a/n: A relatively short oneshot about Bruce Banner, and what exactly led him to put a bullet in his mouth all those years ago. I don't particularly like this, but I suppose I'll post it anyway. Unfortunately, characters are not mine.
Dead eyed, Bruce Banner gazed sullenly at his most recent failure. Each of his fingertips (and several of his toes) were pricked and bandaged many times over. The thick skin of his forearms were littered with pin pricks and needle tracks, leaving him with the appearance of a manic drug addict. No matter how many times he pricked himself, it seemed, he was unable to find a cure. It simply could not be done. But he hadn't given up.
Not until today. Not until the one test, the one experiment that was absolutely apodictic, (he had thought), had gone completely wrong, dragging him right back to where he had started. Not until he realized how completely hopeless his quest was. Not until he remembered the anniversary.
Three years. Three years ago to the day, nearly to the hour, that his life had begun to go wrong. Three years ago to the day where he had lost complete control. Three years ago to the day that he had become a monster.
That was what he was, what he believed himself to a be. A monster. Unpredictable, treacherous, and erratic. After it had first happened, he'd wallowed for a bit. Thought himself insane. Hell, he'd even given self medication a try. But losing control was a horrid mistake, one that often ended in numerous casualties. He'd considered suicide plenty of times after that, even going as far as to purchase a handgun. But he had never used it, and he probably never would. In case of emergency, however, it was always by his side.
After that, he had moved himself into a secluded village, into the hut where he now lived, attempting to perform a scientific miracle on equipment that would have been better suited for a child. He had set his mind completely to producing a cure, and with this newfound concentration came a newfound control. Currently, it had been six months without incident. He had begun to understand the new way that his body worked.
But there was no one else like him in the world; there was no one for him to talk to. He was forced, by trial and error, to figure things out for himself. It had been a slow and tedious process, and nearly a year later, he was no closer than he had been at the start.
Carelessly, Bruce dropped his head into his hands and pulled fiercely at his hair, begging himself to feel something...anything. Because he was empty. There was simply no more will, no more hope. He had been lying to himself. It was incurable. He was a monster, and it was all that he would ever be. He became distantly aware of the silent tears that filled his eyes and threatened to spill over with each blink. He didn't mind them.
He didn't think of suicide as an easy way out, as giving up. He looked to it as a solution. A win/win, if he really wanted to put thought into it. He would stop wasting his life, stop suffering...and other people would be safe. He wasn't in his right mind when he was the other guy, and yet he still held himself accountable for the lives that he had taken in mindless rage. It would be safer this way. Like putting a rabid animal to sleep, he thought wryly. He would rather die at his own hand rather than being shot down.
As Bruce picked up the gun, he reassured himself that there was no other way out. He had done the research, performed the experiments, even forced himself into rage, just to understand the monster that he had become. And it had all been for naught. There's a chance I might live, he thought, the other guy might just be indestructible. And what if he was? That would be, he supposed, another win/win. If he died, the suffering would stop, and the world would be safe. And if he lived...he would give it all another shot. He'd pick himself up and try again.
"Besides," he said quietly to himself, clicking off the safety, "There's only one way to find out." For a moment, Bruce simply sat in the darkness, trying to remember what normal felt like. What happiness, what joy was like. With startling emptiness, he came to the realization that he could not.
Raising the barrel of the gun to his mouth, he closed his eyes and dashed off a prayer to Whoever was up there. He paused for a moment, just being. And then he fired.