The Seventh Avenger

Chapter 4: Hulk Out

          EDITED: 23/10/2022

          WORD COUNT: 7886

          The combined sounds of an angry voice cursing and shouting in a thick, Portuguese dialect and multiple feet clanging against metal echoing throughout the bottle factory that I had come to earlier in the day suggests that Bruce isn't the only person that is waiting for me here. It's unlikely that the workers would be here – it's far too late in the evening for that – and considering that I had left the soldiers a bruised and slightly bloody unconscious mess back out in the street, I doubt that they were responsible for all the ruckus either. That left this mystery third party unknown, and I tread carefully and as silently as a cat as I make my way through the front entrance, alert and ready for anything.

          There's no sign of Bruce anywhere in the front entrance of the factory, but the continued bangs and shouts flowing from deeper into the factory informs me that he is definitely here. The closer I stalk towards the sounds, the easier it is for me to discern that there are at least three separate voices calling out to one another, and a curse falls from my lips once I recognise who they belong to; the three men that had attacked Bruce back in the square. They must have recovered quickly and followed after Bruce while I had been busy dealing with the persistent soldiers.

          And, judging from the anger dripping from their tones, they were more than ready for round two.

          Damn it.

          I click my fingers, feeling the familiar buzz of electricity sparking between my fingers, before I hurry along, my step quicker than before.

          Much like the entrance to the factory, the locker room was also deserted with no sign of Bruce or the men anywhere. I weave past lockers and small benches as I make my way to the door on the other side of the room, believing it would lead me to more of the factory. But when I reach down to twist the handle and pull the door back, it doesn't budge. Huffing in frustration, I step back from the door before lifting my leg and snapping it forward with as much power as necessary. It flies open with a creak and a bang, bits of wood flying everywhere as the now broken handle swings back and forth, hanging on to the ruined door by a thread.

          Barely giving it a second thought as I lower my foot to the ground, I push forward and find myself standing in what appears to be the first floor of the working space. Machines of all shapes and sizes fill most of the ground base with some of them filled to the brim with rows of empty glass bottles, waiting to be filled with fizzy drinks. Metal walkways hang in the air above my head and there is almost a metallic taste in the air, the stench of oil and rust overpowering my senses as I breathe evenly through my nose. The lights flicker and threaten to give out completely, but are bright enough to help guide me through the machines without accidentally walking straight into one.

          My pace is slow and my steps are cautious, the electricity still humming and cracking in my hands as I walk, adding an extra charge to the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My feet barely make a sound against the concrete, making it impossible to miss the sound of a gleeful laugh and a loud crash from somewhere above me. Halting in my tracks, I crane my head back and am met with the sight of the men from the square taunting and jeering at a frantic Bruce who is curled up in a small ball on the ground between them.

            As if sensing my gaze, the former scientist turns his head down towards me and my stomach lurches at the sight of a green tint on his face. Only then do I register the frantic beeping of his watch, and my own heartbeat quickens to match it as I realise what it is that's about to happen.

          "Bruce!"

          "Lydia, get out of here! I can't – !"

          He cuts off with a groan, the small bald man delivering a hard blow to Bruce's stomach with his foot once and then again, causing Bruce to curl even more protectively on himself.