's eyes widened fractionally. He'd been about to escalate further, but the Hulk had beaten him to it.
The impact drove Smith backward, his boots tearing furrows in the pavement as he tried to arrest his momentum. Then he was airborne, crashing through a building's facade, through interior walls, emerging out the back in a shower of brick and drywall.
The Hulk stood in the street, beating his chest like a gorilla, triumph radiating from every line of his massive frame.
"HULK STRONGEST!" he bellowed, the words echoing through the urban canyon.
Smith pushed himself out of the rubble, dust sliding off his shoulders. A grin split his face—genuine, excited, the expression of a Saiyan who'd just found a worthy challenge.
"Good," he said, his voice carrying across the distance. "That's it."
His aura flared, white ki edged with crackling energy. His combat power surged upward—600... 700... 780 points. Not his maximum, not even close, but enough to remind the Hulk who he was dealing with.
Smith blurred forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
The beating resumed, but this time the Hulk was fighting back with real power behind his strikes.
Ross watched the monitors, his brow furrowed. The footage had to be slowed to half-speed just to track the combatants' movements. At normal playback, Smith Doyle was a ghost—appearing, striking, vanishing before the eye could register his position. Only the impact sounds and the Hulk's reactions confirmed he was even there.
Betty's hand touched his arm, her voice tight with worry. "Father, please help Banner."
Ross turned to his daughter, reading the concern in her expression. She still cared about Banner—perhaps more than she'd admitted to herself.
"Don't worry," Ross said, his tone almost gentle. "Smith Doyle won't kill Banner."
He gestured at the screen, where Smith had just landed another combination that would've killed a normal human but only staggered the Hulk. "Can't you see? Smith Doyle is testing the Hulk's strength. Maybe even helping Bruce regain control, just like Blonsky did."
Betty's expression shifted from worry to cautious hope. Ross patted her hand once, then returned his attention to the battle.
On screen, the Hulk and Smith Doyle clashed again, two titans locked in combat that would reshape the city around them.
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