Hey there, welcome to my nanowrimo project!

I've never done nanowrimo before, and decided I'd try writing fic instead of something original.

This is an AU, but I don't think it requires any particular explanation beyond what's in the story. It's rated T at this point, mostly to be safe, but that may change.

Thanks, as always, to my beta bequirk, who is pretty much the best.

No one ever sets out to cause the deaths of 17,000 people, but that's just the kind of luck Bruce had.

Despite what they were saying on the news, he hadn't meant to do it. He wasn't even entirely sure it was his fault at all, couldn't think how it possibly could be.

All he'd ever wanted to do was his job, and that's what he had been doing. Working on a project that was supposed to save lives.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, he thought to himself, trudging along, one foot in front of the other. The road today seemed to be paved primarily with ice, which was fairly unpleasant, but the cold and miserable weather was the least of his concerns. More pressing to his mind was the newscast he'd heard on the radio earlier today. It seemed that Washington had finally managed to get their shit together enough to send out a hit team to find the man responsible for the disaster in Manhattan four days ago.

That man, in case it wasn't clear, was Bruce.

Sure, no one on the radio had used the phrase "hit team." They'd all said "multi-agency task force." But Bruce knew that any team sent to look for him would probably be aiming to do a lot more than just find him. He was being called a terrorist. After what everyone thought he'd done, he knew he'd be lucky if ever saw the inside of a jail cell. No, he expected that he'd find his brains blown out in a spectacular red fan against the white snow sometime in the next few days.

Really, he wasn't too upset by the idea, didn't find himself too much in opposition to it. After four days of living in the forest of northern New York state in the middle of January, he wasn't too far from dead anyway.

Bruce Banner, aka Robert Bruce Banner, PhD, was a physicist. A nuclear physicist, specifically, though he'd spent the last several years working on a top secret project in biophysics. The project had been supervised by the Department of Defense, specifically by one General Thaddeus Ross. The project involved nanites with a military application.

The model he'd developed were bacteria based, and Bruce and his team grew them in massive colonies. The test tubes and plates, several thousand of them, at this point, were kept in a locked freezer in a locked lab, and they were handled only by those who had been certified to do so and then only by someone wearing full protective gear.

The reason for this was, well, despite how long he'd been working on them, Bruce hadn't yet managed to get the nanites to do what he wanted them to do. In theory, they would amplify a soldier's metabolism, strength, speed, healing, and so on. Create a "supersoldier," as it were. In practice, though, exposure to the nanites had proven fatal in all cases. Several hundred dead mice attested to that. It was an issue, sure, but the DOD had seemingly unlimited funding and no one had ever suggested that Bruce needed to hurry it up a little or at the very least, stop murdering rodents en masse.

In some cases, the nanites caused immediate death, the mice bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose, as the nanites caused massive internal bleeding and hemorrhage. In other cases, the mice lasted longer, minutes, sometimes, or even an hour.

But they all died in the end.

Four days ago, that project had come to a sudden and surprising end when for some reason, his lab had...exploded. Actually, the whole building had. Bruce had been lucky; he'd been in the lobby, he'd managed to make it out before the whole thing came down, all 36 stories of it. Somehow, he'd been largely unscathed despite the rain of glass and steel beams.

That was the last time luck was in his favor.

He'd escaped the building. And somehow, he'd apparently managed to escape what 17,000 other people hadn't: the cloud of nanites from his lab that had descended on Manhattan.

Bruce had the blood of several hundred mice on his hands...and now, 17,000 dead New Yorkers.

But for some reason, he'd survived.

Immediately post-explosion, Bruce hadn't been able figure out why he was still alive. Granted, his mind hadn't been the clearest—he'd been bruised and dazed, confused, terrified. But as he'd been stumbling away from the wreckage of the building, he'd seen people literally falling over dead in the street, the effects of the nanites in some cases instantaneous. Others simply bled from their noses, a sign of their imminent death. Even in his confused state, Bruce had known they were doomed, recognized the signs from what had happened to all of the mice.

He'd been just as exposed, if not more so, than those people, yet he was seemingly unaffected? It didn't make sense.

His first instinct after the building fell had been to go home. Probably not the most logical, but when he'd found himself surrounded by death and blood and mayhem, his ears ringing, a biting cold wind nipping at his face, all he'd wanted was his bed and about 48 hours of sleep. The emergency responders hadn't paid him any attention, as they'd been too busy trying to save who they could and dying themselves, and everyone at the scene had been too busy, too overwhelmed by the hordes of people falling dead that no one had thought to stop the white-coated scientist wandering around, and eventually away from, the catastrophe.

He'd gotten home, somehow, dazed and unaware of the looks he was getting on the subway, unaware of his neighbors' shocked expressions as they saw the dusty, grimy, bloody man limp up the stairs to his apartment. Bruce had immediately gotten into the shower where he stayed for almost an hour, just standing there, feeling somehow cold and hot at the same time.

When he'd gotten out of the shower, he'd turned on the television.

Every channel was showing the same thing. Every channel was covering the lab disaster, every channel showing the rapidly escalating death count. And every channel was looping a clip of General Ross stating clearly and concisely that the blame for this disaster, for the the thousands of dead citizens, could be laid solely at the feet of one Dr. Robert Bruce Banner, a bitter, angry man who wanted revenge for losing his research funding.

A terrorist, who'd blown up his lab as an attack on innocent Americans.

Strangely, Bruce didn't remember it happening that way. Not quite.

Had his nanites killed those people? Yes. There was no doubt about that.

The thought had sickened him as he realized it was true, and he'd thrown up on his shoes.

When he'd recovered, gasping, wiping bile off his chin, the death count had gone up by another 200 people and he'd had to struggle not to give in to the panic, the guilt.

He wasn't a terrorist. He hadn't attacked anyone.

He was a bad man, yes, but not an evil one. A killer, but not a murderer.

Shaking his head, Bruce had tuned back into the news, just in time to see Ross say that they were looking for Dr. Banner's body. Probably, the General said, Banner had died in his violent attack, made it a suicide mission, but if not...when they found him...well. That was still a matter of speculation.

Bruce did not think, though, that the matter required much speculation. He thought it seemed very clear what was going to happen, and then he panicked. He didn't stop to think, didn't stop to consider that the lab explosion made no sense, that Ross's statement was completely out of the blue. All he knew was that he was being blamed. Publicly. For intentionally killing 17,000 people.

They were going to kill him.

He needed to get out of the city now while everyone still thought he was dead, lying crushed under tons and tons of steel and concrete. That was his only hope for survival.

Bruce had packed as fast as he could, changing his clothes and dressing himself in layers and then throwing the rest of his warmest clothes into a bag with a radio, flashlight, and batteries. Then, he'd tossed in some blankets and matches and a water bottle. He'd stopped in the kitchen to grab what calorie-dense food he thought could survive the journey and then he was gone.

Getting out of the city had been easy. People were tuned into their phones, their tablets, whispering to each other in small groups. No one was paying close attention to the skittish man on the subway with his backpack, face buried in his own cell phone as he watched the news unfold.

As he watched the death count click up.

Bruce took the train north until he thought he was far enough away from Manhattan, then he disembarked and started heading north. He caught a bus, first, that took him to a small town. He stopped in a sporting goods store there to buy snowshoes, a map, and a compass—cursing himself for having to pay with credit—and then he turned his phone off. He was officially off the grid.

So he'd thought.

After that, Bruce had hitchhiked, thumb out and all, with a trucker who seemed to buy Bruce's hastily concocted story about wanting to 'find himself' in nature. In January.

Getting away from civilization was easy. Staying there, though, was not.

Bruce had never lived outside before. He'd never even gone camping. But he now found himself living outdoors in the middle of winter, and he discovered he was woefully unprepared. Not surprisingly, really, but definitely disheartening.

His plan had been to head north through the States, towards Canada, scavenging what food he could along the way, finding shelter where he could. Once he was in Canada, he could try to claim asylum and get this mess figured out, starting with why Ross had pinned the explosion on him.

Within a day Bruce realized that this plan was wildly optimistic.

Within two days, he realized that he was going to die in the woods.

Within three cold, miserable, hungry days, he was mostly okay with that.

So on day four, when he heard they were finally coming to look for him, all he felt was relief.

At noon, Bruce stopped for "lunch." He found a small, sheltered hollow underneath a hill and cleared as much snow from the ground as he could before he sat down.

His food supplies were dwindling rapidly. He hadn't packed much to begin with and he hadn't been able to replenish along the way, like he'd planned to do. Still, he had some peanut butter and crackers and he had melted snow in his water bottle. Nothing much, really, and his stomach protested when he made himself stop after five crackers in an attempt to ration what he had left.

To distract himself, Bruce pulled out his map. After a few minutes, he was able to work out more or less where he was, which was disappointing because he was still in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization. He was moving so slowly.

He sighed and pulled out his radio, hoping to check in on the news. Before he could turn it on, though, he heard voices.

Bruce's first thought was that he was hallucinating, that days of short rations and freezing temperatures had addled his brain. But then he realized the voices were talking about him.

"...cell signal is in this area, Clint, I told you that already," said a female voice, cast low, barely above a murmur.

"Are you sure? I hate this goddamn weather," a male voice groused, louder. "I'm freezing my ass—"

"Shh," said the first voice, harsh.

There was complete silence.

Bruce barely had time to register what was happening, to make the decision that he had to move and now before he heard a soft 'click' from the hill above him.

"Don't move," said the woman.

Immediately Bruce froze, half-crouched. Then he disobeyed and looked up, tilting his head back, and focusing immediately on the gun barrel that was pointed straight down between his eyes.

"Dr. Banner?" the man said. "Put your hands on your head and get on your knees."

Slowly, Bruce did as he was told, intimately aware of the gun pointed at the back of his head. Part of him was confused, stunned that he'd been found so quickly, but mostly he was tired.

And surprised that he hadn't been shot on sight.

"You wanna call this in?" The man—Clint—asked his partner.

"Yeah," she replied. "Cuff him, I'll get Coulson on the comm." To Bruce, she called, "My partner is coming down there. Make one wrong move and I'll put a bullet in your brain, do you understand?"

Bruce did. He nodded.

A moment later, he felt cold metal circling one wrist, then the other. The actions were swift, efficient, and once the cuffs were on, Bruce dropped his hands down behind his back. Only then did the agent step in front of him. Well, he shuffled—he was wearing snowshoes, though they looked way more fancy and high-tech than the ones Bruce had bought. He was also wearing some really intense-looking outdoor gear, including a face mask and goggles that obscured most of his face.

"I'm Agent Clint Barton, SHIELD. Up there is my partner Natasha Romanoff. Are you Dr. Robert Bruce Banner?"

Bruce thought that they should have established this before handcuffing him and shoving a gun in his face, but given the fact he was a 'terrorist,' he supposed he didn't blame them. "Yes."

"You're being detained for questioning regarding the incident of January 17th in New York City. Do you know what incident I'm referring to?"

Given the news coverage the event had received, Bruce didn't think there was anyone in creation who didn't know that. "Yes."

"Good. Our superior officers have authorized the use of deadly force if you resist. Are you going to resist?"

"No." Bruce didn't think he could resist even if he'd wanted to. He was cold, hungry, and exhausted. Getting arrested and not shot was the best thing that had happened to him in days. Maybe he'd be able to get this whole mess straightened out after all. It seemed like his luck was turning around.

Apparently satisfied, Barton called up to his partner, "Hey, Nat, do we have an extraction coming or what?"

"One hour, two miles due west of here," she replied.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Barton muttered. He grabbed Bruce's elbow and hoisted him to his feet, supporting the extra weight effortlessly. "Come on, let's get going."

Together, they climbed the hill, and Bruce finally got a look at Barton's partner. She, too, was adorned in gear that mostly hid her features, though a few strands of bright red hair had escaped and were blowing around in the frigid wind. She was tucking her gun back into a holster at her hip when they emerged over the ridge, and she appraised Bruce with cool efficiency. "Dr. Banner. We're heading to an extraction point. It's going to be a bit of a walk. Do you think you can make it?"

The question took Bruce off guard momentarily, but then it clicked. He must look like hell. Four days without showering or shaving, almost no food, freezing wind in his face. To be honest, he felt like hell, too, but two more miles didn't sound insurmountable. "I think I'll make it."

She nodded. "Good. You'll walk in front of us. You try to run, we shoot you. You try to attack, we shoot you. You do anything other than walk in the direction we tell you to, we shoot you. Is that clear?"

Bruce cleared his throat. "Um. Crystal."

With that, they headed west.

The walk was very quiet. Barton and Romanoff spoke occasionally, but with the wind, Bruce couldn't make much out. Most of it sounded like Barton complaining about the weather.

Bruce took the time to try to remember what he knew about SHIELD. Sadly, it wasn't much. As far as government agencies went, they flew way under the radar. There were TV shows about the CIA and the FBI, even NCIS, but nothing like that existed about SHIELD. Most Americans didn't even know they existed. Bruce only did because he'd seen their logo on a purchase order and had gone digging, and he hadn't been able to find much. As far as Bruce remembered, they were an international organization that dealt primarily with the most dangerous people on Earth.

He wasn't happy to find himself in that category.

But given what Ross had said, had accused him of...it wasn't really a surprise.

The extraction point turned out to be a clearing in the woods, and when Bruce stepped out of the tree cover, he saw a black helicopter settled on top of the snow.

Behind him, he heard Barton say sharply, "Wait."

Then, "That isn't ours." He stepped forward.

Romanoff stepped forward, too, flanking Bruce. "Who is it? FBI?"

Barton shook his head once, roughly. "No. I don't know—"

A single gunshot rang out, clear in the cold, silent forest.

Bruce barely had time to think, Well, so much for my luck turning around before his world went black.

The blood was bright, bright red, a spectacular fan against the cold, frozen ground.

Half an hour and four miles away, Bruce Banner opened his eyes and shivered, naked in the snow.

Thanks for reading! Chapter 2 is mostly written, should be forthcoming.

Please review!