The Monster and the Hydra
Watson clenched his fists, his mind racing as he surveyed the chaotic battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burned debris. Scott had barely escaped death, Uncle Polk was gasping for air on the ground, and the two fierce jackals—monstrous creatures born of something beyond human understanding—stood like spectral guardians, their glowing eyes locked on the enemy.
But this fight wasn't over.
Scott had been moments away from being torn apart. The jackal's fangs had nearly crushed his neck, its jaws pressing with enough force to turn bones to dust. But at Watson's signal, the beast obeyed. It loosened its grip and spit Scott onto the cold pavement, unceremoniously dumping the gang leader at Watson's feet.
Uncle Polk collapsed, coughing violently, struggling to breathe.
Watson barely spared him a glance. His attention was locked on Scott.
The man was battered, bloodied, barely conscious—but still alive. That was a mistake. Watson was furious, his every nerve alight with rage.
Derick pushed forward, seething. "Let him go! I'll kill him myself!" His voice was a growl, filled with the promise of vengeance.
The jackals snarled lowly in response, their predatory instincts mirroring their master's.
Watson didn't move. He was watching Scott.
Something was wrong.
A slow realization crawled through Watson's mind as he saw Scott's mouth twitch. He was hiding something.
Watson's eyes widened. "NO—!"
But before he could react, Scott bit down—hard.
A sickening sound, like cartilage snapping, echoed in the silence.
Then came the foam.
Scott's lips curled as white froth bubbled at the corners of his mouth, his body convulsing. He shuddered, limbs twitching as the poison coursed through his bloodstream.
Watson recognized it instantly.
A Hydra suicide pill.
Scott's ragged breath barely made it past his lips, but his words carried all the weight of his allegiance.
"Cut off one head… two grow in its place…"
Watson froze.
Hydra.
Of course.
Scott wasn't just another gang leader—he was Hydra's pawn. Maybe even one of their failed experiments. And if Scott was Hydra… that meant they were watching.
Enhancements. Genetic tampering. The same twisted science Hydra had used to create monsters like the Winter Soldier.
Scott's muscles twitched unnaturally, his body rejecting the poison even as it killed him. His veins darkened, his skin pulsing as if something inside was fighting back.
Watson gritted his teeth. If Hydra had altered him, then killing Scott outright wasn't enough.
They would just replace him.
Like always.
He made his decision in an instant.
"System." He spoke inwardly, his voice sharp. "Give me a healing potion. And an antidote."
A small vial shimmered into existence in his hand. Watson wasted no time. He forced Scott's jaw open and poured the liquid down his throat.
Scott convulsed harder, his body rejecting, fighting… and then, accepting.
The potion worked instantly. His wounds knit together. His veins cleared. The jagged bite marks vanished as if they'd never existed.
Even the poison—Hydra's own insurance policy—dissipated.
Watson stepped back, waiting.
Scott's eyes shot open.
He gasped, choking on the last remnants of the antidote. His gaze darted to his hands, to his untouched, undamaged skin.
Disbelief flooded his expression.
He should be dead. Hydra's poison should have been absolute.
Instead, he was whole.
His trembling gaze lifted to Watson.
The monsters. The power. The impossible ability to undo even Hydra's worst toxins.
Who the hell was this man?
Watson crouched beside him.
"You thought you were disposable, didn't you?" His voice was quiet, almost pitying. "Just another pawn in Hydra's endless game. But you see, Scott—I don't play by Hydra's rules."
Scott flinched as a massive paw pressed against his chest, pinning him down.
Watson exhaled slowly. "What am I supposed to do with you?" His voice was almost thoughtful. "Killing you wouldn't send Hydra a strong enough message."
And then—
The system chimed.
"Monster Space and backpacks cannot store living creatures."
"However, the fierce jackals can temporarily swallow creatures less than two-thirds of their volume and store them in Monster Space. Creatures not returned to Monster Space will be digested within one hour."
Watson blinked.
Then, slowly, a smirk crept onto his face.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
Derrick, watching from the sidelines, frowned. "What are you planning, Watson?"
Watson gestured toward Scott, then to the hulking jackal.
"Hydra thinks they're untouchable," he said casually. "That they can replace their fallen soldiers as many times as they want."
He turned his gaze back to Scott, his smirk deepening.
"Well, from now on…"
His voice dropped to something almost wicked.
"Their grave is in the stomachs of my monsters."
Scott's eyes went wide with terror.
"No… No, wait—"
Watson raised a hand. "Store him."
The jackal's jaws unhinged.
Scott screamed.
His body disappeared into the gaping maw of the beast. One moment, he was there. The next, he was gone.
A final muffled cry echoed—then silence.
Watson dusted off his hands. "That takes care of him, for now."
---
The Aftermath
Watson turned toward Uncle Polk, his expression softening. He knelt beside him, one hand resting on the old man's shoulder.
"Uncle Polk. Are you alright?"
Polk coughed, waving him off. "I'll live." He chuckled weakly. "You gave me quite the scare, kid. But don't worry—I've faced worse in my younger days. Might've even beaten you back then."
Watson smirked faintly. "Doubt it."
But then, Polk's expression grew serious. "Watson… does anyone else know?"
His gaze flicked to the jackals. To the impossible creatures.
Watson's face hardened. "No. And I intend to keep it that way."
Polk nodded slowly. But worry flickered in his eyes.
"Be careful, kid," he murmured. "You're playing with fire."
Watson exhaled, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
"Maybe," he admitted.
But then his eyes hardened.
"Hydra's been burning the world long enough," he murmured. "It's time someone burned them back."