The First Kryptonian in Marvel

General (POV)

S.H.I.E.L.D. Director's Office.

Fury leaned back in his chair, his one good eye fixed on Coulson as the agent slid a button-sized storage device into the desk's specialized reader. With a few deft keystrokes on the translucent keyboard, the machine hummed to life. A faint blue light flickered, and the encrypted data began to unravel.

The screen in front of them lit up, displaying a stream of decrypted intel. Fury leaned forward, his fingers steepled under his chin, while Coulson studied the data with a practiced, almost mechanical focus.

"Looks like our friends in the military have been busy," Fury muttered, his tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "Still chasing their little science experiments."

Coulson straightened, his gaze flicking to Fury. "Test subjects?"

"Yeah," Fury said, narrowing his gaze at the screen. "On the run. They're good at making problems, not so much at solving them."

Coulson's lips tightened, but he didn't comment further. Instead, he shifted gears. "Has Natasha had anything on her docket recently? Haven't seen her name come up in the last few ops reports."

Fury smirked faintly. "You think I'd let her sit around knitting sweaters? No, but she's been flying under the radar. Might be time to put her back in the game."

"Any particular assignment?" Coulson asked, folding his arms.

Fury tapped the screen, bringing up a map with a pinpoint glowing over South America. "Brazil. Send her down there to keep an eye on this... situation."

Coulson's brow furrowed. "You think she's the right call for this?"

"She's always the right call," Fury said with a sharp glance. "And you've got work of your own. I need an update on update on the vampire situation."

Coulson nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "On it, sir."

Without another word, Coulson turned and exited the office, his footsteps fading as Fury swiveled his chair to face the projection. The screen flickered, lines of intel flashing like ghosts of plans yet to be set in motion.

"Let's see what you're hiding," Fury muttered to himself.

...

Porto Verde, Brazil

Bruce Banner's eyes snapped open, sweat pooling on the thin pillow beneath his head. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum, a rapid cadence that had become too familiar. The echoes of his nightmare clung to him—Betty's voice, her scream, and the overwhelming helplessness of losing her all over again.

He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, his feet finding the cool floor. The cramped apartment was barely lit, save for the faint glow of neon signs filtering through the shutters. A timer on the table caught his eye—158 days. Almost six months since his last transformation.

Bruce let out a slow, measured breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. Meditation had become his lifeline, the only thing standing between him and the monster that lived beneath his skin.

The factory whistle echoed through the neighborhood, snapping him out of his thoughts. He grabbed his worn satchel and stepped out into the humid morning air. The streets of Porto Verde bustled with life, vendors shouting, music blaring, and children darting between stalls. It was chaotic, but it was the kind of chaos where Bruce could disappear—a man among thousands.

The day began with the monotony Bruce had come to appreciate. After a simple breakfast, he slipped into his work clothes and headed to the beverage factory. Its aging machines were as temperamental as they were vital, constantly breaking down and requiring hands-on repairs.

Bruce worked quietly and efficiently, blending into the background. He was just another anonymous laborer in a sea of workers, quite a contrast to the life he'd left behind. It was safer this way.

Mid-morning, the familiar buzz of malfunctioning machinery interrupted his thoughts. A controller panel sparked, and the fault was evident even from a distance.

"Hey, gringo!" the foreman yelled. "Your expertise is needed!"

He looked up to see the foreman gesturing toward a sparking control panel. Grabbing a wrench and a pair of insulated gloves, while motioning to cut the power, Bruce climbed up. His mind focused on the problem, hands steady despite the hiss of electricity. It was simple work, grounding wires and tightening bolts, he only needed to tighten a few connections with the precision of someone who'd done this a dozen times before.

"Should be good for now," Bruce said after the power was restored. "But you're running on borrowed time. That unit's fried."

The foreman laughed. "Tell me something I don't know. The whole factory's fried." He clapped Bruce on the back. "You're wasting your talent here," the foreman said as Bruce descended. "You've got an engineer's brain, not a laborer's hands."

Bruce only offered a noncommittal smile, his focus already elsewhere. Then it happened. A slip of the wrench, a jagged edge, and a sharp sting in his finger. Blood welled up, dripping onto the floor. His heart rate spiked.

"No," Bruce muttered under his breath.

"Stop the line!" Bruce shouted, his voice sharper than intended.

The workers around him froze as Bruce grabbed a cloth to stanch the bleeding. He quickly cleaned the area with industrial alcohol, his heart thundering in his chest. His blood couldn't be allowed to spread.

The incident left him rattled, but his thoughts soon shifted to his latest correspondence with "Mr. Blue." That night, Back in his cramped apartment, Bruce opened the package containing a new serum compound. Using the rare flowers he'd painstakingly sourced, he prepared the test. He wasn't just chasing a cure—he was chasing a future. One where Betty didn't look at him with fear.

The results were disheartening. The serum's effects were fleeting—mere seconds, the gamma levels in his blood unmoved. Still, Bruce wasn't ready to quit. He packaged a fresh blood sample and sent it off, hoping Mr. Blue might uncover the breakthrough they so desperately needed.

...

Arlington, Virginia

The Pentagon's halls echoed with urgency as General Thaddeus Ross strode into his office. A young officer was already waiting, a folder in her hands.

"Sir, you'll want to see this," she said, placing the folder on his desk.

Ross opened it, his eyes scanning the report.

"Gamma poisoning," the officer said. "Milwaukee," she continued. "Some poor guy drank a soda and wound up in the ER. The soda bottle was contaminated with traces of gamma radiation. The consumer's symptoms were... unique."

Ross's jaw tightened. "Where was it bottled?"

She flipped a page. "Porto Verde, Brazil."

A grim smile spread across Ross's face. He stood, flicking his cigar into an ashtray. "We've got him. Get the team ready."

...

Florida, Fort Johnson

Under the cover of night, a transport plane roared to life. Ross's elite strike team, outfitted with the best tech money could buy, moved with practiced precision. Among them was a wiry man with a faint smirk and sharp eyes—Emil Blonsky, a soldier who thrived on the thrill of the hunt.

"This guy really that dangerous?" Blonsky asked, breaking the silence.

Ross glanced at him, the lines on his face hardening. "He's not a guy," he said. "He's a weapon. And when we find him, we neutralize him."

The plane climbed into the sky, bound for Brazil.

...

S.H.I.E.L.D. Director's Office.

Nick Fury received the mission report from General Ross. First, he was angry. Then, he put on a smile, though no one could tell what he was really thinking.

"Romanoff. Have you located the target?" Fury contacted his top agent.

A smooth, sultry voice came through his earpiece: "The target's easy to spot. The problem is, how do I get close to him? How do I make him trust me?"

"I trust your abilities."

"Easy for you to say, you're the boss."

The call ended. Fury stared at the stream of information flashing across his screen. "Trouble's brewing," he muttered, rubbing his aching forehead.

...

Porto Verde, Brazil – Rooftops and Shadows

Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff crouched in the shadows of a nearby rooftop, her sharp eyes scanning the chaotic streets below. The infamous Black Widow had tracked Bruce Banner for weeks, her mission clear: gather intelligence on the fugitive scientist whose experiments with gamma radiation had turned him into a weapon of mass destruction.

She tensed as she spotted the unmistakable green of military fatigues moving through the streets below. The soldiers were careful and methodical, their movements suggesting they were closing in on Banner's location. When she caught a glimpse of General Ross stepping out of a transport vehicle, her chest tightened.

This isn't just a routine military operation, Natasha thought grimly. Ross's presence confirmed the stakes. But she hadn't been ordered to interfere, and Natasha knew better than to act on her own initiative in such a delicate situation.

She tapped her comms unit. "Hey, boss," she whispered.

Nick Fury's voice came through, calm but firm. "What's the situation?"

Natasha hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Ross is here, and his men are moving in on the target. I can't make a move without blowing our cover. Do you want me to engage?"

There was a pause before Fury responded, his voice edged with frustration. "Withdraw. We can't risk exposure, not with Ross in the picture."

"Understood," Natasha replied. She remained still for a moment, watching the operation unfold below her. Her gaze lingered on a figure sprinting down an alleyway—Banner, already on the run.

She murmured softly, "See you next time, big guy," before slipping into the shadows and vanishing into the night.

...

Bruce's Apartment – Moments Before

Bruce Banner lay on his bed, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. The events of the day had been draining, but a nagging sense of unease kept him from fully relaxing. Then, without warning, a familiar and terrifying sensation gripped him.

His veins pulsed visibly under his skin, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. "This feeling… it's dangerous," he muttered, pushing himself upright. The last time he'd felt this, Ross's soldiers had been breathing down his neck.

Instincts honed by years of running kicked in. He quickly threw together a crude dummy using his bedclothes, stuffing the pillow to mimic a human shape. Grabbing a length of rope, he tied it securely to the faucet by the window.

With practiced efficiency, he packed his backpack, pulling on a cap to obscure his features. He slipped the bag onto his shoulders, grabbed the rope, and began his descent.

"Prepare for action!" Emil Blonsky commanded, his voice low but commanding. The soldiers around him moved with practiced precision, placing small charges along the edges of the doorframe.

Blonsky stepped back as the explosives detonated with a deafening boom. Smoke filled the hallway as the soldiers rushed in, weapons drawn. Blonsky followed, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He fired several shots at the figure in the bed without hesitation, but something about the lack of reaction set off alarm bells in his mind.

He approached cautiously, his boots crunching on scattered debris. Pulling back the blanket, he found the crude dummy Bruce had left behind. His jaw tightened in frustration.

"The target is fleeing," Blonsky barked into his communicator, his eyes darting around the room. The sound of barking drew his attention to the corner, where a small dog yapped furiously at the intruders.

The incessant noise grated on his nerves. Without a second thought, he raised his weapon and fired a tranquilizer dart. The dog fell silent, slumping to the floor. Blonsky frowned, turning his attention to the open window and the rope dangling outside.

"He's on the move."

Bruce clung to the rope, sweat slicking his palms as he made his descent. His muscles burned from the strain, but he knew he couldn't stop. He glanced down, spotting a balcony below. Just a little farther.

But exhaustion betrayed him. His grip faltered, and he slipped, the rope tearing through his fingers. With a grunt of effort, he twisted his body mid-fall, landing hard on the balcony below. Pain jolted through him, but he pushed himself up, gritting his teeth.

"Keep moving," he muttered to himself. He couldn't afford to stop.

Above him, Blonsky leaned out of the window, scanning the rooftops and alleys below. "We've got him pinned," he growled into his radio. The hunt was far from over.

"Ah!" A startled cry escaped Martina, the woman who had been changing clothes in her modest apartment. The thud of Bruce Banner's fall onto her balcony had left her momentarily paralyzed. Panic clouded her face as she grabbed her shirt, holding it tightly against her chest.

Bruce scrambled to his feet, his hands raised in a placating gesture. He waved frantically, signaling for her to remain silent. His wide eyes pleaded for her cooperation as he brought a finger to his lips.

Martina's initial panic gave way to recognition. She had seen Bruce around the neighborhood—a quiet man who kept to himself but was always polite. Her confusion mingled with unease, but she nodded, her trembling hands lowering slightly.

Bruce took the opportunity to duck into the room. He knelt in front of her, whispering urgently, "Please, don't say a word. They're after me."

Outside, Blonsky leaned out of the window above, his sharp gaze landing on the swaying rope. "He's on the ground. He's already escaped from the upper floors!" His voice carried through the night, followed by the clatter of boots as his team rushed to follow his lead.

"Hurry, hurry!" The cacophony of orders and pounding feet faded as the soldiers moved farther away.

Bruce cautiously peeked out from the balcony, ensuring the coast was clear. He exhaled slowly, relief flooding his tense body. Turning back to Martina, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "Thank you," he whispered before bolting for the door.

The Streets of Porto Verde – Pursuit in the Chaos

Banner tugged the hood of his jacket low over his face as he ducked into an alley, blending into the bustling streets. His mind raced with plans—where to hide, how to evade, and, above all, how to keep the Hulk from surfacing.

"Hey! Watch out!"

The screech of tires brought him to a halt as a motorcycle skidded to a stop inches from him. The rider cursed, shaking a fist, but Bruce barely heard him. His eyes locked on the soldiers emerging from a nearby alley, weapons raised.

"There he is! Fast! Quick, quick!" Blonsky's shout cut through the chaos as he pushed through the panicked crowd, eyes locked on Banner.

Realizing he'd been spotted, Bruce broke into a sprint. The crowd around him became a blur as he wove through market stalls and darted down narrow alleys.

"Don't let him get away!" General Ross barked into his radio from a command vehicle, his voice carrying the weight of years of frustration and determination.

"Clear the crowd!" Blonsky yelled. Shots fired into the air, sending civilians screaming and scattering in all directions.

Bruce's heart pounded as he led the chase through a rooftop soccer field, his feet pounding against the rusted metal as soldiers followed. He vaulted over laundry lines, slipped through alleyways, and finally leaped down to the crowded streets below.

The Turning Point

His chest heaving, Bruce rounded a corner too quickly and slammed into a street vendor's cart piled high with soda crates. Bottles crashed to the ground, spraying glass and liquid everywhere. The loud commotion drew the attention of more soldiers.

Bruce felt it—the Hulk clawing at the edges of his mind. He glanced at the heart monitor on his wrist. 175 bpm. He closed his eyes, forcing deep, steady breaths. The reading dropped to 115 bpm, and he bolted again, knowing he couldn't afford to lose control.

A black van screeched to a halt ahead of him. The door slid open, and General Ross stepped out, his face hard and unyielding.

Bruce clenched his fists, his anger threatening to bubble over. But he refused to meet Ross's gaze. Without a word, he turned on his heel and ran the other way.

Boom!

Banner collided with a group of men he had bumped into earlier that morning, their faces contorted with anger. They recognized him instantly.

"You again?" one of them growled.

"Not now," Bruce muttered, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

But they weren't in the mood to forgive. The first swung a punch, but Bruce dodged with ease, countering with a swift jab to the man's ribs. The others lunged at him, but Bruce incapacitated them one by one with calculated blows, his movements efficient and unrelenting.

He didn't wait for them to recover. Grabbing his backpack, he bolted down the street once more, the sound of shouting soldiers and civilians blending into a chaotic symphony behind him.

"Where is he?" General Ross's voice crackled through the soldiers' earpieces, sharp and impatient.

Blonsky spotted Banner slipping into a narrow alley, his movements fast but deliberate. "Heading south, moving quick," he reported, his gaze flicking to a mob of angry locals still chasing after Banner, shouting and waving like lunatics. He waved them off with a sharp motion. "Ignore them. Focus on the mission."

The squad pressed forward, weapons raised, boots clapping against uneven cobblestones. Dim streetlights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced along the winding alley walls.

"Eyes on him?" Blonsky barked into his radio.

Before anyone could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them. Blonsky spun around, weapon ready, just as a figure dropped from above, landing squarely in their midst.

They straightened, their face hidden beneath the shadow of a red hoodie dress. Black, heeled boots tapped against the stones as they shifted their weight. Their posture oozed confidence, unshaken by the rifles pointed their way.

Blonsky didn't lower his gun. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

The figure didn't answer. Instead, their arm jerked upward, and Blonsky's rifle wrenched free, skidding across the ground.

"She's disarming us!" one of the soldiers shouted, his voice cracking with alarm.

Two more soldiers lifted their weapons, but the figure's hand slashed through the air. The rifles tore away, clattering to the cobblestones like discarded toys.

"Sidearms!" Blonsky yelled, his frustration boiling over.

The soldiers scrambled for pistols, but the figure stepped forward. A low hum filled the alley as their fingers flexed. Sparks jumped from the weapons before the metal crumpled in their holsters, useless.

"She's taking out everything!" another soldier yelled, panic rising.

Blonsky gritted his teeth. "Regroup! Close in!"

The team shifted, closing the circle, but the figure moved intently. They grabbed one soldier's vest, using his momentum to slam him against the wall. Another lunged, only to be taken out by a sharp spin and a brutal kick to the knee.

"Ross," Blonsky hissed into his earpiece, his voice strained. "We've got a hostile—unknown. Banner's slipping away in the chaos."

He rallied the remaining soldiers, trying to keep them together. The figure exhaled slowly, their hands glowing faintly as sparks flickered to life, climbing their fingers before erupting into arcs of electricity.

One soldier reached for his radio, but the figure's hands shot downward. A deafening crack split the night as a blast of lightning surged through the alley. Radios shorted, goggles flashed with static, and every piece of tech fizzled out, leaving the air thick with the acrid smell of burnt electronics.

"EMP!" Blonsky shouted, but the warning was pointless. The squad was blind, deaf, and weaponless.

Behind a stack of crates, Bruce Banner crouched low, his breath coming fast. He couldn't see the figure in the red hoodie, but he didn't need to. Whoever they were, they'd just handed him an escape route.

Keeping low, he slipped out of the alley and into the labyrinth of Porto Verde's side streets, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he ran. The sounds of chaos faded with every turn. For now, he was free.

On a nearby rooftop, Natasha Romanoff adjusted her binoculars, her gaze locked on the figure in red. She clicked her communicator. "Director Fury, this is Romanoff. I've got an update."

"Go ahead," Fury's voice came through, calm and direct.

"She's here in Porto Verde. Took out Ross's team with an EMP. Banner's gone, and she's not with him—or anyone else from the looks of it."

Fury's reply was immediate. "Keep eyes on her. Do not engage."

Natasha lowered the binoculars, still watching as the figure melted into the shadows. A faint smile touched her lips. "We'll cross paths again," she murmured before turning away, vanishing into the night.