It's strange being inside his head, all noise and anger and red. If he's angry all the time, there's no room for green. His voice shouts at the world and screams at people, cursing, swearing, threatening. Amongst it numbers fall in calculated clutter and atoms fuse in the name of science. It's so noisy in his head and so red and so full. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and wonders how his brain stays intact.
When he looks down, the sceptre's in his hand. Shiny metal catches the light until stars glint in his vision. He doesn't know how it got there, doesn't remember picking it up. All he remembers is the rage, all that pressure, building up inside his head. It's okay; he's used to not remembering. Bruce Banner, the Incredible Hulk. He's used to losing control of his own body.
They look through the screen at each other. Bruce thinks about the atomic structure of the barrier between them, thinks about the materials and wires and factories in places the consumer's gaze doesn't reach. He thinks about the other guy, his Hyde, the split-side of his brain that was forged in undiluted destruction. He thinks of the man standing in front of him, Tony Stark; genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
There's metal calling to Tony's heart, a bullet suspended in time. He's a dead man walking, frozen like a cryogenic corpse. Control, it's all about control. Green flares across his vision, momentary, meaningless. It's just his other half reminding him that there's no escape. It's just the beast reminding the doctor that it's only a matter of time. Control; it's all about control.
It's here. The Tesseract. There's no time. It all ran out in angry accusations and overlapping voices. No time to warn them. Explosion. He's falling and there's metal falling with him, metal and human.
Someone's trying to kill him.
They brought the beast.
The Tesseract's here and Loki's trying to escape.
A cell, a rented room.
Natasha lands beside him and her breath comes in pained gasps.
A cage for the beast.
S.H.I.E.L.D. won't survive, not without their heroes.
A coffin for the uncontrollable.
It's green, so green. The world fades. His muscles contract and expand. Skin stretches. Bones hold everything together and his body convulses. The metal floor gives way under his fist and in the back of his mind a soft, weak voice speaks. We're okay, right? It's so green underwater where you can't see the surface.
He doesn't count, not him. That's something for him, the other guy. He counts the bodies. He counts the days. All these numbers, stored away like ticking time-bombs. Add them all together and you have a serial killer. Divide them up and you've lost perspective. Stack them in a column, one on top of each other, until numbers reach the clouds. Then you have a tower in the sky with your name on it.
In his diary he writes days. In his mind he remembers faces. It's too late to change the mistakes he's made. All he can do is learn control. Learn control and save the world.
Or avenge it.
The gun invites him, shiny metal surface like jewellery, made to be appreciated. It's cold to the touch, a gentle caress of something that has too much power. In a house two and a half miles away three bodies lie twisted together like voodoo dolls that never worked. Three humans lie together with broken limbs and broken lives. Around them the house falls apart; splintered timber, architectural bones.
Flecks of green paint are caught under his nails as he runs a hand over the cold metal again. So much power in something so small. Life and death, everything hanging on the tiniest movement of a single finger. It's not that simple of course. Muscles contract and extend. Skin stretches. Bones hold everything together. It's not simple but in the machinations that make the human body, it's so small.
He puts the barrel in his mouth. There's still blood on his hands, embedded in the lines of his skin. Specks of red trace the heart-line across his palm. There's a diary on the floor, black ink on white paper. 67 days without an incident. He closes his eyes. Muscles contract and extend. Skin stretches. Bones hold everything together.
He laughs and spits the bullet out.
Her fist slams against the floor. He feels the reverberations shudder through his limbs. She thinks him a child. She thinks him stupid. She thinks he doesn't see her wave away those who come to help, those in danger. Control, it's all about control. On her life, she swears on her life. What should this mean to him? He who can end her life in a second. She who would lock him in a coffin and send him to his death in a free-fall. What does her life mean to him?
For a moment he remembers her name, turns to look at her. Natasha, Natasha Romanov. Bruce. For a moment he remembers her name. Walls, ceiling, floor, all made of glass. Such a kind thought, to allow him to see the world rushing towards him. Allow him to see the rocks that would impale his body, dash his flesh across the earth. He remembers her name, then he's underwater.
It's falling from the sky, red streak against the blue. Maybe it's an angel descending from Heaven. Maybe it's a rebel kicked from the clouds. His fists clench and bone cracks in the distance. Wind whistles past his ears but it's so far away. Everything's focused on his feet, on running. He just needs to reach the UFO, the metal man.
Timing's everything. Numbers run in his head, too fast for him to make sense of them. They're from somewhere else, the part of his brain that flinches from screams. The edge of the building. He jumps. Timing's everything. The metal man isn't heavy, not as heavy as he expected but bodies have lost their matter to him, lost their meaning. Limbs flop uselessly against his skin and already he can tell that there's nothing left inside. The metal man has no heartbeat, hidden by blue light.
They drop to the ground, a bullet falling to earth. He pushes the metal man to the side, falling among concrete destruction. Nothing hurts as he stands in the crater he built. His hands are green, knuckles crushing roadside debris. A city's falling down around them but he can't move his thoughts from the metal man with a human face. Tony Stark, he remembers his name.
The stars and stripes shakes his head, lines etched into his features. Tony Stark won't wake up. His thoughts twist strangely, tell him that someone has hurt him. He's a beast, big and powerful, no longer human in the flesh. He's indestructible but something tells him he's in pain.
Suddenly the anger surges, paints the world green. He needs to destroy something, kill a soul so that the metal man can have his back. An eye for an eye leaves one man alive. He beats the ground with his fists and screams at the aliens, tells them to wake. Tony Stark breathes, sudden and sharp. Control, it's all about control.
Tony finds him in the lab, staring at a screen and wondering where it was made. There's an etching on the side and Tony runs a finger over it. Made in China. He wants to laugh but it seems wrong somehow. They saved the world, two days ago, and yet together they make a perfect picture, unmarred, woundless. His reflection mocks him, glasses laughing because everything will heal except the injuries that are already there.
Come to Stark Tower. It wasn't a joke; the last time he was in New York he broke Harlem. The cost for the city to rebuild now... the accountants won't have worked it out yet but his mind's made of numbers. It'll take Manhattan years to rebuild. All he needs to do is lose control once and he'll bring down Stark Tower and anyone in it. He doesn't count bodies but he always tells him the score.
Tony comes to stand beside him, peers over his shoulder at the screen made in China. There's an element on the screen, an element in the heart of a metal man. Tony tells him how he synthesised it, tells him how the palladium was killing him. He's heard this all before but it's nice to hear it from someone who speaks English. There are variables and consistencies, numbers and neutrons. There's so much to think about and when Tony fills his head with science, with equations and reactions and noise, there's no room for anything else.