"Hey, mind telling me where we're headed?"
Standing beside the cabin window, Clint rubbed the top of his helmet out of habit—only to realize that wearing the Thunder Power Armor made that impossible. The gesture ended in a hollow clang of metal against metal.
Outside the window, dawn was breaking. The sun's first rays crept over the horizon, casting golden light onto the clouds below and glinting off the aircraft's hull.
An hour earlier, they had departed the craftsman's shelter. Once aboard, Ethan told the pilot to keep flying—without explaining their destination.
Now, though Clint's patience and stamina had improved greatly after taking the serum—he could go days without sleep if he wanted—Wanda was already yawning behind them, one small hand covering her mouth as she leaned against her seat.
"Josie's Bar," Ethan replied absently, his attention divided between the onboard AI of the Anti-Hulk Armor and the data projected before him. "You know, the place you used to drink for free and never pay."
"What? Come on, heroes don't not pay! We just, uh, run tabs!"
Clint's face turned red as he pulled off his helmet, sputtering excuses that made little sense. "Borrowing isn't stealing, and running a tab isn't skipping payment!"
His indignant defense filled the cabin with laughter.
Ethan smiled faintly at the noise behind him, eyes returning to the clouds beyond the window as his thoughts deepened once more.
Josie's Bar—
In the 616 Universe, it was a small, dingy dive tucked away in Hell's Kitchen, a haunt for gangsters, black marketeers, and small-time crooks. The owner had been an old blonde woman named Josie.
But here, in the Twilight Wolf Universe, the bar had moved from New York to the desolate wilds of Wyoming. The new owner was one of Josie's former regulars: Turk Barrett.
Turk had been a minor thug—a washed-up gangster who'd once brawled with Daredevil. The highlight of his miserable life had been briefly laying hands on the Soul Stone… before Doctor Strange promptly took it back.
Of course, Turk wasn't the one Ethan cared about. What mattered was his nephew—Dwight Barrett—and the Ant-Man Helmet he possessed.
A few years after Turk's death, Dwight had repaired that helmet and used it to control ants, blocking off a bridge and extorting tolls. He'd killed at least a dozen people in the process.
In the comics, the Ant-Man helmet wasn't as crucial as in the MCU. In the films, it was a safety mechanism—regulating brain chemistry and preventing the user from turning into a pile of flesh when the Pym Particles activated.
But in the comics, Pym Particles weren't nearly that dangerous. You could literally pour a vial of the stuff over your head and start growing or shrinking at will—after all, that was exactly what Hank Pym himself had done.
In emergencies, he could even change size without the suit—completely naked, no less.
And as for Scott Lang's daughter, Cassie? After long-term exposure to Pym Particles, she didn't even need a suit to become a giantess.
"Gentlemen, we've arrived!" the pilot called from the cockpit, breaking Ethan's train of thought.
Ethan shrugged and turned to Clint. "Let's go."
The aircraft slowed to a hover. The hatch opened, sunlight pouring in to frame two silhouettes—Ethan in the gleaming silver Anti-Hulk Armor, and Hawkeye in the gold Thunder Power Armor.
They exchanged a glance. Then, without hesitation, they leapt out together.
The wind howled in their ears as they dropped toward the empty wasteland below. From above, they could see a lonely speck of civilization in the vast, barren landscape—a small bar standing alone, like an oasis in a sea of dust.
Seconds later, they struck the ground like falling meteors, the impact blasting up dirt and rock, leaving two deep craters in their wake.
The bar's door creaked open. Out stepped an elderly Black man with graying hair and a double-barreled shotgun. He turned his head and shouted back inside:
"Goddammit, Dwight! Stop messin' with that damn helmet and find a place to hide!"
Judging from his tone, this wasn't the first time his nephew had done something stupid. He sounded more weary than alarmed.
At first, Turk couldn't see clearly through the rising dust. But as the haze settled and two massive armored figures came into view—one towering silver giant and one golden warrior—his knees started to shake.
His lips trembled as he tried to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes darted frantically between the two armored figures, searching in vain for an escape route.
"Don't piss yourself, Turk—it's me, Hawkeye!"
Clint waved aside the dust and strode toward him, the armor's hydraulics whining with every step.
"Hawkeye?"
Turk blinked in disbelief, lowering his shotgun slightly—not that he'd ever expected it to do much good.
"That's right, it's me. My boss wants to talk to you."
Clint, towering over the old man in his armor, started toward the bar entrance. But once he realized he was too large to fit through the doorway, he awkwardly stopped short.
"Talk to me?" Turk echoed, turning stiffly toward the silver-armored giant that loomed over him. The rising sun was completely blocked by the Anti-Hulk Armor, leaving him standing in its shadow.
His brief relief at seeing an old acquaintance vanished instantly. He swallowed hard.
Anyone Clint Barton called a "boss" was bound to be bad news. After all, Clint's old contacts were a rogues' gallery of smugglers and outlaws—people who trafficked in mutant growth hormones banned by the Red Skull himself. Murder, arson, smuggling, disappearances—it was all in a day's work for them.
If that kind of man had come looking for him, it couldn't possibly end well.
His knees buckled slightly; he almost fell.
"Let's keep this short," Ethan said, voice echoing from within the armor's external speakers. "I'm not here to scare you or hurt you. I'm here to make a deal."
"Y-yes, sir," Turk stammered, quickly lowering his gun and forcing a nervous smile.
"I'll pay ten thousand dollars for your nephew's Ant-Man helmet," Ethan continued calmly. "And I'll clear whatever bar tab Clint Barton owes you. How's that sound?"
"What? No way—"
Clint started to protest, but the massive silver head of the Anti-Hulk Armor turned in his direction, and he instantly went quiet, shrinking back like a guilty child.
Turk blinked, then smacked his forehead as realization dawned. His fearful expression melted into relief and obsequious laughter.
"Oh, hell, I thought it was somethin' serious! You could've just sent someone with a message, boss!"
He tossed aside his shotgun and jogged back toward the bar, even giving the hulking Clint a friendly shove along the way. The doorframe groaned under the armor's bulk as he squeezed past.
The helmet, after all, was just a trinket he'd picked up off the black market a couple of years ago—a toy for his nephew. It wasn't worth much.
If someone was willing to pay that much for it?
Well, why not buy the kid something else instead?
Maybe that new "Doctor Doom and His Four Defeated Lackeys" LEGO set everyone in Hammerfell was talking about.
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