**A note from Shado. Well, I'm pleased to see that you guys are willing to give this idea a shot. I'm still not quite sure how this story is going to develop but I'm getting clearer ideas as I continue it. To you new readers, welcome to my insanity; its a scary place that you've ventured into. In case you're wondering; I've always pictured Hulk as being more intelligent that he was ever given credit for... it only makes sense to me, since he's still Bruce. So, I'm going to go with that for the foundation of his personality. I don't see him as just pure rage... more like pain and rage coupled with intellect. I just hope I can convey that in the future installments. So... here you go... let the insanity commence. DOVAHKIIN!**
Chapter Two: Crab Salad Anyone?
Hulk hit the ground running. He kept Pretty Bird cradled against his chest as he bounded through the thick trees. A light snow was falling but it didn't bother him in the least. He leapt over a boulder and down toward the river he could see through the trees. There was a road ahead, but he ignored it, wanting to get as far from his landing point as possible. He was a creature of instinct; and all his instincts told him this was not safe. His nose wrinkled with the stark odor of burning wood and flesh. Those two scents spurred him to move away; toward the mountains across the river. As he waded across, he could see something close to the pinnacle of the mountain in front of him. He scowled at it, his head cocked, considering.
Creatures moved in the trees on the banks of the river but he didn't sense any threat from them; grass eaters, he thought. In his arms, Pretty Bird moaned, a soft pain filled noise. His scowl deepened and mind made up, he began the climb to the structure on the mountain. He moved cautiously, not from fear or trepidation, for he didn't know those feelings; but because he didn't wish to risk any further harm to his Pretty Bird. A gentle wind stirred the leaves under foot, carrying the distant smell of fire. It was just a bare hint of it now and he grunted in satisfaction. About half way up the mountain, the rank smell of big cat tickled his nose and he tightened his hold on Pretty Bird.
There was a bastion of boulders protecting the structure but a goat track to the right gave him access. From somewhere in his instinct driven mind, he had the presence of mind to approach it slowly. He paused; sniffing the air cautiously, looking for any possible threat. It didn't smell occupied; and he couldn't see any sign that it was inhabited. The smell of dust and elements meant that it had been abandoned for quite some time.
It was a tall structure, made of carved stone. Moss and lichen covered the stone, giving it a bit of camouflage against the backdrop of the mountainside. The remnants of a cobbled road, well overgrown led through a broken archway, to what had been the central entrance. But time had taken its toll on this place; the cobbles were missing, cracked and broken. The archway was in dire peril of collapse. He stepped slowly onto the portico, keeping Pretty Bird protected by his bulk. She moaned again and his sense of urgency grew. Yet he wasn't going to just rush in; not when he had her to protect.
A few insects scurried away from him, the only signs of life that he could see. Two doors, equal to his height were cracked open and with a grunt of effort, he pushed them the rest of the way. The interior of the tower was in better repair than the outside. There was the detritus of its previous occupants scattered around to which he paid no attention. He carried Pretty Bird down the flight of circular stairs to the lower floor. There was another door but it was firmly closed. It was here that he laid his burden gently down.
He crouched at her side, dark eyes scanning her intently. It was obvious that she was fairly badly injured. He could see the burns on her arms and part of her face. Her clothing had protected her somewhat, but not nearly enough. He shuffled his feet, swaying with indecision. It was so much easier to smash things, than to fix things. He thought feverishly, trying to remember how to fix things. He knew that he could; he just couldn't remember how. He growled in agitation; frustrated that his mind wouldn't cooperate. His agitation growing, the need to smash became greater. His hands fisted and tightened, every iota of his existence craved the release that destruction would bring. But somewhere in him, he found the ability to keep from lashing out.
Banner fix. The thought floated up from somewhere. He ground his teeth at that. Banner fix Pretty Bird. That would mean relinquishing himself to his other half; the half that was weak. Not weak, just different. He didn't like giving up control, which was plain and simple. Didn't like be confined in the dark depths of the hell that was Banner's subconscious. But Pretty Bird needs Banner. His frustration boiled over and he smashed one fist into the stone wall, turning it into powder. His eyes fell on Pretty Bird, her injuries warring with his memories of her singing to him; the times she'd talked with him not Banner. How she'd treated him just like a person not a mindless creature.
"Pretty Bird," he grunted, crouching over her once more. He stretched on massive hand out to her, being very careful not to injure her further. "Banner fix Pretty Bird." He nodded emphatically; reaching into his own mind, searching for the part of him that was Banner. It was hard; not something he was used to doing; to actively seek out his other side. It took a lot of hard thought before he found where Banner slept in his own mind. With a sense of urgency he grabbed onto the slumbering psyche and forced it to wake. As Banner took over, Hulk roared at him, Fix Pretty Bird!
#
Bruce regained consciousness with a jolt. Confusion reigned supreme as he blinked blearily at his surroundings; his last coherent, unclouded memory was of the storm and Violet screaming for him to get out. From the aches and pains, he knew he'd transformed, the usual sense of exhaustion hovering around the edges of his mind.
"Where the hell?" he wondered out loud trying to get his bearings; to sort through the clouded thoughts that meant Hulk had been active. The structure he was in bore zero resemblance to anything he'd ever seen before; not even in his few visits to Thor's home in Asgard had he seen construction like this. The only familiar thing in the building was Violet, injured…memory clicked. Hulk's last roared command of Fix Pretty Bird echoed loudly. With an exclamation he bent over her; the smell of her burned flesh making him ill.
He took it in at a glance, severe burns on the lower face, both forearms, shoulders…. Her jumpsuit appeared to have protected her torso, but that meant little. Facial burns were life threatening at best; they usually indicated damage to the lungs, esophagus… the list of possible injuries was extensive.
"Hell," he swore softly as he did his assessment. He had no medications, nothing he could use. This made him realize that he was naked; yet again. Not for the first time, he wished Tony would get off his ass and come up with clothing that would survive the transformation. He stood, turning slowly around, eyes searching the room they were in. There were things scattered around; odds and ends of someone's life. A cup here, an overturned bowl, candles showing drips of wax; odd pieces that looked like some form of bronze… in a corner made by the curved wall and a small bookcase, he saw something that looked like a chest.
With a frown of hope, he knelt next to it, wincing slightly as the cold stone bit into his bare knees. He tried the lid but it was locked. Why am I not surprised? He thought. He picked up one of the pieces of bronze and banged it against the lock, hoping it would give. But several strikes later, he gave that up as a bad idea. The lock wasn't going to just break.
"Ok, I guess I can try to pick it…" he said softly to himself. He'd picked locks before, back before the Avengers; this shouldn't be too hard. He rifled through the stuff on the shelf, a few dried plants, an odd bluish colored gemstone, and a tattered, moldy book; looking for something to use as a pick. Not finding anything there, he began a systematic search of the room; worry spurring him to an almost frantic pace. Finally, under the stairs, he found a small, leather satchel that had definitely seen better days.
Opening it, he found some vials containing liquid, oddly lettered; dried flowers and some dried mushrooms and, wonder of wonders, lock picking tools. He set the other stuff aside, grasping the crude picks with a sense of triumph. There were only five, so he'd have to be careful; but he thought he could do it.
Biting his lip, he inserted the pick, moving it slowly until he felt something give. The lock moved a bit then froze again. He kept adjusting the pick's angle, the lock giving a little more movement. Then with a sharp snap, the first pick broke.
"Damn," he swore, dropping the now useless tool. He tried again, knowing he was getting closer. Finally with a soft click, two picks later, the lock released. He resisted the urge to whoop at his success. He opened the chest and felt relief bloom in his chest.
Clothing, folded neatly, was on top; he laid that aside for later. Underneath, he found more books, more vials, some strangely minted gold pieces, and weapons. Those he hefted out with care; the metal not something he recognized at all, but the craftsmanship was excellent. There was also a small pouch that upon opening contained a ruby and more dried flowers.
The clothing was a man's, well cared for, but in a style that faintly resembled something from the 11th century Viking era. "Better than being naked," he said to himself as he dressed. The clothing consisted of a tunic, pants and soft shoes; not a very good fit, but serviceable. His needs taken care of; he returned to Violet's side.
Thankfully, she was still unconscious. He tested her for fever, but her skin was cool; not clammy. He scowled; by rights she should be in shock; but there were no signs. Her pulse was strong and steady, her breathing easy… still, those burns needed to be cleaned and dressed to prevent infection. First things first; she needed to be made comfortable. Getting her out of the jump seat was arduous at best; moving her made her groan in pain and he just thanked whatever deity he could that she stayed out for it. He used the worn leather satchel under her head, the remains of his original clothing as padding between her and the floor.
Next he set about starting a fire, using some of the debris that littered the room. Lighting it was easy enough; luck had found them in keeping her ditty bag secured to the jump seat. He felt a little guilty about rifling it; it was after all her personal bag. He felt somewhat less guilty upon finding the small med kit with basic supplies. Clean, sterile bandages, some antibiotic cream, light pain meds… nothing earth shattering, but they would help the situation until he could find better supplies.
"Water," he said to the stillness. "Gonna need water." He didn't want to leave her alone, but water was definitely something they both needed. He picked up the discarded bowl, eyeing it for cracks; part of his mind registered that it was made out of the same strange bronze like metal and was actually very well constructed. He debated for only a moment about taking a weapon before deciding on the dagger that he'd found in the chest. The weight actually felt a little comforting in his hand; he just hoped he'd remembered the lessons that Nat and Clint had attempted to give him. Of course, he smiled a little self-deprecatingly, he'd probably not need it… but it paid to be cautious.
With a worried glance at Violet, he headed up the circular stairs. He hoped he could find water quickly; there was no guarantee that Hulk had even thought of something like that. The huge doors gave him a moment's pause. The craftsmanship was incredible, they seemed to have been cast from one mold, intricate designs making them works of art. Again, something he'd never seen before, he traced them with one hand, wondering just where the hell they were. Stepping through them, he froze in awe and shock.
"Definitely not Kansas," he breathed taking in the view on the portico. Mountains; taller than even the Alps, ringed the valley below. Tall trees that looked like pines dotted the slope, boulders strewn here and there as if tossed by someone. He could see the distant sparkle of water at the base of their sanctuary's perch and what appeared to be a dirt path or possibly a road. Wildlife ambled through the grass with multicolored wildflowers bobbing and weaving in their passage. Standing on the portico, he was momentarily overcome with a sense of peace; an odd feeling to be sure, since obviously they were in serious trouble.
Clutching the bowl in one hand and the other holding the dagger, he headed down the mountainside toward the river he could see. There were birds singing in the tree tops, small animals scurried into the underbrush at his approach. He startled several deer in the grasses; actually it was a toss up who was more startled- him or the deer. He thought he heard something in the distance, but wasn't sure what it was. It sounded like the scream of a jet engine, but a quick scan of the sky didn't reveal a jet. Still, he kept a wary eye out for whatever had made the sound.
Reaching the road without incident, he peered cautiously to and fro, eyes noting that it looked to be well traveled, a mélange of hoof prints and footprints giving him the idea that perhaps this might be the Appalachians and the road part of that famous trail. That would explain some of this; he'd never been to those mountains thus couldn't be expected to recognize the area. Still that didn't explain the odd clothing or anything else he'd found… but then, he had a thought, a rather random one. A memory of Tony talking animatedly about some type of game called a larp… could it be one of those game things?
"Well that would explain this stuff," he muttered stepping out onto the road. It was possible, he supposed, that the structure had been built and furnished for one of those games. If that was the case, he continued the train of thought as he walked from the road to the river's edge; then there's got to be a town near by. A town meant phones, possibly a doctor or hospital…
He almost stepped on it, so deep was his concentration. The only warning was a rattling click and a blur of movement at his feet. Startled he stumbled back; bowl dropping from his hand as the biggest crab he'd ever seen popped out of the mud at the river's edge. For several heartbeats, all he could do was stare. The thing was huge; at least four feet across with pincers three feet long that were waving menacingly at him. The eye stalks tracked the bowl's fall and the crab, if that's what it is, he thought wildly, darted after it, drawn by the movement. But its feint missed the bowl and as he moved back, the crab turned its attention to him; scuttling forward more rapidly than something that size should. He barely managed to dodge the attack, swinging wildly at the monster with his dagger.
As the metal blade met with the pincer, the crab scuttled back just a bit, but recovered quickly. Bruce managed to parry another pincer, and reached for Hulk; but for some reason the Big Guy didn't respond. Shit, he cursed. His energy reserves were too low for a transformation it seemed. It happened on a rare occasion; the battle from early in the day coupled with the emergency had worn him out. He dodged again, swinging the blade once more. This time there was a satisfying crack as the dagger caught the joint behind the pincer, partially severing it. The crab-creature screamed shrilly but continued its advance. A branch caught at his foot, almost dumping him to the ground, which he knew would be a really bad thing. Barely recovering his balance, he grabbed the branch with his free hand, jamming it into the advancing pincer. The edges bit into the wood and stuck; for which he was grateful. With a snarl that was faintly reminiscent of Hulk, he stabbed the dagger as hard as he could into the crack between the carapace and under shell of the crab. His grimace of distaste was slightly feral as the crab bucked against the blade. He twisted it, shoving it deeper. With a fading shriek the creature went limp.
He pulled the blade out, eyes still on the barely twitching crab-thing. "Well," he said softly suddenly giddy. "Looks like we're having crab salad for dinner."
