Logan Howlett's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The folder led Logan north into the snow. He tracked the green creature for three days, following broken trees and huge prints. On the fourth night he found it. The giant sat by a frozen stream, breathing hard. As Logan watched, the green skin drained away. The muscles shrank. A small man was left shivering in torn purple shorts. This was Bruce Banner. This was the monster Department H wanted dead. Logan drew his claws, then stopped. The man was crying into his hands. Logan had killed enough soldiers to fill a graveyard. He would not gut a weeping man in the dark. "You're the one they sent," Banner said. He did not look up. "They always send someone." "Not tonight," Logan said. Then the smell hit him. Rot and old blood. From the treeline came the wendigo, tall and white, teeth like knives. It had followed Banner's trail too. It lunged for the small man in the snow. Logan slammed into it. Claws met bone. The thing raked his chest and threw him into a tree. Behind him he heard the change begin. Banner's fear woke the other guy. Green muscle swelled and split the man's skin into a giant. They fought the wendigo together. Logan carved its legs while the Hulk crushed its ribs. The creature shrieked and died in the red snow. For one moment Logan laughed. He stood beside the giant, both of them alive, the monster dead. He felt something close to peace. Then the Hulk turned on him. The giant's fist caught Logan's jaw and sent him rolling. There was no reason left in those eyes, only rage. Logan got up. He had no choice now. They fought through the night and into the next day, across the frozen stream and up the slope. Logan healed as fast as the Hulk hit. Neither could win. As the second night came, Logan made his move. He leapt onto the giant's back and drove all six claws deep between the shoulders. The Hulk roared and threw himself backward into the mountain wall. Stone cracked. Snow broke loose above them and came down like a white flood. The avalanche buried them both. The Hulk clawed out first and vanished into the dark. Logan dug himself free a minute later, coughing snow, bleeding from a dozen wounds that were already closing. He sat in the wreck of the mountain and understood something. Department H had not saved him. They had handed him another war. They wanted him to murder a sick man who wept by a stream. He would not do it. He thought of the metal in his bones, of the wife they erased, of the man who put those claws in him. Victor Creed was still out there. That was the only fight left that meant something. Logan stood, faced south, and started walking. He was done being their assassin. He would hunt Creed. Then, maybe, he would be at peace.