This space is a fun little place where I am simply writing comic book short stories that I think are fun. No, I don't own the characters....thats why you only find them here in this unmonetized space.
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HULK vs. WOLVERINE – A MARVEL SHORT
By: Greg Rivet
The forest was quiet. Too quiet for his liking. Logan’s boots pressed softly into the damp earth, each step swallowed by pine-choked silence. He carried no trail lamp, no weapon in his hands. He didn’t need either. The night was an old companion, and his senses carved it open like a blade.
The musk of deer lingered faintly. The wet tang of a fox, older tracks, a day or more. Beneath it all threaded something wrong through the weave of the woods: the acrid stink of gun oil, sweat, and cheap tobacco. Poachers.
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He crouched low, fingertips brushing the faint impression of a wolf’s paw, then another, smaller and younger. The trail cut away into the shadows, broken by the heavy boot prints of men who did not belong. The memory of last week came back sharp: the crack of rifles, the cries silenced too quickly, the reek of blood staining the soil. Wolves, slaughtered for sport. The thought burned deeper than any bullet wound. These forests were meant to be free and untamed. To see them violated stirred something in his chest older than words.
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He lifted his head, nostrils flaring. The air shifted. A new sound reached him, not the clumsy crunch of men with rifles, not the night chorus of owls or the rustle of elk. Something else. A faint whine, steady and growing. The pitch of engines, too smooth for these woods.
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Logan straightened, shoulders tight, eyes narrowing toward the horizon where treetops trembled with a glow of unnatural light.
“Stark,” he muttered, gravel scraping stone in his throat.
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Of course it would be him. Always nosing where he did not belong, always thinking his machines could pierce any veil. Logan hated the way the polished tin suit could trace him, hated the way Stark’s technology locked onto the adamantium in his bones like a beacon. Privacy was a word Stark never seemed to respect.
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The trees shimmered gold, shadows bending as the glow swelled brighter. Logan stood still, jaw set, waiting for the inevitable flash of red and gold breaking through the canopy.
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The armored titan descended in a wash of heat and light. Trees bent back under the thrust of repulsors. The earth trembled beneath Logan’s boots, pine needles swirling upward. When the blast settled, Iron Man stood framed in the glow, metal gleaming crimson and gold against the dark.
The faceplate hissed, split, and folded away.
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Tony Stark stared at him without a quip. His face was stone, jaw rough with stubble, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Fresh cuts marked his cheek and temple, one still wet with blood. Whatever had brought him here had stripped away the wit, leaving only the man.
Logan opened his mouth, ready to growl about trespass and being hunted like a dog in his own woods, but the words dried up. He knew that look. Stark did not wear it unless the world had already bled for it.
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If Stark was here for him, then things had gone bad in a way that meant only one kind of fight.
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“You gonna spit it out,” Logan rasped, his voice low, “or we stand here sniffin’ each other all night?”
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Stark exhaled, reluctant. A panel clicked open at his side, and from within he drew something small and fragile in his gauntleted hand.
A pair of round glasses. Broken. Bloodstained.
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Logan didn’t have to look. He smelled it before the lenses caught the moonlight. Fur. Intellect. Gentleness buried beneath iron. Hank McCoy. Beast.
But another trace clung to the steel, deeper and angrier, a scent that turned his blood molten.
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Logan’s claws snapped free with a metallic snarl. SNIKKT. His teeth were bared before the name left his lips.
“Banner.”
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Stark flinched, then lowered his head. His shoulders sagged beneath the armor as though the suit itself had grown too heavy.
“We did all we could,” he said, voice flat. “Bruce isn’t Bruce anymore. Not the man you knew.”
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The forest held its breath as Logan’s silence pressed harder than any accusation.
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“Beast and Rogue went out ahead,” Stark continued. “They found him first. Or he found them. I followed as soon as I could, but it wasn’t the Hulk we’ve fought before. It was worse. He didn’t recognize them. Didn’t even see them.”
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Logan’s claws trembled in the moonlight, not from fear, but from a quiet rage settling into his bones.
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“They fought like hell,” Stark said. His eyes darted away, replaying it in his mind. “Tried to talk him down, hold him back. Nothing worked. He crushed Hank like a ragdoll. I was there. Rogue was there. We tried to tear him off. Hulk laughed. He laughed while doing it.”
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A growl vibrated in Logan’s chest, deep and guttural.
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“Rogue was furious. She pulled her glove. She was going to touch him, drain him, take it all. She would have done it. Would have died for it. And for a second…” Stark’s voice cracked. “…for a second I almost let her. But I knew. Whatever’s inside him now would have burned her out. Killed her.”
Logan’s eyes fixed on the dark horizon, already seeing the green storm moving there, waiting.
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The night trembled with his rage.
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It started low, a rumble in his chest that grew until it filled the clearing. The trees recoiled. Logan’s head dropped, eyes shut tight, his breath hot and ragged. The animal inside clawed to be free. A snarl tore from his throat, primal and unchained, echoing across the forest like a wolf mourning its dead.
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Stark didn’t move. He only watched, and what he saw in Logan froze him.
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That fury. That raw, unshaped violence. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even animal. It was something older, darker, threaded into the marrow of the world itself. The same thing Stark had seen behind Hulk’s eyes.
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And then he knew. He knew why he had tracked the adamantium. Why he had broken his own code. Why he had come to the one man he swore never to call.
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Because if anyone could stand in the path of that green storm and not break, it was this man. The Wolverine.
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“Logan,” Stark said, stripped of bravado, stripped to grief. “We need the Wolverine. We need the monster.”
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The clearing went still, save for the hum of his arc reactor.
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“Bruce is gone,” Stark continued. “Only you can make this right. And God help me, I hate asking you, but I need you to kill Hulk.”
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Logan stood in silence, chest heaving. He saw the weight on Stark’s face. Bruce Banner wasn’t just another Avenger. He was Stark’s friend, his brother-in-arms. To hear Tony say those words meant there truly was no man left in the monster.
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Logan’s claws retracted with a metallic shnnkt. He nodded once, slow and solemn.
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“Take me to him.”
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The Quinjet carved the night sky like a blade, its engines whispering thunder through the clouds. Below, the world was ruin. A ragged scar stretched for miles: trees uprooted, soil churned into black craters, houses shredded like toys. Fires smoldered in the wreckage, painting the ground with streaks of hellish orange. At the center of it all moved one figure.
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Hulk.
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Logan leaned forward, fists braced against the glass. The monster was a green storm, each swing of his arm hurling rubble, each roar shaking the bones of the world.
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“Cargo door,” Logan said, his voice flat and unshaken.
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Black Widow’s hands hovered over the controls, pale against the console. She turned her head just enough for him to see the tremor in her jaw, the glint of a tear she refused to let fall. She had loved Bruce once. Still did, beneath the scars. Logan did not need heightened senses to know it.
“I know, hon,” he murmured, his words carrying weight instead of comfort.
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She swallowed hard and pressed the switch. The Quinjet’s belly yawned open, the night air rushing in, tearing warmth and silence away.
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Logan pulled the straps of his chute across his chest, the buckles clinking against his claws as though mocking him. He didn’t wait for words. He nodded once, to her, to Stark standing behind, maybe even to the ghosts of the ones Hulk had already claimed. Then he stepped off the edge.
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The world became wind and fury. Air screamed past him, tearing at his face. His claws clenched tight, his eyes locked on the monster below. Hulk was tearing at a half-toppled overpass, hurling steel beams like kindling, his roars shaking concrete to dust.
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Logan fell, unflinching, closer and closer. At the last possible breath, he yanked the cord. The chute cracked open, jerking him upward and slowing his dive.
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And Hulk stopped.
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The beast turned, head lifting, eyes burning like twin furnaces. He looked up at the figure drifting down through the night. Their gazes locked, predator to predator.
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Logan drew in a long breath, jaw tight, claws twitching with anticipation. “This is the last time we’re gonna dance, Hulky,” he muttered to himself, quiet enough for only the wind to hear. “Don’t disappoint me.”
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As if the words carried down to him, Hulk roared. The sound split the sky, fury made audible.
And Logan fell into it.
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The earth shook beneath the monster’s steps. Hulk pounded his chest, fists like boulders slamming into ribs, each roar shredding the night. His eyes burned molten green, savage and empty of reason. Every word Stark had spoken came alive before Logan’s eyes. This was worse than the Hulk he had fought before.
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Logan knew it in his bones. He was about to take a first-class trip through hell.
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Still, he rolled his shoulders, set his stance low, claws singing into the night. He crooked one hand toward the beast.
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“C’mon then. Let’s dance.”
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Hulk bellowed and lunged, arms wide, hands outstretched to crush. Logan waited until the last instant, then dove low, sliding across the churned dirt. His claws tore into green flesh as he passed between the monster’s legs, carving hamstrings thick as tree trunks.
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The cuts opened, bleeding, but shallow. Not enough. Logan twisted, cursing under his breath.
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The giant’s foot rose. Came back. Crashed forward.
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The kick was a freight train. All air left Logan’s body in a single brutal gasp as he rocketed backward, his frame skipping across dirt and stone until a tree stopped him with a crack like thunder.
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He slumped to the ground, claws digging into soil, lungs refusing to draw breath. Pain lit his nerves white-hot. For a heartbeat he stayed down, wheezing, trying to pull his thoughts together.
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But the green monster gave him no mercy.
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Hulk roared and charged, tearing up the ground, fury etched into every line of his face.
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Logan staggered to his feet, pressing his elbow to the shattered tree. His claws pointed outward, steady, bracing for what was coming. He wasn’t swinging this time. He was testing momentum against steel.
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The monster thundered closer.
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At the last instant, Logan slid aside, leaving his claws stretched toward the charging beast.
Impact.
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The collision tore through him. Shockwaves screamed down his arm, every bone feeling like it might shatter. The force ripped his body forward, claws sinking deep, lodging into flesh. Hulk’s momentum shattered the tree behind Logan in a splintering explosion, his massive form skidding to a stop.
Logan dangled there, suspended by one arm, claws buried to the hilt in Hulk’s chest.
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The beast stumbled, bellowing, falling to one knee. His great hands scrabbled at the wound, eyes wide in rage and disbelief. With a snarl, Hulk clamped down on Logan and ripped him free.
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Every nerve in Logan’s body lit with agony. He knew the next part was going to be worse.
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But he also knew something else.
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He could cut deeper than he thought.
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Hulk’s fingers clamped around Logan like steel, lifting him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. The world tilted as he was hauled upward, face to face with the monster.
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For a heartbeat, the forest went silent. Only the sound of Hulk’s breath filled the night, hot and rancid, washing over him in waves.
Then the beast spoke.
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“Weak little Wolverine. No match for HULK!”
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The voice was guttural thunder, each word cracking like a mountain splitting in two. Logan’s blood chilled, not from fear but from the shock that there was still speech left in this creature.
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Before he could react, Hulk tossed him aside.
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Logan smashed into the dirt, rolling hard, but when he stopped he realized the throw had been lighter than it should have been. Calculated. Hulk wanted him alive. He wanted the fight.
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The monster turned, teeth bared in a grin that was anything but human.
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Logan staggered upright, dusting earth from his jeans, the corner of his mouth curling in a snarl. His tank top hung in tatters, split by claws and impact. With one savage yank, he tore it free, baring a chest thick with corded muscle and scar. His body was still built for war despite years of ruin.
He gnashed his claws together, the metallic shhhkkt ringing through the clearing like a challenge.
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“Thought you didn’t remember anyone?” Logan growled, eyes narrowing.
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Hulk’s grin widened. It wasn’t Banner’s smile. It was a predator’s, wicked and hungry.
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“Your little Beast met a true force of nature,” Hulk rumbled, voice vibrating through the ground. “And now you are next.”
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Logan’s heart thundered. Adrenaline and rage collided inside him. His muscles coiled tight, every nerve sharpened to a knife’s edge.
He locked eyes with the monster, breath steadying into a soldier’s calm.
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“Okay, bub,” Logan said, voice low, feral. “You killed Banner. I see that now.”
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His claws flashed upward, dripping with intent.
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“But I kill Hulk.”
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The ground quaked when they charged. Hulk thundered forward like a mountain on legs, each step splintering earth. Logan sprinted low, claws gleaming, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat. When they collided, the world roared with them.
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Hulk’s fist fell like a meteor. Logan braced, crossing both arms to catch the strike with his claws. The impact sent shockwaves down his frame, pulverizing muscle, rupturing tissue, driving him waist-deep into the earth. His skeleton held unyielding, but everything wrapped around it shredded under the force.
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Through clenched teeth dripping blood, Logan slashed upward, carving a ragged wound across Hulk’s forearm. Green blood sprayed, sizzling in the dirt. Hulk bellowed in fury.
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“You bleed, big man,” Logan spat, smearing blood from his lips with the back of his hand. “Guess you ain’t untouchable after all.”
Hulk’s answer was violence. His massive hand engulfed Logan’s skull, crushing flesh and cartilage as he slammed him into the ground, then up, then down again. Each strike created craters, dirt and stone exploding outward. Logan’s body was ruined, skin peeled away, organs ruptured, but his frame made him the perfect ragdoll.
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Still, he laughed, low and savage. “That all you got, bub?”
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Hulk snarled and swung him like a weapon, smashing him through tree after tree until trunks splintered like matchsticks. Logan hit the ground in a heap, his chest caved, his face half-flayed from scraping stone.
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The green giant advanced slow and deliberate, dragging his fists across the dirt. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted Wolverine alive for every ounce of pain.
Logan pushed to one knee, wheezing blood. Then he exploded forward, feral rage taking hold. His claws slashed in a frenzy, tearing open Hulk’s chest, scoring thick muscle, raking across his face to leave a deep gash. For the first time, Hulk staggered, roaring not only with anger but with pain.
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Then Hulk’s backhand came. The blow was like a collapsing building. Logan cartwheeled across the battlefield, his body tearing apart, organs liquefying, but his adamantium skeleton held his shape. He skidded into a boulder and lay still in a pool of steaming blood.
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Silence.
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Then—movement.
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Logan rose. His face was a horror: one cheek stripped to the bone, a hollow eye socket bleeding, half his nose torn away. The adamantium skull beneath gleamed in the moonlight. He paced on bent legs, claws dragging against stone, shoulders hunched like an animal.
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A growl rumbled deep in his chest, primal and unending.
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Like a tiger in a cage about to lunge.
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Logan’s boots scraped the torn earth as he closed in again, chest heaving, claws steady. His face was a ruin, skin peeled away to expose gleaming adamantium, but already pink flesh was crawling back over the bone. The bleeding slowed. His breath evened. Every moment Hulk wasn’t tearing him apart, the monster inside was stitching him back together.
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Across from him, the Hulk bellowed and pounded his chest, fists crashing like drums of war. He charged.
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Logan did not meet him head on. Not this time. He ducked and slid beneath the monster’s swing, claws raking along Hulk’s flank. The cut was not deep enough to finish, but it was placed with precision, slicing through softer tissue beneath the ribs. Hulk roared in pain, spinning to backhand Logan into the dirt.
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The impact turned Logan’s insides to soup. He felt organs rupture, muscle tear. As Hulk lumbered closer, Logan’s body surged with a sickening series of pops and snaps. His ribs realigned. His lungs reinflated. His heart steadied. By the time Hulk’s shadow fell across him, Wolverine was already pushing himself upright.
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“Ya fight like hell, big man,” Logan spat, blood bubbling down his chin. “But hell’s where I live.”
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Hulk roared and stomped, the ground shaking. Logan rolled clear, his shoulder dislocating on impact with a stone. He gritted his teeth, twisted the arm, and felt the joint snap back into place. Tissue swelled, then shrank as it healed. He lunged forward, claws stabbing into that same bloody strip at Hulk’s side.
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Another roar, this one edged with pain. Green blood sprayed hot across Logan’s chest, soaking his jeans. Hulk swatted him away, sending him spinning through a pine. Logan tumbled, bones screaming, but within seconds bruises faded, cuts sealed, muscle reknit. He rose again, feral eyes locked on his prey.
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Each time Hulk struck him down, Wolverine came back stronger, wounds closing while Hulk’s stayed open. Slash after slash, Logan carved at the same place, deliberate and methodical. The beast was too drunk on rage to notice the pattern.
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The titan’s flank was now a mess of lacerations, blood slicking his ribs. Hulk’s breathing grew heavier. His movements slowed, if only a fraction.
Logan circled, shoulders hunched, claws twitching. His face had nearly healed, scars striping his cheek and jaw. He grinned at the sight of Hulk’s labored breaths.
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“Not so invincible after all, huh, big guy?” he growled.
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And then he crept closer, the predator in him scenting the kill.
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Logan’s claws sank deep into Hulk’s flank with a brutal shrrkkk, carving open the wounded tissue. Green blood sprayed hot across his chest, splattering the dirt. Hulk roared so loud the treeline shook, his glowing eyes blazing like twin furnaces.
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Logan froze for half a breath. The slow fight was over. Hulk wasn’t just raging anymore. He knew.
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“Aw, hell,” Logan muttered, crouching low as Hulk’s entire frame flexed with fresh wrath.
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The beast thundered forward, fists smashing the ground where Logan had been a second earlier. Dirt erupted in geysers. Trees fell like grass. Logan darted in and out, slashing, moving, never still long enough to be pinned. His claws found that same flank again and again, tearing deeper, widening the wound until Hulk’s side was a pulsing mess.
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Every strike drew a howl more frenzied than the last. Then Logan saw it, something almost human beneath the rage. Fear. The monster’s massive hand clutched protectively at his side, green blood seeping between his fingers. Hulk hunched, shoulders curling inward, guarding the place Logan had targeted.
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“You feel that, don’t ya?” Logan snarled, circling, chest rising and falling with animal intensity. “That’s me, bub. Workin’ my way in. Closer to your ticker every time.”
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Hulk’s eyes flared brighter, his jaw snapping with fury, but his movements betrayed him. Defensive. Desperate. He swung in wide arcs, not just to crush but to shield. Each block gave Logan another opening.
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When Hulk guarded his ribs, Logan slashed his thigh. When Hulk covered the wound with both hands, Logan leapt and carved deep into his shoulder. Each strike forced the titan to move his arms, forced him to choose. Each choice cost him another cut.
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But when Hulk hit, it was apocalyptic. One fist caught Logan across the jaw, tearing flesh from bone and hurling him into the dirt. His healing factor fought to rebuild him even as Hulk lunged again, a knee like a boulder crushing Logan’s spine into the earth. Agony flared, but tissues knit. Logan twisted and plunged his claws once more into that cursed flank.
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Hulk howled, staggering back, cradling his side. His chest rose and fell in frantic bursts.
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Logan stood, snarling, blood streaming down his face but muscles coiling, claws twitching. He saw it plain now. The monster was cornered. Not just furious. Not just wild. For the first time in all their countless clashes, Logan saw fear in Hulk’s face.
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The world shook with Hulk’s fury. His glow burned brighter, his veins stood out like cords of molten iron. The air itself felt heavy, trembling with his every breath. Logan knew before the first step landed that this was not the same Hulk he had fought before. This was something worse, something beyond.
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“Aw, hell,” Logan muttered, setting his stance. “Guess I just poked the devil.”
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Hulk was on him in an instant. Fists rained down, each blow cratering the ground, rattling Wolverine’s unbreakable frame beneath layers of shredded flesh. Logan clawed with savage desperation, gouging deep lines across Hulk’s chest. The green titan only laughed, laughed through the blood and the wounds. The sound chilled Logan to the core.
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“Claw, little man. Tear all you want. Hulk does not break.”
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Logan snarled and slashed harder, clawing feverishly at Hulk’s torso, his rage and desperation feeding each stroke. Flesh tore. Blood spilled. But Hulk did not falter. His laughter grew louder, rolling through the battlefield like thunder.
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Then Hulk’s massive hands came together with a deafening clap.
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The shockwave hit Logan point-blank, his body crushed between palms that moved faster than sound. Blood exploded from every pore as he dropped limp, organs shredded, muscle pulp. He hit the ground unconscious, a broken doll.
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Hulk’s stomp came next. Once. Twice. Again. The earth cracked, Wolverine’s body driven deeper with every strike. His healing factor fought, but the damage was relentless and merciless.
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At last, Hulk stopped. Panting, chest heaving, he looked down at the ruin of his foe. Then he turned away, clutching his wounded side with one massive hand. For the first time in the fight, his steps were slow. Weakened. His rage, for the moment, was sated.
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Silence.
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Logan lay there, broken beyond imagining. His mind drifted into the black. He almost welcomed it. Finally, the monster could rest. Finally, the fight could end.
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Then light. A flash in the void. A face.
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Jean.
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Her hair like fire. Her eyes searing into him.
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“Logan. Do not leave us. Not yet.”
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His chest twitched, a whisper of breath escaping broken lungs.
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“Jean. I couldn’t do it,” he rasped into the dark.
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The black came again. Heavy. Comforting. But then her face again, full of fire and sorrow.
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“Logan. I know you are tired. So tired. But you do not get to leave yet. Do you understand?”
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Anger in her voice. Sadness. Determination.
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Then silence.
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A cough. Wet and ragged. Another. His fingers twitched, then clenched into fists. Flesh began to surge back over bone, knitting muscle, stitching sinew. His chest rose and fell with violent, choking gasps.
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He opened his eyes, and this time there was no face, no vision. Only a voice inside, colder and older than Jean’s warmth.
“Show him the real monster you have kept caged.”
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A pressure swelled within him. His veins burned, his blood boiled. The healing factor roared into overdrive, flesh knitting in seconds, his strength surging, the animal inside clawing free.
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Logan stood, trembling with the effort to contain it, then threw his arms wide and howled.
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It was not a man’s scream. It was not even an animal’s. It was something older, primal, a cry that split the sky and froze the blood of anything that heard it.
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The cage inside him shattered.
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The Wolverine was gone.
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Only the monster remained.
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With a single explosive leap, he tore free from the crater Hulk had beaten him into, landing with claws dripping and eyes glowing feral.
“HULK!” he roared, his voice splitting the air like thunder.
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Logan moved like lightning wrapped in fury. No thought. No hesitation. Only instinct. The pure, feral drive of the beast unchained. He hit Hulk with a force that cracked the ground beneath them, claws flashing in a storm of blood and rage.
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The green titan swung back, each blow enough to level a mountain, but Logan no longer felt pain. His flesh ripped, shredded, reformed, healed, over and over, his body keeping pace with his wrath. The claws carved red trails across Hulk’s flesh, tearing skin, ripping muscle. For every strike the monster landed, Logan answered with ten. Relentless. Merciless. A barrage so savage even the Hulk faltered under its weight.
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At last, the unthinkable happened. Hulk fell.
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The earth shook as the giant hit his back, breath thundering, ribs caving beneath the storm of blows. Wolverine was on him instantly, standing atop his massive chest, claws dripping, eyes wild with the reflection of a beast that no longer knew restraint.
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Hulk raised his hands, trying to block, trying to fight back, but Logan’s fury never slowed. Flesh tore. Bone cracked. Blood poured. For the first time in memory, Hulk could not keep up. His body trembled beneath the smaller man’s savagery, each wound another scar carved into the myth of his invincibility.
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Finally, the green titan stilled. His chest heaved, his massive hands fell to his sides, one still clutching the wound in his flank. Through ragged breaths, his voice came low.
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“No fight left,” Hulk muttered, pain etched into every syllable. His face, battered and bruised, twisted in something almost like defeat. “Hulk loses.”
The giant moved his hand away from his side, blood rushing free. With a faint nod, he acknowledged the man who had bested him.
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Logan froze, chest rising and falling with the breath of a predator standing over a kill. He hung his head, claws dripping scarlet, his mind torn between man and monster. In Hulk’s eyes he saw it, an animal asking for release, like a wounded bear too far gone to fight another day.
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Logan gave a slow nod back. Respect. Understanding. Finality.
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Then, with a roar, he leapt from Hulk’s chest to the gaping wound in the flank. He drove his claws down with every ounce of strength in his body, his scream echoing like thunder across the battlefield.
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The steel sank deep. He felt ribs give way, muscle split. His arm buried itself halfway to the elbow, claws punching through flesh and into the massive heart beneath. Hulk growled once, a deep rumble that shook the ground. Then silence.
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The monster’s chest stopped rising.
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For a moment the world was still. The impossible had happened. The immortal titan was no more.
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Logan pulled his claws free, his arm slick with blood, and threw his head back in a savage, primal howl. The sound carried into the night, a claim of victory, a cry of dominance.
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He had done it. He had slain the strongest monster on earth. And in that moment, the crown of the beast belonged to him.
The Wolverine.
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Snarling, chest heaving, he sniffed the air, catching scents only he could know. Without another glance at the body, he rushed off into the darkness of the woods. The night swallowed him whole, but the echoes of his roar lingered.
The world had a new monster now.
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THE WINTER SOLIDER vs. GHOST RIDER – A MARVEL SHORT
By: Greg Rivet
The Winter Soldier moved through the trees like a shadow. The paramilitary compound lay ahead, ringed in fences, its perimeter lit with floodlights that cut through the snow like blades. Guards patrolled with heavy rifles, their breath pluming in the frozen air.
The Soldier’s mask was pulled tight, his rifle slung across his back. Tonight was not just murder. Tonight was collection. Hydra had sent him not only to erase but to harvest.
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He scaled the fence without a sound. The first guard fell with a silent twist of the knife, body lowered gently into the snow. The Soldier stripped the radio, pocketed the ID badge, and pressed forward.
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The courtyard erupted with noise when the alarm tripped. His rifle came down smooth, three quick bursts dropping three men before their weapons cleared their shoulders. He moved inside, bullets sparking against the steel of his arm, his body weaving through fire like water.
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In the operations room, screens glowed with encrypted chatter. The men inside barely had time to reach for their weapons. The Winter Soldier cut them down with precision, two shots, two bodies falling over their consoles.
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He holstered his weapon and set to work. His gloved hands moved fast over the keyboards, dragging drives, seizing data. Hydra’s mission wasn’t just to kill this faction—it was to find out why it had become a threat.
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And the answers surfaced fast.
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Encrypted logs. Shipment manifests. Digital breadcrumbs. This group wasn’t just mercenaries. They had stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. technology. Files confirmed breaches in Hydra’s older databanks—tech capable of slicing into even their deepest vaults. Hydra feared their own secrets spilling into daylight, feared exposure after decades in the shadows.
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The Soldier downloaded it all, slotting the drive into his vest.
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Then he froze.
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On the desk lay a paper dossier, unlike the digital files. He flipped it open, scanning fast. A face stared back. Square jaw. Blue eyes. A shield painted with red, white, and blue.
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Steve Rogers.
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His grip tightened, the paper crumpling. For a flicker of a second, something shifted behind his eyes. A name rose unbidden, ghostlike. James.
The Winter Soldier staggered back a step, chest tightening. But just as quickly the fog returned, Hydra’s conditioning pressing down like iron. He dropped the folder into the flames consuming the room. The photo of Rogers curled, blackened, and vanished in ash.
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The Soldier turned and walked out.
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Behind him, fire swallowed the compound.
​
But the flames did not behave. They grew hotter, wilder, burning too fast, too large. The Soldier paused, sensing it immediately. This was not chemical accelerant. This was alive.
​
The roar came then, deep and primal. Chains rattled, thunder shook the night. From the inferno, a motorcycle screamed into the open, its wheels molten, fire streaming behind it like a comet’s tail.
​
And then came the rider.
​
Leather blackened by flame. Skull crowned in fire. Sockets burning with judgment.
​
The Ghost Rider had come.
​
This was not vengeance for James Barnes, the man Hydra had once broken. That man’s guilt was muted, tempered by a will to atone. This was vengeance for the Winter Soldier—the butcher who had returned tonight without hesitation, without mercy.
​
The Rider stepped from the bike, chains spilling fire across the snow. His voice split the night like iron grinding on stone.
​
“James Buchanan Barnes. The guilty live again. And now, they burn.”
​
The Soldier raised his rifle. Steady. Cold.
​
“I’m not your prisoner,” he muttered.
​
The Rider tilted his skull, sockets flaring. “No. You are the crime.”
​
The snow hissed under the fire as vengeance advanced.
One Week Earlier. Russia.
​
Snow fell heavy across the border town, muting the sound of distant gunfire. The streets were empty, the air thick with smoke that clung to the crumbling buildings. Red Guardian stood at the heart of the square, shield in hand, his breath rising like steam. His beard was crusted with frost, but his eyes burned with fury.
​
Beside him stood James Buchanan Barnes, rifle raised, gaze cold. The two had fought together before, men broken by different masters but tempered by the same fire. They were brothers of war, if nothing else.
​
“Hydra remnants,” Guardian spat in Russian, scanning the rooftops. “Always hiding in shadows, like rats. Tonight, we finish them.”
​
Bucky gave a single nod, his finger tight on the trigger. “Then let’s get it done.”
​
The first shot cracked through the silence.
​
Hydra soldiers erupted from the alleys, black uniforms melting from the snowdrift shadows. Gunfire thundered. Guardian’s shield snapped up, deflecting the storm as he charged, his bulk slamming into the front line. Bones cracked under his swings, metal screeched against his shield. He fought with the rage of a man carrying his country’s pride on his back.
​
Bucky was ice beside that fire. He moved with surgical calm, each round placed in the space between heartbeats. A man rose with a rocket launcher—Bucky dropped him with a single shot to the throat. Another came at Guardian’s flank—Bucky’s knife caught him beneath the chin, jerking his body down into the snow.
​
It was violence in harmony. A brutal dance. Fire and ice.
​
Hydra expected resistance. They hadn’t expected two legends.
​
But this wasn’t a simple raid. It was bait.
​
The ground shook as smoke grenades detonated in the square. Vision vanished in a choking haze. Guardian shouted, voice booming: “Stay close!”
“I’m here,” Bucky answered, his rifle cutting down two shadows in the fog. He coughed, waving his metal arm to clear the smoke. The shapes kept coming, blurred phantoms in the haze. His shots were precise. Controlled. Until the crack of a concussion charge split the night.
​
The blast threw them apart. Guardian slammed into the side of a ruined truck, his shield rattling from his grasp. He staggered to his knees, ears ringing. He called out again.
​
“James!”
​
“I’m here!” Bucky’s voice answered, strained but steady.
​
Guardian surged to his feet, shield raised. Shapes closed in, dozens this time. Too many. He plowed into them, shield smashing faces, boots breaking ribs. He fought with desperation now, forcing his way toward where he’d heard Bucky’s voice.
​
Another blast. White light swallowed the square. Guardian raised his shield too late.
​
When the smoke cleared, Hydra corpses littered the ground. Guardian stood alone, chest heaving, his shield rim dented and soaked with blood. Around him, the haze lifted slow. He staggered forward, searching for his comrade.
​
“Barnes!”
​
No answer.
​
Only silence.
​
And then he saw it: drag marks in the snow, leading away from the fight. Boots too heavy to be Hydra’s, too precise to be panicked. His heart sank.
They hadn’t come to kill Barnes. They had come to take him back.
​
Guardian’s fists clenched. He slammed his shield into the ground, the echo carrying into the night. He had fought like hell, but it hadn’t been enough. Hydra had reclaimed their soldier.
The wind howled across the burning compound, carrying smoke and sparks through the skeletal treeline. The Winter Soldier’s rifle snapped up first, muzzle flare biting the dark. Rounds tore through the fire, sparking off bone, ricocheting uselessly into the dirt. Ghost Rider did not flinch.
​
The Rider’s chain uncoiled, a serpent of steel and flame. It lashed forward with a crack that split the night, striking the ground where The Winter Soldier had stood a half-second earlier. Snow and stone exploded as he rolled aside, his body low, his mind already mapping terrain.
​
Flat ground. No cover. Bad. The firelight worked against him, silhouette painted on every surface. He scanned quick: broken fencing on the north edge, rusted vehicles half-sunk in snow, shadows where the light didn’t quite reach. There. A place to draw him. A place to even the odds.
​
But the Rider wasn’t going to give him time.
​
The skull turned, sockets blazing, and fire poured from its jaws like a scream. The gout of flame seared across the space, chasing The Winter Soldier as he dove behind a shattered wall. Heat scorched the metal of his arm, paint blistering, flesh beneath reddening. He hissed through clenched teeth but forced his focus to stay sharp.
​
Test. Gauge. Measure. Hydra had drilled it into him: never engage blind, never throw everything until you know the target. His mind broke the Rider down like any other threat. Fire projection. Supernatural resilience. Close-range weapon. Range uncertain. Durability untested.
​
He popped from cover and fired again, rounds striking through the Rider’s ribs. Bone splintered under impact, fragments scattering like chips of marble. For a heartbeat, the Soldier thought he saw an opening. Then the shards sizzled, burned, and knitted back into place.
​
“Noted,” The Winter Soldier muttered, ducking as the chain whistled past, slicing a concrete pillar in half.
​
The Rider advanced relentless, fire spilling from his frame, every step burning the snow to steam. His voice was thunder wrapped in gravel. “You cannot run from damnation.”
​
The Soldier didn’t answer. He slipped into shadow, moving fast and low, his instincts screaming at him to keep the fight mobile. Open ground favored the Rider. Fire favored the Rider. If he could pull him toward the husks of the rusted vehicles, maybe, just maybe, he could funnel the attack, find leverage, turn the inferno into a knife fight.
​
The chain lashed again. He caught it on his metal arm, the impact rattling through his frame. Sparks showered as steel screamed against steel. The Soldier twisted, redirecting the arc, forcing the Rider’s momentum wide.
​
A calculated move. A test.
​
The Rider did not stagger. He simply pulled the chain back with inhuman strength, fire snapping across the sky like lightning. His sockets locked on the Soldier, judgment unblinking.
The Winter Soldier’s heart hammered once, a muscle remembering fear. He shoved it down, breathing cold. Precision. Calm. Plan the ground. Draw him in. Survive the fire long enough to cut its source.
​
The dance had begun.
Flashback. The Hydra Chamber.
​
The cell smelled of oil and iron. Frost clung to the walls where machines hissed cold vapor into the air. Barnes was dragged in by two troopers, boots scraping against steel. His head was still ringing from the concussion charge in the Russian square, his chest tight from the gas they’d used to drop him.
They strapped him down. Leather buckles cinched across his wrists and ankles, a harness clamped against his chest. His metal arm was locked into a brace, immobile. Electrodes snaked down from the ceiling, suctioned against his temples, his neck, the base of his skull.
​
A figure in a white coat leaned close, spectacles glinting. His voice was calm, accented, smooth with the confidence of someone who had done this too many times.
​
“James Barnes is strong. Loyal. But he is not who we need.”
​
Barnes lifted his head, teeth gritted. “I am not your weapon.”
​
The doctor smiled faintly, then reached for a small black case. Inside, red-tinted cards bore words etched in Cyrillic. Trigger words. Barnes’ breath caught. He knew them. He hated them.
​
The first word fell like a hammer. “Seventeen.”
​
Pain shot through his skull. His body jerked against the restraints, teeth clamping hard enough to draw blood.
​
“Dawn.”
​
He snarled through clenched teeth, shaking his head, fighting to drown it out. Don’t listen. Don’t let them in.
​
“Furnace.”
​
Barnes screamed, the sound raw, human, desperate. His muscles trembled with resistance, veins standing out on his neck. He fought the fog pressing in, clawed for the memories Hydra could never quite erase: Steve’s hand on his shoulder, Brooklyn before the war, the laughter of men who called him brother.
​
For a moment, he saw it. For a moment, he was James.
​
But the words kept coming.
​
“Soldier.”
“Longing.”
“Return.”
​
Each one drove deeper, tearing at the fragile walls of memory. His head sagged against the harness, his eyes dulling, breath shallow. The struggle slowed. The resistance drained.
​
The doctor leaned close, whispering the final command. “Winter.”
​
Silence.
​
When Barnes lifted his head again, the light was gone from his eyes.
​
The Winter Soldier looked back.
​
The doctor nodded, satisfied. “Your mission. A paramilitary faction with stolen technology. They are tied to enemies of Hydra, and perhaps worse… to S.H.I.E.L.D. You will erase them. You will take what they have stolen. And you will not fail.”
​
The Soldier’s voice was flat, cold, stripped of humanity.
​
“Give me a weapon.”
Present.
​
The paramilitary compound collapsed in fire, walls buckling and towers sinking into molten ruin. The Winter Soldier moved through the blaze like a phantom, every dodge measured, every roll sharp. His rifle spat controlled bursts that sparked uselessly against burning bone. Ghost Rider pressed forward without pause, chains cracking the air, hellfire pouring in torrents that turned snow to steam.
​
The Winter Soldier slipped behind the jagged wreck of a wall as a fireblast scorched past, his breath catching in the smoke. Heat clawed at his skin, but his mind stayed cold, cataloguing every move, every angle.
​
The irony settled on him, grim and sharp as a blade. The soldier born of cold and Winter, in the crosshairs of the man born of hellfire and vengeance.
That thought curved into a plan. If fire was the Rider’s weapon, then Winter would answer with its own domain. Deep inside the Hydra lair, the cryo wing still slept beneath ice and steel. Vaults cold enough to freeze marrow. If he could lure the inferno into those frozen halls, maybe he could choke the flames.
​
His eyes darted to the treeline. His motorcycle stood there, black frame crusted with frost, exactly where he had stashed it to reach this compound. The engine waited in silence, loyal and practical, the Soldier’s one tether to speed and escape.
​
Then his gaze shifted.
​
The Rider’s chopper loomed in the firelight. A beast of iron and fury, every inch of it alive. Flames lashed from its wheels like hungry tendrils, snapping and writhing, begging to be unleashed. Its frame growled with heat, pipes glowing red, the machine almost roaring in anticipation as though only Ghost Rider’s will held it back from devouring the night.
​
Bucky’s lips curled in a thin, grim smirk. “Could be interesting.”
​
The Rider’s skull turned, sockets flaring brighter. He saw. He knew.
​
And he laughed.
​
It was a laugh that cracked the air like stone breaking under pressure, jagged and thunderous, echoing through the blaze. It was not human. It was hell’s acceptance of the duel.
​
The Soldier bolted for his bike, boots hammering across snow and ash. Ghost Rider swung his chain overhead, fire streaming in arcs, his laughter rolling like thunder through the firestorm.
​
Engines would roar. Wheels would burn.
​
The mounted war was about to begin.
The Winter Soldier vaulted onto his bike, boots grinding against the snow-packed ground. The seat groaned under his weight as he jammed the key, twisting hard. The engine screamed awake, the whine rising into a guttural growl. He revved it once, then again, the sound tearing through the burning compound like a challenge hurled across a battlefield.
​
His eyes slid over his shoulder.
​
Ghost Rider swung one leg over his chopper. The machine shuddered like a living beast as he mounted it, pipes glowing red, flames along the wheels lashing outward like hungry tendrils. He reared it back, almost stalling, fire shooting skyward, the roar of its revving engine sounding like war cries bellowed from hell’s throat. The ground shook beneath it, flames intensifying, daring the Soldier to hold his ground.
​
Bucky’s jaw clenched as he twisted the throttle. His bike spun with a hard skid, wheels biting deep into the ash and ice until it came to face the Rider.
They locked eyes across the burning yard.
​
No words. Just the thunder of engines, revving, daring, answering one another in an ancient language of predators.
Then—release.
​
Both machines screamed forward, tires ripping earth, engines howling like beasts. They raced at each other down the ruined courtyard like duelists in a medieval joust, each carrying death in their hands.
​
Ghost Rider’s chain spun overhead, a blazing wheel of fire trailing sparks like meteors. The Winter Soldier gripped his handlebars tight, his knife clenched between his teeth, eyes cold and unblinking.
​
Impact was inevitable.
​
At the last heartbeat, the Rider’s chain lashed down. Bucky ducked low, the fire searing above his head. In the same motion he bit down on the hilt, wrenched the knife into his hand, and drove the blade up.
​
Steel punched into the Rider’s eye socket. Flame erupted in a violent flash, the skull jerking back.
​
The Ghost Rider screamed.
​
The sound was not human. It tore the night apart, a shriek of agony and rage that rattled windows still clinging to broken frames.
​
They passed in a storm of fire and steel, bikes nearly colliding as they tore past one another.
​
The Soldier skidded his bike, peeking back over his shoulder. Ghost Rider staggered in his seat, clawing at the blade buried in his skull. For a flicker of a moment, the light in the socket dimmed, flickered, and then guttered out.
​
But slowly, it returned.
​
The Rider reached up, wrenched the knife free, flame spilling in streams as the wound sealed. His socket reignited, brighter and hotter, eyes blazing with rage. He hurled the blade aside, the steel glowing red before it vanished into ash.
​
The Soldier’s lips tightened. He turned back, twisted the accelerator, and shot down the long desolate road.
​
The Hydra lair was the objective. Not this joust. Not tonight.
​
He leaned forward, the wind ripping across his face, engine screaming as the compound fire receded behind him. For a breath, the night was empty but for the echo of his engine.
​
Then the horizon glowed.
​
A faint burn at first. Then brighter. Then brighter still, like a second sun rising on the black road.
​
Hellfire.
​
The Winter Soldier glanced in his mirror. The glow grew, closing distance fast. The Rider was coming.
​
Bucky twisted the throttle to the limit, steel arm gripping the bars tight. He was an expert rider, one of the best Hydra had ever trained. But the machine chasing him belonged to something else. Something that could teach him a thousand tricks of the road and still have more to give.
The chase had begun.
The forest swallowed them, the night carved open by the screaming of two engines. Trees whipped by in streaks, snow spitting from tires as the road twisted and dipped. Sparks sprayed with every impact as steel clashed against chain, every near-miss a heartbeat from disaster.
​
The Winter Soldier hunched low over his bike, every motion sharp, precise. He let the machine flow beneath him, knees skimming the ground as he leaned into corners, the tires whining at their limit. He rode not with brute strength, but with cold calculation, sport performance against the brute force of hell itself.
​
Behind him, Ghost Rider’s chopper thundered like a beast unchained. It tore through bends with raw defiance, the frame groaning, flames lashing outward in hunger. The chain snapped again and again, each strike sparking off asphalt or biting into tree trunks as it narrowly missed the Soldier’s back.
​
For a moment, Bucky’s skill gave him ground. He slid through an S-turn, his body hugging the machine so tight it looked like flesh and metal had fused. The Rider’s swing came wide, missing by inches, flame lighting the curve behind him.
​
But then the balance shifted.
​
The Rider began to press harder. Each lash of the chain came closer, each swing forcing the Soldier’s bike to jerk out of rhythm. Tires skidded, balance threatened, the machine groaning under punishment. Twice the chain struck the frame, once nearly wrenching the bike sideways.
​
The Soldier gnawed down, teeth grinding, refusing to yield. Every time the bike wanted to topple, he forced it upright, steel arm crushing the handlebars, body wrenching the weight back into control. He was thrown again and again into chaos, but he always clawed his way back.
​
Still, the fire was closing.
​
The Soldier leaned harder into the corners, knees grazing pavement, sparks spitting from his boot as he bent the bike to impossible angles. The forest roared past him, bends flowing like a river, speed his only shield. Ghost Rider’s brute force could not match this sleek precision. Not here. Not yet.
Then the chain found him.
​
It lashed across his shoulder, searing through cloth, biting into flesh. The heat was agony, raw and immediate, fire eating into muscle. The blow wrenched him sideways, his bike fishtailing across the road. For a breath, he was sure it was over.
​
He caught himself with a violent twist, bike screaming in protest as it righted. But the smell of his own burning flesh clung to him, and something inside cracked.
​
Helplessness.
​
It slid into him like a knife. A feeling he was not built to know. Not trained to allow.
​
And in that flash, a face burned in his mind. Steve Rogers, the photo he had seen in the dossier. Blue eyes, a hand on his shoulder. A brother.
James Barnes tried to rise.
​
The Soldier’s grip faltered. His eyes flickered. A whisper of who he once was almost broke through.
​
Then, the words. Those cursed, iron-forged words. The litany Hydra had drilled into marrow. They clawed through his skull, choking the man beneath.
The smirk was gone. His jaw set hard. His scowl returned, cold as Siberian ice.
​
The Winter Soldier rode on, shoulder smoking, eyes fixed on the road. The Hydra lair loomed in the distance. He would not stop.
The Winter Soldier pushed harder, bike shrieking through the final stretch of winding forest road. His shoulder burned where the chain had bitten deep, pain gnawing at every movement, but he rode on, jaw clenched, eyes locked forward.
​
And then the heat grew unbearable.
​
Ghost Rider had pulled beside him, their wheels matching speed in perfect synchronicity. The Rider’s skull turned, staring directly into Bucky’s face. Not a glance. Not a flicker. Unbroken, endless. The sockets burned brighter with each second, fire spilling in trails from the skull. The Rider never looked at the road. He didn’t need to. The beast beneath him obeyed without hesitation, the flaming chopper devouring asphalt with monstrous control.
​
The Soldier’s jaw tightened. Sweat rolled down his temple, the heat from the Rider’s machine blistering the leather of his jacket. His grip never wavered, but the air itself was suffocating.
​
That was when the semi appeared.
​
Its headlights burst from the curve ahead, massive frame roaring as it bore down the road. A fuel trailer dragged behind it, rattling, swaying, its bulk dominating both lanes.
​
The driver fought the wheel, panic etched across his face as the truck began to skid. The trailer slewed sideways, a sweeping metal leviathan blocking the road.
​
Bucky’s eyes widened. He was seconds from being flattened.
​
The Rider did not move. Did not blink. Still staring into him, sockets burning, as though daring him to make the first move.
“Fine,” Bucky hissed.
​
At the last second, he rose onto the seat of his motorcycle. Legs tensed like coiled springs. Then he launched.
​
Momentum carried him upward, flipping forward through the air. For a heartbeat he was above the world, above the burning stare of the Rider, above the death rolling toward them. The trailer slammed into his bike beneath him, metal screeching against asphalt.
​
Then came the explosion.
​
A fireball erupted, ripping open the road in a wave of heat and thunder. The world turned white and orange as the trailer became an inferno, flames devouring everything in reach.
​
Bucky’s body hit the pavement beyond it, hard. He tucked, rolled, braced with every ounce of training, but still skidded, still flipped, asphalt grinding into flesh. When he finally stopped, he lay gasping, shoulders heaving, smoke curling from his jacket.
​
His mind screamed at him. Run. Get up and run.
​
Instead, he sat there, staring at the wall of fire.
​
“He’s dead,” one part of him whispered. “Nobody walks from that.”
​
Another voice cut in, sharp, cruel. “No, you fool. He’s going to walk right on out of that inferno, looking cool as hell, and you’re going to be sitting here on your ass like an idiot.”
​
The Soldier dragged himself to one knee, breath rattling, muscles screaming. He knew the voice was right. He should run. He should be gone.
But he couldn’t stop staring.
​
The fire split.
​
From the heart of the inferno, Ghost Rider emerged. Step by step, chains dragging in both hands, flames curling higher with each movement. His skull burned brighter than ever, every step deliberate, methodical.
​
The Winter Soldier exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh.
​
“Told you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s cool as fuck.”
​
The Winter Soldier staggered to his feet, shaking soot from his jacket. He didn’t need to see more. He turned and sprinted, leaving the road behind, plunging into the black timberline.
​
The forest swallowed him whole.
​
Roots tore at his boots. Branches clawed his coat. But he knew these woods. Hydra had drilled every inch of this terrain into his head. The paths were etched in memory. The forest was his ally. He could cut through to the lair far faster than the roads would ever allow.
​
But he was not alone.
​
The Rider’s firelight flickered behind him, weaving between the trees. Every step the Soldier took in silence, every breath pressed into shadows, the Rider answered with flame and fury. Chains tore through trunks. Fire rolled across the undergrowth. The forest groaned under the assault of hell itself.
Still, the Soldier struck back. From the dark he lunged, rifle barking into sockets, knife slashing into bone before vanishing again into cover. He moved like a wraith, a killer born of war and winter.
​
But the Rider endured.
​
And the Soldier was wounded. His shoulder screamed with every movement, the burn from the chain still raw. The crash had rattled him deep, balance imperfect, reflexes dulled. Where he landed blows, the Rider absorbed them. Where the Rider struck, the Soldier bled.
​
It was an uneven duel.
​
At last, the trees broke. A small clearing opened, moonlight spilling across snow. Floodlights snapped on, snapping the shadows apart.
The Soldier froze.
​
In the center of the clearing stood a squat concrete shack, featureless but for a single steel door. The hidden entrance to the Hydra lair. The way in. The trap he needed.
​
Then the red dots appeared.
​
From the treeline, crimson beams lit up the Rider’s chest, his skull, his frame. Dozens of them, piercing the dark. Hydra snipers.
​
The forest thundered as they opened fire. Bullets cut the air, tearing into bone and flame. Ghost Rider reeled back, then roared.
​
The sound was not a cry but a death knell. A scream that made the ground tremble, that made the trees bend, a primal blast of rage and damnation.
Then he vanished into motion.
​
Fire streaked into the woods, a burning phantom carving between trunks. Snipers screamed as chains ripped them from branches, rifles snapped in half, flames swallowed them alive. To the Soldier, he was nothing but a streak of orange light, moving too fast, too violently to track.
The chaos was perfect.
​
Bucky broke for the door.
​
He slammed to a stop at the keypad, shoulder heaving, fingers flying across the worn keys. The code was etched in his mind, Hydra’s leash still tight around his skull. The lock clicked. The heavy bolt drew back.
​
He hesitated. Not because he doubted, but because this moment mattered. Ghost Rider needed to see. He needed to follow. Only then could the lair’s cold depths even the fight.
​
The forest went silent.
​
Flames flickered in the clearing. Snipers were gone.
​
Ghost Rider stood again, sockets blazing, chains dripping fire. He turned slowly, his gaze fixing on the Soldier at the door.
​
His voice rumbled low, a growl of thunder and grave soil.
​
“Vengeance is coming for you.”
​
Then he charged.
​
The Soldier keyed the final command. The door groaned open. He slipped inside, boots hammering down the faintly lit stairwell, shadows swallowing him as the door clanged shut behind.
​
The cold air below rose to meet him. The lair had awakened.
Frost clung to the chamber walls, ice crystals forming over Hydra’s ancient machines. Mist pooled across the floor, cold fog spilling from vents and swirling around steel pods that lined the room like silent coffins. Each was rimmed with frost, their surfaces faintly glowing with runes carved into the metal.
​
The Winter Soldier slowed his steps, breath pluming in the frozen air. His shoulder throbbed, every muscle burned, but his eyes stayed sharp. This was the only chance he had. The only place where winter might conquer hellfire.
​
He glanced at one of the pods as he passed, fingers brushing across the glass. He remembered the history Hydra had drilled into him. These weren’t ordinary cryogenic cells. Zola’s masterpiece, built around a relic torn from Jotunheim by the Red Skull himself. Power older than Midgard, refined through Hydra science. Not simply cold, but something else. A mystical preservation that froze body and soul, instant, flawless, unbreakable.
If anything could snuff out hellfire, this was it.
​
The roar came next.
​
Ghost Rider burst into the chamber, chains blazing, flames lighting the frost in violent orange. Fire met ice in a blinding clash, steam filling the air, the walls groaning under the strain. The Rider’s sockets locked on him, chains whipping to life, a predator in full fury.
​
The Soldier drew his knife, metal arm flexing. There was no running. Not anymore.
​
They collided.
​
Chains lashed out like serpents, each strike cracking against the Soldier’s guard. He ducked, rolled, slashed with his blade, sparks spraying as steel bit into bone. A flaming chain wrapped around his torso, crushing ribs, searing into flesh. He snarled, ripping it free with his metal arm, driving a knee into the Rider’s chest.
​
The chamber shook with every blow. The Soldier’s strikes were precise, methodical, aimed to cripple. Ghost Rider’s were brutal, unrelenting, designed to break. The Soldier struck from low, from high, twisting into throws, turning the Rider’s chains against him. He fought like a man possessed, not for victory, but for survival.
​
And he was losing.
​
Blood slicked his side where the chain had torn deep. His burned shoulder screamed with every movement. His breath came ragged, knife trembling in his grip. The Rider loomed above him, chains spinning for the final strike.
​
But the Soldier had prepared.
​
One of the pods stood open behind him, frost spilling from its dark maw. He had triggered it mid-battle, feigning weakness, dragging the fight toward it. The final trap.
​
The Rider raised his chains high, sockets blazing brighter than ever. The Soldier sagged against the floor, eyes closing, his body slumping as if broken.
The Rider lunged.
​
The Soldier’s eyes snapped open. He roared, surging forward with a last burst of fury. His metal arm clamped around the Rider’s throat, grip unyielding. He twisted, drove with all his weight, and thrust the spirit of vengeance backward into the open pod.
​
Ghost Rider slammed into the chamber, chains thrashing wildly. He laughed, fire spilling from his jaws, a booming sound that shook the room.
​
“This is your answer? A box?”
​
The unbreakable glass slid down with a hiss, sealing tight. The laughter died.
​
The Rider’s sockets widened as the runes across the pod glowed bright, frost flooding inward. Fire hissed, sputtered, then dimmed. He thrashed against the glass, chains cracking furiously, but the mystical cold bit deep, wrapping around bone and flame alike.
​
The fire guttered.
​
The sockets dulled.
​
The skull turned pale, blue frost crawling across it. The Rider froze, his body locked in a prison no heat could melt. The pod sealed him utterly, silence reclaiming the chamber.
​
The Winter Soldier sagged against the glass, sliding down until he sat on the frozen floor. His chest heaved, breath clouding in the frigid air. His body screamed with pain, every wound burning, but for the first time that night, his mind whispered relief.
​
It was over.
​
He closed his eyes, head leaning back against the pod.
​
Then the voice came.
​
“Well done.”
​
Low, sinister, curling through the cold like smoke. A slow clap followed, echoing across the chamber, each strike sharp, mocking, deliberate.
The Soldier’s eyes snapped open. He turned his head toward the sound, every muscle in his battered body tensing once more.
The real nightmare had just begun.
​
From the shadows at the far end of the cryo wing, a figure emerged.
​
Red-skinned, tall, and regal, with wild crimson hair cascading like fire. A cloak of deep scarlet draped from his shoulders, gleaming as though woven from living flame. He stood proudly, arms crossed, his eyes burning with an unnatural light.
​
The Winter Soldier’s breath caught. Instinct pulled him to his feet, knife flashing into his hand.
​
The man smiled faintly. With a casual wave of his hand, the knife tore from Bucky’s grasp and clattered against the far wall.
​
“Ever the Soldier, Mr. Barnes,” the stranger said, unfolding his arms, voice rich and commanding.
​
Bucky froze, his eyes narrowed. He had seen demons tonight, seen monsters. But this one was different. Regal. Powerful. Not fire and fury like Ghost Rider, but something older, colder. The presence of a predator who had no need to chase its prey.
​
“I am Mephisto.”
​
He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, mocking in its elegance. “And I have a question to ask you.”
​
The Soldier stood tall, unflinching, though his pulse raced. He gave a slight nod, wordless, as if to say: Proceed.
​
Mephisto smiled. He raised his hand again, fingers curling.
​
Agony exploded in Bucky’s skull. A shockwave of raw energy ripped through his brain like lightning, tearing through the Hydra conditioning, shattering the iron bars around his mind. He gasped, staggered—then froze.
​
And just like that… the Winter Soldier was gone.
​
James Buchanan Barnes stood in his place.
​
Mephisto’s smile widened, his voice smooth, almost kind. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”
​
Bucky stumbled a half-step, shaking his head as memories poured into him. The killings. The chase. The fight. All of it washed through him, but not as his own hand. As if recalled from a nightmare. A dream where he had been locked behind his own eyes.
​
He looked up at the red-skinned devil. His jaw set. “That’s your question?”
​
Mephisto’s laughter thundered across the chamber, echoing off the frozen pods. He clapped his hands once in delight. “Ha! Very good. Okay—two questions then.”
​
Bucky waited, every muscle taut, eyes sharp with suspicion.
​
“Right to it then,” Mephisto said, his grin revealing sharp white teeth. “How would you like to never have to be under their control again?”
The words cut through Bucky like a blade.
​
He stiffened, taken aback despite himself. “What do you mean? You can stop them?”
​
Mephisto’s grin turned serpentine. “In a fashion. I can make it so you can. And they will never control you… again.”
​
The word hung heavy in the frozen air. His gaze bored into Bucky’s soul, daring him to deny it.
​
Bucky’s breath slowed. His eyes dropped, then rose again, steel-hard with honesty. “I don’t trust you. But I would give anything to end their control.”
“Done!” Mephisto roared.
​
The chamber shook. Red smoke exploded outward, filling the cryo wing. The air stank of sulfur, clinging to the tongue, choking the lungs. Shadows twisted. Whispers rose, faint but insistent, seeping into the silence from somewhere close.
​
Behind Bucky.
​
His eyes turned toward the sound. A faint hiss, like voices murmuring through walls. The whispers grew louder, crawling across the frost.
Then the glow began.
​
From inside the sealed pod where Ghost Rider had been entombed, flames began to flicker. First faint, then brighter. The runes across the pod pulsed, the mystical cold groaning as it resisted.
​
Bucky staggered back, hands flexing, every instinct screaming caution.
​
Then, with a sound like glass shattering under thunder, the pod exploded outward.
​
Shards flew, flames rushed, and from the inferno came bony hands. They clamped onto Bucky’s shoulders like shackles, pulling him forward with inhuman strength.
​
He had only enough time for one thought.
​
Trap.
​
The fire swallowed him as skeletal fingers dragged him into the pod.
Bucky awoke to cold air on his face.
​
He was no longer in the pod. No longer in the cryo wing. He stood outside, in the clearing beyond the small concrete shack. Snow drifted silently, flakes catching in the pale moonlight. His body swayed as he steadied himself, disoriented, unsure if he had been gone seconds or centuries.
​
Then he noticed the glow.
​
A flickering light licked across the snow. Blue. Cold, unnatural blue.
​
His breath caught as he looked down. His hands burned with fire. One metal, one bone — both engulfed in pale blue flame. It crackled without heat, biting instead with a chill that sank into marrow. His metal arm glimmered darkly beneath the glow, while the flesh-and-bone hand had been stripped to its essence, skeletal fingers curling in azure fire.
​
He staggered back, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. “What…”
​
A wolf’s howl split the night. Long, mournful, feral. It rang out through the trees, primal and commanding.
​
Bucky turned sharply, eyes scanning the dark. His hand flexed on instinct, ready for a weapon that wasn’t there.
But there was no wolf.
​
From the treeline, something else emerged. A motorcycle.
​
It growled forward on its own, its frame gleaming black and polished as glass, every surface wreathed in blue flame. The fire spilled across its wheels, its pipes, licking along its contours like frost turned to fire. Its engine roared with hunger, alive, a beast of metal and spirit.
It called to him.
​
The flames mirrored his own. The sound was not just noise, but a summons — a bond, forged in fire and cold.
​
Bucky’s heart pounded as a thousand thoughts tore through him. Hydra. Ghost Rider. Mephisto. Damnation. Freedom. A million questions raged in his skull, each louder than the last.
​
But all of them silenced when the voice came again.
​
“Go forth, spirit of vengeance…”
​
It wrapped around him, curling through his mind like smoke, low and sinister, powerful beyond resistance.
“…Take to the cold night, my Winter Rider.”
​
The engine roared once more, blue flames rising higher, as Bucky — no, the Winter Rider — stepped forward into the dark.