Blonsky didn't sugarcoat his report. He needed Ross's protection, which meant complete honesty about the transformation's effects.
"I don't know if it's the super-soldier serum interaction or just the natural effect of the gamma radiation," Blonsky began, his voice steady and professional, "but immediately after transformation, I was flooded with violent impulses. An overwhelming urge to fight, to destroy, to vent."
He paused, organizing his thoughts. "Originally, I intended to suppress it through pure willpower. I believe the probability of success would have been high—I've endured worse during interrogation resistance training."
His expression darkened slightly. "But the transformation made noise. Startled the surrounding soldiers. They opened fire without assessing the situation, and the incoming rounds disrupted my concentration. I failed to contain the impulse."
Blonsky met Ross's eyes directly. "Fortunately, Mr. Doyle provided an outlet for those violent thoughts during our engagement. The rage burned itself out through combat. Now that I understand the trigger, I'm confident future transformations won't present the same loss of control."
Ross nodded slowly, processing the information. Controllable, but requiring proper conditions. The soldiers' panicked response had been the variable—understandable, but problematic. Future deployments would need better briefing, clearer protocols.
"After this matter is resolved," Ross said, his tone carrying the weight of command, "I need you to transform again under controlled conditions. We'll run a full battery of tests to ensure that in your altered state, you remain Soldier Blonsky—not a tyrannical monster."
Blonsky's response was immediate and sharp. "Yes, sir!"
Broadway Warzone
Smith Doyle had stopped holding back. His aura blazed around him like white fire, his full power on display for the first time since achieving his fusion template. The street beneath his feet had cracked from the pressure of his ki alone.
Under his deliberate provocation and escalating attacks, the Hulk's combat power had climbed to 800 points—quadruple what he'd displayed during the tournament weeks ago. The progression was remarkable, almost concerning.
Smith's analytical mind worked through the implications even as he fought. Which version of the Hulk was this? If this was the Savage Hulk, then the anger-based power scaling was theoretically infinite—each surge of rage feeding into greater strength in an endless cycle, with the gamma mutation triggered by a laboratory accident.
If this was the Green Scar or the Worldbreaker, the growth potential was similarly astronomical. And if this was somehow the Immortal Hulk, connected to the One Below All...
Smith dismissed that last thought. The metaphysical implications were beyond his current understanding, and besides—this was the MCU. The movie universe consistently presented weaker versions of characters compared to their comic counterparts. Once Bruce and the Hulk achieved their eventual fusion into "Professor Hulk," the power scaling would plateau dramatically. Banner's rationality would prevent the infinite rage spiral that made the Hulk truly dangerous.
But even if this universe spawned a comic-accurate Hulk, Smith wasn't worried. Not with the Dokkan Battle System backing him. His growth potential was just as limitless, perhaps more so.
He'd gotten what he wanted from this fight—a proper test of his new capabilities, a chance to see what 1,240 combat points felt like in actual combat. The inflated sensation of newfound power had been properly calibrated through live practice.
Time to end this.
Smith's hands came together at his waist, his fingers forming the distinctive Kamehameha pose. Blue-white energy began to gather between his palms, crackling with barely-contained force.
The Hulk's eyes locked onto the gesture. His pupils dilated. Every muscle in his massive frame went rigid.
Then he turned and ran.
No roar of defiance. No last-ditch charge. Just pure survival instinct overriding everything else. The Hulk's legs pumped like pistons, each stride carrying him half a block. Within seconds, he'd vanished from sight entirely, leaving only trembling buildings and startled pigeons in his wake.
Smith blinked in surprise, then understanding dawned. The Hulk remembered. Despite the fragmented consciousness, despite the rage-induced amnesia, some part of Banner's alter ego had retained the memory of that devastating energy wave from their first fight.
And now, with Smith's full power on display, the technique he was charging would hit with over 2,000 combat points of force. Against the Hulk's current 800, it would be like getting hit by a tactical nuke.
Smart choice, honestly.
In the helicopter, Ross had gone pale the moment he'd seen Smith's hands move into position. His voice cracked slightly as he barked at the pilot. "Prepare for emergency—"
The Hulk's retreat stopped him mid-sentence. Ross sagged slightly in his seat, relief washing over him in a wave. If Smith had fired that attack into Broadway...
The entire district would've been leveled. Thousands dead. His career incinerated along with several city blocks.
Smith lowered his hands, the gathered energy dissipating harmlessly into the air. The blue-white glow faded, leaving only the dusty devastation of the battlefield.
Everyone in the helicopter released breaths they hadn't realized they'd been holding.
A soldier's voice crackled over the radio. "General, our reinforcements have arrived on scene. We've established a perimeter around Broadway."
Ross glanced at the tactical displays. Tanks, APCs, infantry squads—an entire mechanized unit had rolled into position. Unfortunately, they'd arrived just in time to watch the fight end. The Hulk had already escaped, covering miles with those enormous leaps, disappearing into the urban sprawl where tracking would be nearly impossible.
Betty's expression showed relief rather than disappointment. Bruce had escaped. He wasn't captured, wasn't killed. For now, he was safe—free from both enemies and her father's experiments.
In her mind, this was the best possible outcome.
"Prepare to land," Ross ordered, already planning his next moves. Damage assessment. Casualty reports. Media management. SHIELD would be circling like vultures, looking for any opening to claim jurisdiction.
The helicopter touched down on a cleared section of Broadway, rotors still spinning as the bay door opened. Ross emerged first, followed by Bulma, Betty, and Blonsky.
Smith turned at their approach, his expression showing mild surprise when he spotted Bulma among them.
Ross closed the distance with his hand already extended, a politician's smile firmly in place. "Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Smith Doyle. If you hadn't come, I don't know how today would have ended."
The gratitude was genuine beneath the professional polish. Without Smith's intervention, Blonsky's rampage could've killed hundreds. The Hulk would've torn through military units like tissue paper. Ross himself might not have survived.
Smith looked at the offered hand for a beat, then accepted the handshake. "I also want to thank you for taking care of Bulma. She means a great deal to me. I would be very concerned if anything had happened to her."
Bulma's face lit up at the acknowledgment. She immediately moved to Smith's side, taking his arm with obvious affection. "There was an incident—someone tried to rob me during the chaos. I had to defend myself."
She kept the details vague deliberately, not mentioning the laser pistol or the fact that the mugger had been vaporized rather than simply shot. Let Ross draw his own conclusions.
Ross nodded seriously. "Self-defense is completely justified, Ms. Bulma. You were protecting yourself from a violent criminal during an emergency situation. No reasonable authority would question your actions."
His tone carried the weight of someone who could make legal problems disappear if needed. Useful to establish that early in their relationship.
Smith studied Ross for a moment, his mind working through long-term calculations. This man would eventually become Secretary of State, possibly even President if certain timeline branches played out. That kind of political connection could be invaluable—someone with real power who owed Smith favors, who understood the super-powered landscape firsthand.
"The Universal Capsule Company is always looking to build relationships with forward-thinking officials," Smith said carefully, testing the waters. "Particularly those who understand the changing nature of global security."
The implication was clear: political donations are legal, and I have very deep pockets.
Ross's smile gained a sharper edge. "I'm always interested in discussing policy with concerned citizens and corporate leaders. Especially regarding emerging technologies and enhanced security measures."
Translation: I'll take your money and advance your interests, as long as they align with mine.
They spoke for another few minutes, exchanging pleasantries and subtle commitments. Ross would handle the Broadway cleanup—the military would take point on damage assessment, civilian casualties, and media spin. SHIELD would be kept at arm's length through jurisdictional maneuvering.
Smith, for his part, would provide a statement supporting Ross's narrative and ensure the Universal Capsule Company didn't pursue any liability claims against the military.
A mutually beneficial arrangement.
Finally, Smith gestured to Bulma and the werewolf team. "We should return to base. Long day."
Bulma nodded, already pulling out a capsule from her jacket. She clicked the top and tossed it into a cleared area. It expanded in a puff of smoke into a sleek hover-vehicle that looked like it belonged in a science fiction film.
Ross watched the casual display of impossible technology with barely-concealed envy. The Universal Capsule Company's capabilities were staggering—and largely proprietary. The military would kill for access to that dimensional storage technology alone.
Smith and his group boarded the vehicle. The engines hummed to life with barely a whisper, and then they were gone, lifting smoothly into the New York skyline.
Ross stood in the wreckage of Broadway, surrounded by his troops and the aftermath of a super-powered battle that could've been so much worse.
His mind was already three steps ahead, planning how to turn this disaster into opportunity.
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