The air trembled under the weight of unspoken violence as The Hulk's gaze locked onto Vikram. That gaze alone could crush a weaker man's resolve, but Vikram stood his ground, barely.
His fingers, wrapped tight around the shaft of a crude bone spear, trembled despite his best efforts. In truth, he had no idea how to wield the weapon. His entire understanding of combat came from flickering movie screens and fantasy novels, not from any lived experience.
But desperation was a cruel teacher, and Vikram was now its most diligent student.
His heart pounded a war drum inside his chest, each beat threatening to betray his fear. He wore a mask of resolve, but behind his eyes swirled a storm of frantic thoughts. There was no scenario where he could best The Hulk in brute strength.
That would be suicide. A fool's dream.
He winced at the thought, cursing his inner commentary. Not helpful. Not now.
Instead, he forced his attention outward, scouring the battlefield with a mind sharpened by terror. He needed time, seconds, minutes, anything that might let him pick apart the green giant before him, to find a flaw in the impossible wall of muscle and rage. A crack in the armor. A moment of doubt.
Then, unexpectedly, a giggle drifted through the thick atmosphere.
It was subtle at first.
Soft, almost playful—but it slashed through the tension like a dagger of ice. Vikram's brow furrowed. Had he imagined it? He glanced at the Grunts nearby, half-expecting one of them to be the source of the unsettling sound.
But it hadn't come from them. That much was clear.
He braced for The Hulk's retaliation—a furious swing, a roar of dominance meant to silence insolence. Yet the reaction never came. Instead, The Hulk's colossal form stiffened, not in anger… but in fear.
Real, visceral fear.
It oozed from his every pore, radiating in stark contrast to the monster's usual persona. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Vikram stared, wide-eyed, at the living embodiment of power… now trembling like a child before a nightmare.
Fear? From him?
The revelation hit Vikram harder than any blow. This wasn't bravado or tactics. This was primal. And it chilled Vikram to the bone.
The shadows around them seemed to deepen, colors twisting in impossible ways—vibrant and chaotic, like a kaleidoscope spun by mad hands. And through it all, the giggle came again. Louder. Sharper. Carving dread into Vikram's spine with surgical precision. This was no ordinary laugh—it carried a weight. A presence.
Something ancient and wrong, lingering just beyond the veil of comprehension.
Vikram's fingers tightened around his spear, knuckles pale, sweat stinging his eyes. As if sensing the wrongness, The Hulk bellowed—a sound equal parts fury and fear—as he turned his voice on the Grunts. He roared commands, but it was clear to Vikram: he knew. He had seen this thing before.
And he was afraid.
Vikram took a breath, trying to center himself. His eyes fell on the bone spear he held. There was something odd about it, something more than its gnarled form and primitive edge. A low thrum pulsed through it, a primal beat syncing with his own. For a moment, he felt strength surge through his limbs—raw, untamed power from some ancient place.
The weapon was somehow powering him.
But that empowerment upset Vikram's body, as something inside Vikram's body twisted in annoyance in his stomach.
Something was stirring within him, something not entirely his. His stomach twisted. His breath hitched. Then, just as quickly, the feeling passed, leaving behind a residue of discomfort that clung to him like wet cloth.
He couldn't dwell on it.
The enemy had arrived.
With a guttural cry, Vikram surged forward, flanked by the Grunts, his spear trembling in his grasp. The giggles intensified, echoing unnaturally through the air, growing louder as the enemy emerged from the shadows.
And when Vikram saw them—truly saw them—his legs faltered.
They were grotesqueries, fusions of human allure and insectoid horror. Their upper bodies mimicked beauty—masculine, chiseled features for the males, entrancing curves for the females. But their eyes betrayed them—hypnotic, multicolored orbs that sucked in attention like whirlpools of madness. Their grins stretched too wide, too still. Too wrong.
Worse still were the pods. Sickly, translucent growths that pulsed with vile life, clinging to their backs like tumors ready to burst. Vikram recognized them. He had seen them before...
On the spiders.
These weren't warriors. They were breeders of nightmares.
He nearly retched. But there was no time.
The battlefield erupted in chaos.
Steel clashed. Blood sprayed. Screams, laughter, and inhuman howls melded into a single chorus of madness. Vikram found himself trapped in the eye of the storm, fighting to keep his sanity intact.
He was a teenager from a civilized world, thrust into something no one should survive, much less comprehend.
At first, he stumbled, flailing awkwardly in a fight meant for seasoned killers. But something primal kept him moving. Step by step, slash by slash, he began to find rhythm amidst the carnage.
He wasn't graceful.
He wasn't skilled.
But he was alive.
Driven by instinct, he fought—darting between abominations, his spear jabbing and parrying, protecting himself and his allies. Slowly, his eyes began to track more than just his own survival. He watched The Hulk. Watched the Grunts. Watched their patterns.
And then—there. An opening.
Vikram moved.