"Dr. Banner, do you know why I prefer talking to you instead of Tony Stark?"
Martin lounged comfortably on the sofa, impeccably clean in a suit that looked untouched by the world. He took a slow sip of coffee before casually continuing, without waiting for a response.
"It's because, compared to Stark, your moral bottom line is lower."
"You were born into the military-industrial complex. A physicist by trade. You and your father worked for General Ross, specializing in the creation of biological weapons. I'm guessing you've conducted your fair share of brutal experiments. By comparison, Tony's too soft. The guy sees a few civilians die from his weapons and suddenly decides to shut down his weapons division. Naïve, but undeniably heroic."
Martin clicked his tongue in mock admiration. Whether it was for the coffee or for Stark's conscience, it was hard to tell.
But unlike Tony, Bruce Banner's threshold for compromise was lower, substantially so. Let's not forget how many innocent lives had been claimed during Hulk's rampages. Time and time again, that line had been crossed.
Two generations of Banners conducting cruel human experiments in service of the military... That sort of thing doesn't just disappear. It becomes a part of you, part of your blood.
Bruce sat in stunned silence, his eyes hollow.
Martin stood, refilled Bruce's cup, and handed it to him with a heavy pat on the shoulder before turning to leave.
Banner's father... now he was a piece of work. Dead for years, yes, but his soul had long since been claimed by The One Below All, the being beneath all fear and rage. No doubt watching Bruce even now, mercilessly and without pause.
After all, Hulk had been marked, a favored vessel for The One Below All's eventual rebirth. But that time had yet to come. For now, the monster still needed to ripen. The being required the mature Hulk, not this embryonic shell.
Martin stepped outside, slowly raising his gaze to the sky. After a long breath, he spoke into the wind:
"Megatron. We move. Assemble the army. Cross the Atlantic. We're taking the African continent. It's time we claimed a base of our own."
"As you command, O Great Creator," Megatron growled with vicious glee.
He raised one arm in a sweeping gesture, and at once, countless Transformers shifted forms in unison, transforming in a blur of shifting plates and grinding gears. Onlookers could only gape as the mechanized horde surged toward the ocean.
Moments later, someone finally found their voice:
"Hey! That was my car, you metal thief!"
Unbothered, Martin rolled along in his signature Beetle, part of the steel tsunami rolling toward the coast, his expression unreadable.
Then he looked back, and cracked a smile.
Bruce Banner was sprinting after him, desperation in his eyes.
Martin pulled over, opened the passenger door, and waited.
"So," Martin said as Bruce climbed in, panting. "You've come around."
Bruce fastened his seatbelt, his face a mix of dread and resolve. "Where else am I going to go, Martin? You're the only one who can kill the monster inside me."
The iron tide surged forward. The sheer spectacle stunned onlookers into silence, millions of tons of mechanized death, storming toward the sea.
From above, it was even more breathtaking: a coordinated, continent-crossing march of living weapons, each one a testimony to destruction.
Then, over their comms, Megatron, transformed into an F-22 Raptor, transmitted a question.
"O Great Creator, once we take Wakanda... what do you propose we do with its people?"
Martin blinked as if the question were laughably idiotic. "Is that really something you need to ask? Wipe them all out. Leave no one. The vibranium belongs to Cybertron Overlord System. Not to a bunch of jungle-chanting savages."
Wakanda had only one figure worth acknowledging: the Panther God. The rest? Disposable.
Martin would make Wakanda his primary base on Earth. No foreign powers, no ancestral legacies. Just a clean slate, and total conquest.
The metallic host thundered onward, reaching the shoreline in mere minutes. The sea ahead was vast, but so was their ambition.
At the port, crowds had gathered. Frozen in place, they could only stare at the apocalyptic horde now descending upon them.
Bruce looked at the water, frowning. "Your soldiers are land-based. How do you plan to cross an ocean?"
Megatron, now in full battle mode, landed beside them with a thunderous crash and let out a low, dark chuckle.
Martin followed suit, laughing softly as he pointed toward the harbor.
"Everything here... is mine, Bruce."
Bruce's heart skipped. "You're not just transforming cars into soldiers, you're about to hijack an entire fleet?"
"This isn't theft," Martin replied smoothly. "I'm just giving them life. If they choose to follow me, who am I to refuse?"
His smile grew darker.
In the distance, the U.S. Atlantic Fleet was en route. Drones buzzed ahead, one of them broadcasting a firm warning:
"Martin, stand down your army immediately or this will be considered an act of war."
Martin glanced up. One look. That's all it took.
The drone shifted, groaning and grinding as it restructured itself into a Cybertronian form and dropped to one knee.
Martin's smile turned sinister.
"So noisy... but fine. I was going to animate only a fraction of the fleet and send the rest of the troops running across the seafloor... but since you've brought me an entire navy..."
He shrugged, eyes glinting.
"Don't mind if I help myself."