The café wall exploded inward with a thunderous crash. Brick and plaster rained across the floor as the Hulk barreled through, roaring.
The smugglers froze, pistols trembling in their hands as the green giant's shadow swallowed them. Hulk didn't stop to question who they were or why they had guns aimed at Lock. For him, the logic was simple: point a weapon at a friend, you're the enemy.
He opened his enormous mouth and unleashed a deafening roar.
The blast of sound shook the walls, swept papers and cups off tables, and blasted the smugglers' hair straight back. Their faces distorted comically in the shockwave, skin rippling as though they were pressed against the window of a jet at cruising speed.
And then the others arrived.
Iron Man and War Machine hovered in through the shattered front, thrusters blazing, each aiming glowing repulsor cannons at the men below.
Captain America raised his shield, guiding café employees and customers out the back, while Black Widow covered their retreat with precise efficiency.
From a rooftop across the street, Hawkeye drew an arrow to his cheek, bowstring taut, sight trained on the traffickers' heads.
The three smugglers were caught in the crossfire of Earth's mightiest heroes.
"Wait! Hulk, don't smash them!" Lock called out, stepping forward.
The Hulk, already leaning in for a swing, grunted with irritation. But the smugglers were trembling too hard to notice. Their hearts hammered, lungs seized; under that roar alone, they had nearly collapsed.
All around them, superheroes closed ranks. News footage of the Battle of New York had made these faces famous. Seeing them in person, targeting you, was like waking into a nightmare.
The smuggler boss's mind spiraled. Who am I? Where am I? Are they… here for me? I'm just a trafficker—since when do superheroes waste time on guys like me?!
Confusion swamped fear.
Lock himself was baffled, too. He turned toward Iron Man. "Why are you all here?"
Stark's HUD flashed in the dim light, his voice dry as ever. "Fury said you called for help. He kicked us into a Level Seven alert. Civilians are evacuated. We're green-lit to engage."
Lock's eyes widened. "Engage what? These are traffickers. Hulk, stand down!"
The green giant growled, displeased. "Not friends. They can fight. Hulk… smash."
The traffickers whimpered, pressed back into a corner. They looked like frightened rabbits before a wolf, too stunned to resist.
For all that the Hulk wasn't the strongest Avenger, he was easily the most terrifying to face up close. His sheer bulk, his rage, his aura of unstoppable violence—it overwhelmed them.
Finally, Lock sighed and dragged a hand over his face, exasperated. "Fury! Get in here!"
Moments later, Director Fury strode in, slightly out of breath. "Lock, tell me you already finished off the enemy."
Lock shot him a flat look. "What enemy? These three are just human traffickers. I asked for someone to come arrest them."
The director froze. "...What?"
"I said it was a small problem," Lock repeated. "Just send a couple agents."
Fury rubbed his temple. A small problem… to him. Out loud, he groaned, "Lock, you need to be more specific. For you, 'a small problem' could mean anything from muggers to… the Hulk."
"Didn't you promise, when I became a consultant, that S.H.I.E.L.D. would help me with small matters?" Lock said innocently.
Fury had no comeback. He had promised that. And he was already regretting it.
To save face, he wheeled on his agents and barked, "Cuff them. Maximum security protocols! These are high-value targets, apprehended on direct orders from King Lock. Exercise extreme caution."
Immediately, a squad of soldiers snapped into action. They shackled the smugglers with restraints usually reserved for metahumans—thick steel cuffs, weighted chains, reinforced gags, and opaque goggles.
The smugglers nearly sobbed. Why?! We're just traffickers! These restraints are for monsters! For the Hulk! We don't deserve this!
But their muffled pleas were ignored. Stripped of movement and voice, they were hauled into armored vehicles, escorted by an absurd level of firepower.
It wasn't that Fury enjoyed the theatrics. He had no choice. The Level Seven alert had mobilized half of New York and called in every Avenger in reach. Civilians had been evacuated, the media already circling. If word got out that the world's greatest heroes had deployed… for three traffickers? Fury would drown in backlash from politicians and the public alike.
So he leaned into the deception. Let the world think that these men were dangerous villains. Sometimes the truth wasn't enough—the world needed a version of the truth it could accept.
Later, over drinks with the heroes, Lock finally heard something new.
"King Lock," Tony teased, swirling a glass. "You've got yourself a nickname."
"King… what?" Lock asked blankly.
"'King Apocalypse,' technically," Natasha clarified. "But the translation floating around the press uses 'King Lock'—like Heaven's Revelation. Dramatic stuff."
The phrase rang oddly in Lock's ears. It had nothing to do with his real name, but in Western tongues, it fit: the man who shone like a beacon during the wormhole invasion, who stood unshaken under the shadow of a city-destroying bomb.
Lock shrugged. "As long as it doesn't sound bad, I don't care."
The others laughed.
Hulk, meanwhile, was happily shoveling food into his mouth. He rarely stayed transformed long enough to eat, and everything was a new delight. Each bite was followed by a pleased grunt or a childlike roar. Most kept their distance, too wary to sit near him. But Lock remained calmly at his side, unbothered.
Even Thor might have hesitated.
For Lock, it was just another night. For Fury, however, the nightmare was only beginning.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was buried in fallout. Reporters swarmed, governments demanded answers.
What was the threat? How serious? Alien or human? How do we prepare for the next one?
Fury tried dodging questions, tried weaving excuses. But eventually, exasperation got the better of him.
At the press conference, he simply said:
"No comment. The suspects were captured by King Lock himself. If you want more answers, ask him."
The crowd fell silent. No one dared to demand answers from that man.
So Fury walked offstage, feigning pride, even as the weight of bureaucracy pressed down on him.
The "suspects" could not simply be executed or released. Too many eyes were watching. Fury decided instead to bury them in the system—shipped quietly to the super-prison known as The Raft.
The Raft: a fortified underwater penitentiary, designed to contain enhanced individuals. Most of the time, it sat submerged in the Atlantic, its location secret. It surfaced only for prisoner transfer or supply runs.
It was currently under the command of General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, the man who had dedicated his life to studying, containing, and—when possible—weaponizing beings like the Hulk.
When the smugglers' files landed on his desk, Ross skimmed them.
Threat level: Unknown.
Hazard potential: Unknown.
Abilities: Unknown.
A dossier full of blanks. Except for one chilling line, scrawled at the bottom in tiny print:
Apprehended personally by King Lock.
Ross's hand shook over the signature line. Finally, he slammed down the pen and grabbed the phone, jabbing Fury's number.
"Fury, you son of a bitch! You're sticking me with this? A prisoner Lock himself dragged in? Are you trying to get me killed?"
On the other end, Fury sighed. "Relax, General. They're just ordinary men. You'll be fine."
Ross nearly exploded. "Ordinary?! Don't insult me! If Lock himself took the time, th,e n they are not ordinary!"
Fury didn't answer. Because he'd thought the same thing once—and look where that had gotten him.
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