The Hulk moveslike something that remembers how to kill.
She’s slower now, heavier, but every pulse of her thrusters feels like muscle memory—ancient reflex, bone-deep instinct. We streak through the dark, a crimson streak across the void.
Outpost D-9 fills the viewport—a gleaming skeletal tower built into the shell of a dead moon, blue lights blinking lazy as if it’s never been touched.
I flex my claws around the command stick. “Arm forward cannons.”
“Ready,” says Fierra.
“Fire.”
The explosion isn’t just seen.
It’sfelt.
A deep, gut-shaking boom that vibrates through the deck, through my chest, through every old scar. The moon lights up in red and orange bursts, shockwaves rippling out into nothing.
The Combine relay fractures, silent fireworks in the black.
I should feel triumph.
Instead, I just feel the echo. The ache that comes after.
Reflector’s voice hums again through the cracked speakers.
“Combine distress calls transmitting on multiple bands. Civilians evacuating through the lower docks.”
“Let them go.”
“Confirmed.”
“Scan for cargo containers.”
He pauses.
“You continue this pattern,” he says finally, quieter this time. “Strike. Move. Burn. You gather what you need, yet never stop. This is... illogical.”
“Survival doesn’t care about logic.”
He hums. “Nor grief.”
That hits harder than I want it to.
Later, when the raid is done and the crew’s busy counting salvage and ration packs, I stand alone on the observation deck.
The stars hang still outside, too far to touch, too close to ignore.
The viewport glass is streaked with soot and the ghost of old fingerprints—hers among them, though I can’t prove it. She touched this wall once. I remember. Ifeelit.
My reflection stares back at me: gold eyes, ash skin, burns like topography.
They call me monster again out here.
They’re not wrong.
Monsters survive. Men don’t.
But sometimes, when the Hulk quiets and the hum fades, I catch myself whispering her name.
