Part One: The Pit
A secure location one hour outside Washington, DC
Defeat.
Emil was familiar, sickeningly familiar, with the feeling. Sometimes he thought that defeat and triumph were the only feelings that really existed, with all others being only pale shadows of those two. He had thought that after exposing himself to radiation, turning himself into this thing, he would never have to feel defeat again. He was wrong.
All the rage and determination and-yes, he could admit it now-insanity that he'd been feeling since that first injection had leaked out of him. There was only defeat.
They picked him up with tethers dangling under a helicopter, like he was a fucking beached whale or something. He could have stopped them. He could have killed every damn one of them. But why bother? It wouldn't change anything.
The Hulk won. He lost. Swatting flies wouldn't change that.
They already had a place to put him. (It had been meant for the Hulk, of course. He was just a consolation prize. Second best.) It was a cylindrical room with walls and floor of sheer bedrock. Above him, far out of reach, was a giant, whirling fan. He assumed that they could pump in whatever kind of gas they wanted, to keep him quiet.
It wasn't a bad design. It wouldn't have held the Hulk, though, he felt certain. Not for long.
Right now, a room made of tissue paper would have held the Abomination. That was what they'd decided to call him, apparently. He assumed that the official story was that Emil Blonsky was dead. They would have had to look pretty hard to find a next of kin to inform. His aunt had probably gotten the call. Maybe she'd taken a moment for quiet reflection before moving on with her life.
Days passed...probably. They hadn't given him a clock. He sat passively on the floor of his stone cylinder, allowing technicians to poke and prod him ineffectively. They probably wanted a fluid sample, but there was no way to get one. Eventually, one nervous technician even tried to put a needle into his eye, probably hoping it would provide less resistance than his skin. The needle slid off. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't painful, either. His corneas were as close to invulnerable as everything else.
That is, not close enough.
They left him alone for a while after that. They'd presented him with food and water, but he'd ignored it. What he really wanted was a beer, but he was probably immune to alcohol now, too.
Eventually, the general showed up in person. The first words out of his mouth were "On your feet, soldier."
Well. Why not. Had to give the man some credit for barking orders at someone who could have turned him into jelly. And he was still a superior officer. Emil lumbered to his feet. There was none of the pain that should have come with holding one position for...however long it had been.
"Report, Blonsky."
"Sir. Acting without orders or authorization, I coerced Dr. Sterns into exposing me to Banner's blood and to gamma radiation." His voice sounded unfamiliar. Alien, even. "I then attempted to engage Banner. His strength appears to vary with the level of emotion he experiences. For this reason, I advise against direct confrontation in the future." He will always win.
"Why did you do it?"
He was silent.
"I asked you a question, soldier!"
"Underlying mental instability exacerbated by so-called 'super soldier' serum."
"You killed civilians, Blonsky. American civilians."
"Yes, sir."
"You tried to kill me. And my daughter."
"Yes, sir."
"But you aren't killing me now. And you didn't kill the technicians. Why?"
"If you're the most powerful, the rules don't apply to you. If you're not, they do."
"That's some fucked-up logic, Blonsky."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you change back?"
"Haven't tried, sir."
"Try."
Emil closed his eyes. He wasn't entirely certain how to try. He thought about shrinking, going back to his old shape, his old face, his old skin...
"Today, Blonsky," the general snapped, and without knowing how, he did it.
When he opened his eyes, he was looking slightly up at the general, not down. The stone floor felt cold against his bare feet.
"Good man," the general said crisply. "Right, we'll get the technicians back in here to take some samples. Can't let you out, I'm sure you understand, but we can get some furniture in here. The suits wanted to send down a head-shrinker. I told them to let me give it a crack first, but if you want one now…?"
"No, sir."
"Right." He clapped his hands together crisply. "Do what you're told, don't kill anyone, and we'll see about getting you some privileges. Better food, a TV, the works."
"Don't suppose the US Army would get me a beer and a woman." That was what he needed, not some damn psychologist.
"Beer for sure. I'll see what I can do about the other."
"Thank you, sir."
The general clapped him on the shoulder, and he actually felt it.
"General," Emil called, as the general turned to climb back up the rope ladder. "If they do send me a shrink, I'll kill him."
The general nodded once, then climbed out of the hole.
The tests seemed neverending. Blood samples, stool samples, bone marrow. Before and after running on a treadmill, before and after changing forms. How quickly could he change forms (at least a few times an hour). Were there circumstances under which he would change involuntarily (yes, any injury bad enough to send him into shock-that had not been a fun test.)
Every time they did a test, they would give him something. Before long, his cylinder looked more like a cramped apartment than a modernized dungeon. Pipes too fragile for him to climb in his true form snaked up the wall, providing plumbing for a modest WC. He had a bed, a couch, a small television with a DVD player, a mini-fridge. They'd given him beer and, when that proved ineffective, hard liquor, but it didn't do anything for him. Neither did the painkillers they tried on him later, even at a dosage that should have killed a man twice his size.
It was hard to sleep at night. He wasn't used to sleeping completely sober, without even the exhaustion of waning adrenaline after a day of action.
He hadn't wanted to get to know the technicians who spent so much time poking at him, but they were his only human contact. They wouldn't tell him their names or call him by his. His favorite technician was the one who had been brave enough to try to jab a needle in the Abomination's eye. Emil called him Doc. He called Emil A. The rest of them just called him sir.
As time passed, the tests became more and more esoteric. Testing his resistance to different poisons. Samples of his sweat, bile, and even semen. At least for that one they gave him a porn DVD and a cup and left it to him; he'd been worried they'd do it with a cattle prod up the bum, or something.
"What's the word, Doc?" he asked when five technicians returned the next day. "How're my abominable little swimmers doing?"
"Not great, A," Doc admitted. "Looks like you're infertile."
"Oh, what a bloody shame. And here I was thinking what a great place this would be to raise a family." He gestured at his cell around them.
"On the bright side, we did find out that it's not radioactive enough to be seriously dangerous, unlike your blood."
"Well. Nonfatal spunk. What more could a man ask for. What've you brought me this time?"
"They want us to start testing your mental capabilities, to see whether those have changed." Doc pulled out a folder full of papers. "IQ test, personality test-"
"I hate tests," he snapped.
"Sorry, A. The boys upstairs say you're taking tests now."
"What's my bribe today?"
"Got you a couple more DVDs and some chocolate bars."
"Chocolate bars." He felt an echo of the cold rage from the first few days after he'd gotten the serum injections. "Bloody chocolate bars."
Doc's face changed into a professional mask. He was afraid. Emil liked that.
"There's a limit to how much they can do for you. Is there something else you'd like instead?"
"Yes," he growled. "I asked for a woman."
"They can't-"
"Can't? Can't? You mean the same way they can't shoot me full of experimental drugs, declare me dead, and keep me here indefinitely?"
"Please calm down-"
"Oh, I'm calm," Emil said. He was still and cold like a mountain on the verge of an avalanche. "I'm perfectly bloody calm. But that won't do you any good, because I'm not Bruce bloody Banner."
He changed.
When the change had finished, two of the technicians were already scrambling up the rope ladder. He grabbed it with one hand and yanked, whirled, sent both of them smashing into the wall with the crunch of breaking bones.
Doc was still standing on the ground, masking his fear, trying to talk the Abomination down.
"I respect your courage, little man," Emil said. "You get to live."
The other two he crushed, snapping their spines, savoring their screams.
His handlers, above, were just watching. They knew that there was nothing they could do. If he tried to escape, if it looked like he'd make it, they would probably blow up the whole place. Until then, their safest move was to appease him.
He liked that.
He changed back, nude and covered in blood.
"No tests today," he told Doc flatly. "Get someone to clean this place up. After that, the next person I see climb down that ladder I'm either killing or fucking. Got it?"
"Got it," Doc whispered.
Emil walked away from the terrified man and took a long, hot shower.