章 32: chapter 32
(Read more chapters ahead in PATREON)
"Come with me, T'Challa! We're not far from my lab—just hang on!" Hank Pym's voice carried a mix of urgency and authority as his body expanded, growing into a towering colossus nearly ten meters tall. He grasped the burnt-out remains of a car with one enormous hand and shoved it aside with ease, clearing a path littered with debris and corpses.
T'Challa staggered behind, his chest heaving with exhaustion. His once-pristine suit was in tatters, exposing patches of skin smeared with dirt and ash. The Black Panther mask remained intact, its unyielding visage hiding the turmoil on his face.
"Hank," T'Challa said between breaths, his deep voice steady despite his condition. "Are we separated from the others?"
Hank paused, his towering form shrinking back to normal size. He didn't respond immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows of the alley.
"Hank?" T'Challa repeated, a note of concern creeping into his tone.
Pym turned to him with a haunted expression. "T'Challa, did you see it? What happened to the American colonel?" His voice wavered, the words catching in his throat. "He was bitten, and in seconds, the man I knew—one of the most righteous men in the world—turned into a monster. He… he tore apart a reporter with his bare hands, like she was nothing."
T'Challa lowered his head. "I saw," he admitted grimly. The memory of the colonel's transformation gnawed at him. "But we cannot dwell on it. We must focus on surviving and finding a cure. Wakanda—"
"Wakanda…" Hank interrupted, shaking his head. "Do you think Wakanda will be spared, T'Challa? This plague doesn't discriminate. The scientists, the technology—none of it will matter. Not when every superpowered freak out there is turning into one of them."
Hank clutched his abdomen, his hand slick with blood. T'Challa's sharp eyes caught the movement.
"Hank!" he barked, stepping closer. "Your stomach—were you bitten?"
Hank let out a harsh laugh, his expression hardening. "No. Just a scratch from a metal bar. Do you really think I'd be that careless?" His voice carried a brittle edge, but his body language betrayed his unease.
T'Challa didn't buy it. His instincts screamed at him to stay on guard. Hank is hiding something.
"Come on," Hank said, striding forward into the alley. "We're close to the lab. Once we're there, we can regroup, rest, and figure out how to stop this thing."
T'Challa hesitated but followed. Hank had saved him earlier, appearing at just the right moment to fend off a horde of the infected. Still, the scientist's current behavior seemed off—his rushed pace, the way he avoided eye contact. Something wasn't right.
As they entered the alley, T'Challa caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Before he could react, a massive hand struck him like a wrecking ball.
The force sent T'Challa crashing into a wall, bricks shattering around him. Pain exploded through his body as he slumped to the ground, his vision swimming.
"Hank…" T'Challa murmured weakly, struggling to lift his head.
"I'm sorry, old friend," Hank muttered, his voice cold and detached. His giant form loomed over T'Challa as he bent down, gripping the Black Panther's leg and lifting him effortlessly.
Hank dragged T'Challa through the alley, the sound of his footsteps echoing ominously. They reached a hidden door embedded in the wall. Hank tapped a code into a concealed panel, and the door hissed open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with strange equipment.
He hauled T'Challa inside and strapped him onto a metal operating table, securing the bindings with practiced precision.
"You'll understand one day," Hank said quietly, almost to himself. "What this virus does… the hunger, the madness—it's unstoppable. Even the best of us fall."
T'Challa tried to struggle, but his body was still reeling from the blow. "Hank…" he growled, his voice weak but defiant. "What are you doing?"
Hank didn't answer immediately. He picked up a bone saw from a nearby tray, his fingers trembling as he ran them along the blade.
"I'm trying to prepare," he said finally, his voice a mix of resolve and sorrow. "When the hunger takes over, I don't want to lose control. And I need… I need to test something."
The saw hovered over T'Challa's arm, the blade grazing his skin. Blood welled up in a thin line, but Hank stopped himself, his face twisting with inner conflict.
"No," he whispered, throwing the saw aside. He grabbed a syringe filled with anesthetic and injected it into T'Challa's arm. "Sleep, Your Majesty. You'll be safe here—for now."
Hank turned and exited the room, locking the door behind him. As he walked back into the ruined city, his body expanded once more, towering over the abandoned streets.
The voices in his mind grew louder. One was the American colonel's rasping demand for all infected heroes to return to Avengers HQ. The other was Janet's sultry invitation.
"Dinner's ready," she had said, her voice tinged with malice.
Hank's lips curled into a dark smile. "Dinner can wait," he muttered.
As he strode through the wreckage, his sharp eyes caught movement—a man clutching a wrecking ball, trembling in fear. Thunderball.
"Please!" the man begged, falling to his knees. "I'll change! I swear I'll change—just don't eat me!"
Hank crouched down, his giant hand enveloping Thunderball like a vice. The man screamed, kicking and clawing, but it was useless.
"Change?" Hank repeated, his tone mocking. "No one changes. We all end up the same in the end."
With a savage grin, Hank brought Thunderball to his mouth and bit down. The man's screams were cut short, replaced by the grotesque sound of flesh tearing and bones crunching.
Hank chewed thoughtfully, savoring the taste.
"It's magnificent," he murmured, blood dripping from his lips.
He straightened, his monstrous shadow stretching across the empty street, and continued his march toward the Avengers HQ—toward destiny.
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