Marvelous Meditations #80

The sizzle of cooking sausages filled the air as Luis adjusted his grip on the metal tongs, flipping the hotdogs lined up on the grill. The smell of seared meat and warm bread mingled with the usual scent of the city—exhaust fumes, trash baking in the sun, and the faint salt of the Hudson carried on the breeze.

He’d been working this corner for years, just a block down from where the Red Hulk tore through the streets like an angry god. A lot of things had changed since then. Buildings had been repaired, roads repaved, but the people… they still looked over their shoulders. They still jumped at loud noises.

Luis wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, shifting his focus to the small, battered radio perched on the corner of his stand. The cheap plastic casing was cracked, the antenna bent at an awkward angle, but it still worked.

The familiar voice of a talk radio host crackled through the static, carrying that same mix of frustration and barely restrained paranoia he always had.

"It’s barely been a year, people. A year since that walking disaster zone they called Red Hulk tore through our city, and now what do we got? Explosions? Gunfights? And it’s not just here—reports are comin’ in from D.C., too. Full-blown firefights, people. We’re talkin’ heavy artillery, rockets, military-grade equipment."

Luis frowned, absentmindedly turning the hotdogs to keep them from burning.

"But don’t worry," the host continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Our oh-so-trustworthy government tells us this is just 'gang violence.' Yeah, ‘cause y’know, the Bloods and the Crips have always had access to armored personnel carriers and black market missile launchers. Sure. Makes total sense."

A bitter chuckle followed.

"Let’s be real, folks. Something’s goin’ down. Something big. And they don’t want us to know it. They’re keeping it quiet, keepin’ us distracted with the usual media circus, but I’m telling you—this ain’t no gang war. This is a war-war. A damn invasion happening right under our noses."

Luis shook his head, placing a hotdog into a bun before wrapping it in foil and handing it off to a customer. Invasion was a strong word, but he couldn’t deny that things felt… off.

New York was always chaotic, but this was different. Police sirens had been wailing at all hours. Choppers hovered over the city like vultures, their searchlights cutting through the dark. And then there was that uneasy tension in the air—like the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for something worse to happen.

The radio host wasn’t done.

"And just to add a little cherry on top of this disaster sundae—where the hell are the Avengers? Huh? Where’s our big, shiny, spandex-wearing protectors? ‘Cause I sure as hell haven’t seen ‘em. And before you start talkin’ about ‘missions’ or ‘unseen threats,’ let me remind you—this is New York. This is their home turf. And yet, when the city’s burning, they’re nowhere to be found. Suspicious, don’t you think?"

A long pause.

"And what about him?"

Luis didn’t need clarification. He knew exactly who the host was talking about.

"The one who put down Red Hulk. The so-called ‘hero’ who—let’s be honest here—took out half a damn city block in the process. And now? Gone. Vanished. Like a ghost. No sightings, no statements, nothing."

The host scoffed.

"Hero’s a strong word for a guy like that. Maybe he was just another monster fighting a bigger monster. And if that’s the case… we’re all screwed."

Luis let out a slow breath, gripping the counter as he stared down at the bubbling grease on the grill.

He could still remember the moment when his son showed him a video of the man fighting the Red Hulk, taking punches that were powerful enough to level buildings, only to get up and go for seconds.

Though he served countless customers through his years on the streets to the point where he could barely remember any of them, this guy in particular was hard to forget. Always calm and collected, intimidating, and yet still friendly somehow.   

Aside from that impression, Luis didn’t know much about the man who killed the Red Hulk. He only knew the rumors. The whispers.

Some said he was a mercenary. Others said he was ex-military, some black ops operative who went rogue. And then there were the more outlandish theories—that he wasn’t human, that he was some kind of experiment gone wrong.

But one thing was for sure. If even he had disappeared. Then things were worse than they seemed.

Luis' chain of thought was violently interrupted by a sharp metallic clang. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he saw a steel pipe rolling off the counter, landing atop his now crushed radio. The small device let out a weak sputter of static before dying completely.

Luis' frown deepened as his gaze shifted to the one holding the pipe—a young, wiry man in a cheap tracksuit, the kind who thought he owned the streets just because he had a few equally foolish friends backing him up. His hands, covered in cheap rings and faint scars, flexed around the pipe as he grinned like he thought himself untouchable.

Luis exhaled slowly, suppressing the instinct to curse under his breath. He recognized this one—a local thug, part of one of the small-time crews that roamed the area, looking for easy marks. The type who thought they were untouchable just because they hadn’t been put in the ground yet.

Supposedly, they were in the big leagues once, having worked for Wilson Fisk as they like to constantly remind everyone.

His voice was steady, low, but firm as he spoke.

"Ya pagué mi parte este mes, cabrón. No tengo más para ustedes. Vayan a molestar a otro antes de que se les acabe la suerte."

(I already paid my due this month, asshole. I’ve got nothing more for you. Go bother someone else before your luck runs out.)

The gangster blinked, then looked over his shoulder at his crew—four of them in total, each one just as greasy and self-satisfied as the next.

He smirked and turned back to Luis, amusement dancing in his eyes. "What is this guy saying? I could never tell."

His boys chuckled, one of them shaking his head.

The gangster then turned back to Luis, this time speaking slowly, drawing out each word in a tone so exaggeratedly condescending it made Luis' blood simmer.

"Money. Give. Or we. Wreck. Shit. Up."

Luis clenched his jaw. He had seen their type before—rats, feeding off the fear of others, mistaking silence for weakness. He had survived worse than them.

He lifted his chin slightly, eyes hard.

"Vete a la mierda, pinche pendejo. No le tengo miedo a un cabrón con un tubo y un ego inflado. Chinga a tu madre, puta."

(Piss off, you dumb bastard. I’m not scared of some punk with a pipe and an overinflated ego. Go fuck yourself, bitch.)

The thug’s friends exchanged glances before one of them started laughing. "Still no clue what the old man’s saying, but I did catch ‘puta.’"

Another one snickered. "Yeah, I think he just called you a pig… or a bitch. Something like that."

The leader's grin faltered. His jaw tightened as he turned back to Luis, eyes flashing with something ugly.

"So you think I’m a bitch, do you?" he murmured, rolling his shoulders as he tightened his grip on the pipe. His grin returned, but now it was wrong—meaner, more forced.

"I guess I’ll have to show you how wrong you are."

With that, he raised the pipe high, his intent crystal clear as he prepared to bring it down on Luis' head.

The gangster let out a grunt as he swung the pipe—except it didn’t move.

His brow furrowed in confusion. He adjusted his grip and tried again. Nothing. It was as if the pipe were stuck in midair, held by some unseen force.

Annoyance flickered across his face as he turned, but whatever insult he had ready died in his throat.

Behind him stood a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with an unsettlingly blank expression. His presence alone made the air feel heavier.

The thug almost took an involuntary step back, some deep, primal instinct warning him that something was wrong. But then his gaze flicked over the man’s appearance—worn-out clothes, scuffed boots, an unkempt beard shadowing his face. Recognition didn't click, and that flicker of fear quickly turned to disdain.

His lips curled into a sneer. "Tch. I was wondering who’d be dumb enough to stick his nose where it didn’t belong."

He let out a low chuckle, glancing at his boys for backup. "Where the hell did this bum come from?"

The man said nothing at first, didn’t even acknowledge the words. Instead, he simply yanked the pipe from the thug’s grip with effortless ease, as if it weighed nothing at all. The motion was smooth, controlled—too precise to belong to someone truly down on his luck.

Then he spoke. His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge beneath it.

"You’ll piss off if you know what’s good for you."

The thug blinked.

"Stop bothering honest people and go do something with your life instead."

There was no threat in his tone, no raised voice, no dramatics. Just a cold, matter-of-fact command, as if the idea of disobeying it was simply unthinkable.

For a brief second, the thug hesitated. He could feel the weight of the man’s stare, those cold eyes boring into him like drills. There was something off about this guy.

Then, suddenly, recognition did hit. His eyes widened.

"No fucking way..." His lips twisted into a snarl. "I know you!"

The others exchanged glances, startled by the shift in his tone.

The thug’s grip clenched into fists. "You’re the asshole who stole our score over a year ago!"

His voice rose with anger, a mix of disbelief and rage. "Do you have any idea what we went through after that?! We got kicked out of the gang! We almost fucking died because of you!"

Nathan let out a slow, measured sigh, his grip on the steel pipe relaxing slightly.

"If you recognize me, that’s all the more reason to walk away," he said, his tone flat, almost bored. "You were lucky enough to survive me once. That won’t happen a second time."

The gangster gritted his teeth, his pride stinging at the dismissal.

"Yeah? Says who? Last time, you took us by surprise. But this time—" He smirked, reaching for his belt, "—we got you right where we want you."

With a quick motion, he yanked a pistol from his waistband, the metallic click of the safety disengaging echoing in the air.

His boys weren’t far behind. In a matter of seconds, all four of them had drawn their own weapons, surrounding Nathan in a loose semicircle.

Nathan’s eyes flicked between them, unimpressed.

"You’re right," he said evenly. "Things are different this time."

A smirk tugged at the thug’s lips.

"Damn right they are—"

"But not in the way you think."

Something in Nathan’s voice made the gangster’s stomach twist.

Nathan raised his head slightly, his gaze locking onto him with eerie calm. The red glow in his eyes ignited, flickering like embers before intensifying into a steady, burning light.

"Because this time, I’m not carrying rubber bullets. Hell, I’m not even carrying a gun."

The steel pipe in his hand groaned as his fingers curled around it.

"All I have are my hands…"

The metal twisted and bent like clay, warping under the sheer pressure of his grip. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it aside—the crumpled pipe clanging against the pavement like discarded scrap.

"And they don’t come with a non-lethal option."

Silence.

The gangsters stood frozen, guns still aimed but hands beginning to tremble.

Sweat beaded on the leader’s brow. His throat felt dry.

"Shit… he’s one of them freaks," he muttered under his breath, barely able to form the words. "I should’ve known!"

His fingers twitched over the trigger, but the primal part of his brain was screaming at him to run.

He turned to his boys, already opening his mouth to order them to fire—

But they were already gone.

Bolting down the street, scattering like roaches.

"Ungrateful fucks!" he spat, rage flaring in his eyes. But it was fleeting. Survival instincts took over, and he spun on his heel, ready to follow. However, he only made it three steps before his feet left the ground.

The world flipped for a dizzying moment, and suddenly, he wasn’t running anymore—he was dangling.

His lungs locked up as he realized what had happened.

Nathan had him.

One hand gripping the back of his collar, lifting him like he weighed nothing at all.

For a moment, the gangster could only stare, his legs kicking uselessly, his mind racing.

Nathan’s glowing eyes stared back. Cold. Unforgiving.

Then, he spoke.

"Where do you think you’re going? I already gave you a chance to walk away. You didn't take it..."

The gangster’s breath came in ragged gasps as he dangled helplessly, his collar cutting into his neck from the weight of his own body. But it was nothing compared to the crushing pressure in his chest—the sheer, suffocating presence of the man holding him up like he was nothing more than a stray cat.

Nathan’s eyes burned brighter, the glow shifting from a deep ember to something harsher, more volatile. Each passing second felt like a countdown to something terrible.

"What the hell do you want, man?!" The gangster’s voice cracked with desperation. His hands scrambled at Nathan’s wrist, but it was like trying to pry apart a steel vice. "Are you really gonna kill me? In broad daylight?!"

Nathan let out a low, unimpressed grunt.

"You think I can't?"

The gangster opened his mouth, ready to spit out some kind of bravado—some desperate attempt at saving face—but the words shriveled and died before they could leave his throat.

Because he saw it.

In Nathan’s expression.

That terrifying, unwavering certainty.

It wasn’t rage. Wasn’t some unhinged bloodlust.

It was worse.

It was calculated.

The realization settled in his gut like a block of ice.

This guy wasn’t just willing to kill him—he’d already decided whether he would or not.

The thug gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay silent.

Nathan smirked. "So you’re not completely stupid."

The glow in his eyes dimmed slightly, but the danger in his voice remained.

"Your wallet."

The gangster blinked, confused. "What?"

"Your wallet." Nathan’s grip didn’t loosen. "Hand it over."

There was a pause.

"W-why?!"

Nathan’s smirk faded. "You broke the man’s radio, didn’t you?" He nodded toward Luis, who was watching the scene with arms crossed, his face unreadable.

"What, did you think you could just walk away after breaking someone’s property?"

The thug swallowed hard.

"Well, yes, I mean—no, sir, of course not—"

His hands fumbled into his pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet. With shaking fingers, he held it out.

Nathan took it, flipping it open with a glance. His expression barely changed, but there was something dry in his tone as he muttered, "Crime really doesn’t pay, does it?"

The thug barely had time to process that before Nathan dropped him.

He hit the pavement hard, knees buckling. The second he was free, he scrambled backward, rubbing his sore throat.

He barely held back a choked noise as Nathan pulled two twenty-dollar bills from the wallet and placed them neatly on Luis’ cart.

Then, with no ceremony, Nathan tossed the empty wallet back at him, the leather smacking against his chest before falling to the ground.

"You can go now."

For a split second, the gangster didn’t move.

Then he grabbed his wallet, scrambled to his feet, and ran like hell.