Taking the silver metal helmet from the old man's trembling hands, Ethan smiled and shot Clint a look. Grumbling, Clint reluctantly opened a small compartment on his armor's waist and pulled out a few thick rolls of cash, tossing them over.
Turk gave the bundles a quick glance — not only was the money all there, there was even more than agreed upon. That, right there, was why he'd managed to survive all these years in Hell's Kitchen.
He raised his head to watch the two figures lift off — Hawkeye being carried by the larger suit — and wiped at the corner of his eyes.
"Take care now! Don't be strangers!" he shouted, his voice cracking halfway through.
Back aboard the aircraft, Clint glanced toward Wanda, who was pretending to nap in her seat, and asked in confusion, "You said we were visiting two of my old friends… so who's the other one?"
"You'll find out soon enough," Ethan replied casually. Then, turning to the pilot, he added, "Set course for Murderworld, Nevada. And activate the stealth field once we enter state airspace."
Once Hawkeye had left the cabin, still scratching his head in puzzlement, Ethan finally turned his full attention to the silver helmet in his hands. Smooth and rounded, it gleamed under the cabin lights; on its forehead were two slender antenna-like transmitters that resembled insect feelers.
He hadn't gone through all that trouble just to repair it and make friends with ants. Not everyone shared Scott Lang's bizarre affection for living, eating, and sleeping among bugs.
The helmet's true value lay elsewhere — it was capable of controlling Pym Particles, and certain models even contained a miniaturized laboratory within. It fit perfectly with the Ant-Men's habit of hiding scientific marvels in the strangest corners.
If he brought it back to the craftsman for repairs, luck might just reward Ethan with a fragment of Hank Pym's lost legacy.
But he wasn't about to rely on luck alone.
To ensure success, he needed something else — the blood of a former Thunderbolts agent, one whose veins still carried living Pym Particles.
Sure, he could probably find those particles elsewhere… but who knew what kind of homemade, unstable knockoffs those would turn out to be.
The night was alive with sound and color. Next to a massive circus tent stood an open field, and in its center — a grand stage raised high above the crowd.
Red-and-white drapes framed the platform, and a web of multicolored neon lights bathed everything in garish brilliance.
Under the spotlight, a man in a clownish suit and top hat held a gleaming microphone, his voice dripping with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, drawing out every syllable, "Feast your eyes on the grand finale of tonight's show! Behold — the tallest, the strongest man in the world!"
His tone was theatrical and mocking in equal measure, expertly winding the crowd's anticipation tighter and tighter.
The audience surged closer to the stage, faces lit by the rotating lights, craning to see what kind of "giant" was about to appear.
"Tallest man in the world, my ass," someone muttered.
High above, cloaked in invisibility, the Moon Knight's aircraft hovered silently in the night sky. Inside, Hawkeye clenched his jaw as he listened to the emcee's voice echoing below. He already knew who Ethan meant by that "old friend."
"Hank used to hit seventy meters easy," Clint muttered through his teeth. "This clown can't be more than fifty. Sixty tops."
Ethan shrugged, eyes calm. "Ant-Man was the tallest man alive, that much is true. But we've come all this way — might as well enjoy the show."
Clint huffed, but fell silent. Through the armor's telescopic lenses, his enhanced eyes could easily make out the details hundreds of meters below — including the man standing beneath the big top.
His old friend. His enemy.
Former Thunderbolts teammate — Atlas.
Once, Atlas had been little more than a street-level bruiser — a "budget Luke Cage."
Then, one day, he stumbled upon Pym Particles. That accident gave him the power to grow to enormous size… and with one careless step, he had crushed the speedster of this universe — Quicksilver — underfoot.
Now, under the bright circus lights, the emcee swung his microphone wildly, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Let's give him a hand, folks! Here comes the Giant!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, stomping their feet in excitement. Every face below glowed with expectation; they'd come here to see something impossible — a living colossus.
The tent curtains parted.
Out stepped a bald, weathered man — barely one-seventy tall, wearing a faded red bodysuit that clung to his muscular frame. Across his chest was a large, stylized letter A.
When the audience realized the so-called "giant" was just a short, aging man, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Boos erupted.
"Refund!" someone shouted. "This is crap!"
Jeers rolled through the crowd. People muttered angrily, disappointed by the underwhelming figure on stage. They hadn't paid to see some washed-up old man.
But the bald performer didn't flinch. His expression stayed calm, almost weary — the look of a man who had performed this act too many times to be fazed by ridicule. He'd been doing this gig for over a decade, longer than he'd ever worn the title of "hero."
Then he raised his fists and gave a sharp grunt.
"Hey!"
His muscles bulged instantly, veins rising beneath the skin. His height began to climb — slowly at first, then faster, and faster still. Shoulders broadened, his chest expanded, and his entire frame swelled with a deep, resonant creak of power.
To the audience's amazement, his costume stretched and shifted with him, its material growing in sync with his body. The red fabric didn't tear; it flowed, smooth and seamless, over expanding muscle.
Colors deepened, the giant letter "A" blazing under the spotlights.
Every inch of growth was drawn out, deliberate — each heartbeat bringing a new wave of awe and terror.
When it finally stopped, the crowd gasped as one.
The man who now stood before them was over forty meters tall — a living mountain of flesh and power. His wrinkled face remained calm and composed, eyes gazing down at the world below with tired detachment.
The platform at his feet was laughably small, the once-deafening applause now reduced to the faint rustle of wind around his ankles.
Onstage, the emcee was practically trembling with excitement, waving his microphone like a madman.
"This—THIS is our giant! This is Atlas, the Destroyer of the Avengers!"
The cheers rose again, wild and thunderous.
But the giant, Atlas, only stood there — silent, motionless. His face betrayed nothing.
He had long since stopped caring.
Whether villain, hero… or circus freak performing for spare change — it was all the same to him.
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