Thank you for reading. Comments (I'm open to critiques, I want people to enjoy this story) are very appreciated and motivating, and I want to extend a special thanks to those who take the time to do so. People like you help keep writers happy, inspired, and writing!
Despite S.H.I.E.L.D's monetary canyon, which undoubtedly contains millions — if not billions — of dollars, the quarters provided on the aircraft could pass for a sterile prison cell. The unpainted steel of metal walls replaces the sunrise of a new day. A slim design prohibits a single window in any of the bedroom chambers; so, when Bruce awakens, it's solely him and the cobalt grey. One locker is the keeper of the bag of possessions he brought on this mission. Otherwise, S.H.I.E.L.D has not squandered any of their obscene finances on frivolous furnishings. At least they indulged him in procuring a decent mattress.
As he stretches off thin shrouds of sleep, the analog clock ticks at him. 5:56 AM.
The shock of panic is an instant shot of espresso. He scrambles out of the blanket tangle into the condensed bathroom, where his first order of business is to splash tepid water on the brown cotton ball sleep has mused out of his hair. A shower and breakfast will have to wait. In the dim, toothbrush and fluoride foam dangling from his mouth, he snatches clothes of a similar dark hue and exchanges his sleep apparel for those.
Some spitting, rinsing, and pants-leg jiggling and he's stumbling across the chrome sleek floors to the heavy door, which he slides open.
Sans bedhead and rather bright-eyed, Lenora and Berhanu await on the other side. The former individual is propped against a wall, while the boy is planted so close to the doorway that Bruce nearly collides with him.
"So-sorry," is the first thing that tumbles out.
"Change of plans, Doctor Banner." With her accent, the r in his name drops off. "No meeting. There's some rogue mutant in Ethiopia."
Not at all disappointed by the last minute cancellation, he comments, simple, semi-groggy, "Oh." Then, as his functioning brain catches up with his body, "How did you know I was here? Or that this is my room?"
Just like the day prior, she wiggles her fingers, ever so nonchalant, and says, "Vibrations." As if that's a proper explanation.
While maintaining rock-steady eye contact with Bruce, the other young adult rolls off a few sentences in his native tongue.
"Right. Don't need the cavalry coming after us." Lenora replied, propelling herself off the wall and down the metal plated hall.
Though he gestures for Berhanu to proceed before himself, the boy would not budge until Bruce trotted off after the lick of artificial scarlet strolling toward an undiscovered catastrophe.
"Glad you could join us, doctor." To refrain from hinting at any real bias, Jung keeps his tone winter morning cold.
At 0643, their descent from the horizon finishes and debriefing begins. Officers of high rank convene in a suspended room that overlooks the hangar, where soldiers organize themselves into formation, prepared with weapons from the armory. Among the cadet blue and grey uniforms, the two mutated adults are not difficult to spot, outfitted in casual wear. Everyone looks equipped to engage while they seemingly belong on a college campus.
Jung commands attention with a steady boom of a voice. Diagrams, manilla folders, and profiles decorate the war room table, obscuring S.H.I.E.L.D's emblem. "We received reports of a collapsed municipal building following an amber alert." He reports, hands clasped behind his back, stony expression unwavering. "Our subject disappeared at approximately 2300 hours last night. Parents reported an explosion in their home. She is an eleven year old African female — brown eyes, shaved head. There is a medium-sized scar above her left ear, crescent shaped. She was last seen wearing yellow Care Bear pajamas."
There is something hilariously wrong about the strict, no-nonsense commander mentioning the Care Bears so seriously. To veil a smirk, Bruce brought his fist to his mouth.
Void of humor, Jung concludes with a warning, "It's thought this mutant can manipulate the rate of erosion, so proceed carefully. Advise troops to exercise caution. And be swift. The longer the subject runs rampant, the more damage she does. Dismissed."
What a shame it would be if some terrified little girl caused damage to public property, Bruce comments to no one but himself. Even if he had the gall to give the thought a voice, it's doubtless anyone in the shifting mass of agents would pay him any heed. These higher-ranking officers head down to the hangar to prepare troops for combat against a child, and he turns to seek shelter in the tranquility of his lab.
It seems Jung holds other plans for him. "Doctor." The throngs of people part effortlessly to allow the commander's passage across the conference room. Meanwhile, the door only a few feet from Bruce eludes him. "We need you in the field."
Perhaps their car conversation and his reluctance had not enlightened this new leader. Though any assertive act incited risk, prodding the menace that lurked within the code of Jung's very being, Bruce takes the opportunity to clarify once and for all, "I'm not using the Hulk against a child." An unidentified uniform bumps squarely into his shoulder without notice of him or his statement.
Jung grins like he's peering down at a toddler that knows no better. "She may be a child, but she's not harmless." He inserts a pause long enough to allow stragglers to vacate the room.
Bruce trains his gaze on the backs of uniforms, his throat sore with regret. He should've allowed them to sweet him down their riptide. It seems he would've ended in the same place anyway.
Without an audience, Jung does not soften, but becomes stoic instead of coarse. "We need you to monitor the deviants."
'Deviants.' That's a new one. Bruce balances on a slim line with wielding bluntness as a tool of curiosity instead of a weapon of impatience. "Isn't that Jones' job?"
"Jones has proven himself to be an inadequate supervisor. In any case, he has informed me that the two mutants are fond of you."
Did the young agent relay this information in the form of a report or an act of juvenile revenge? As with most every case in this clandestine establishment, later analysis would be required.
Oblivious to these innerworkings and conclusions, though, Jung comments further, "They trust you."
They might trust Jones too, if he treated them like people. To give that thought volume, however, would assassinate his character within the agency. Instead, he refutes feebly, "I have their blood samples I can analyze them in the lab—"
"Doctor Banner — we haven't seen their mutations in action yet. We don't know that either of them are capable of, especially the boy."
Berhanu, Bruce supplies quietly.
"We need you there to watch them and report your findings back."
Exasperation breaks through in an emerald crackle. "And ensure they don't go rogue."
"That would help," he replies, as though Bruce had not posed the statement as a ludicrous concept.
Regardless of perception or intention, pathological deconstruction and genetic deciphering would have to wait until his spontaneous babysitting shift concluded.
The two young adults more than compensate for the enthusiasm he lacks. A dearth of S.H.I.E.L.D insignia and uniform makes them a motley trio. Every soldier has orders ingrained into their training. Their schedule, when and how they eat, sleep, speak is all dictated by command. Together, squadrons deploy from the hangar as it opens to the midday boiling heat. Gun attached to his torso, Jones marches out with his comrades in one of the first platoons out. Bruce, Lena, and Berhanu serve as their own commanders, walking out behind the blue swell.
The tidal wave of shaved heads and constricted buns disperses in square chunks down wide streets, around cars abandoned in the middle of intersections. Bruce attempts to relay the identity of the lost girl, but something unseen sparks a rant from Berhanu.
Under the giant whir of the idling aircraft, Lena hisses, "Slow down."
Never faltering with the smile rooted into his cheeks, Berhanu reduces speed to a teasing pace.
"Well I don't speak it fluently, alright?"
Bruce cuts in, "What's going on?"
Hesitation stalls her long enough for him to notice, to glance over and catch her stolen glimpse at her companion.
"He thinks he smells her. Over there." Her gesture directs them away from the main street into a conglomerate of squat, stone structures. "And gravity is being odd over there, so…"
The two juniors look to him for initiative. Him, who specialty is avoiding confrontation and admiring the restraint of pacifists. This duo needs Tony, Steve, or even Thor.
Nonetheless, those guys are absent, off existing in beautifully mundane civilization, preoccupied with normalcy. He is the one here, the one S.H.I.E.L.D recruited for this mission. This is now his decision.
"Lead the way," he says, making a conscious effort to avoid an air of self-doubt.
Lena knocks Berhanu forward, triumphant. "Let's go, yeah?"
They take off, chasing gravity. The problem: the girl they seek manipulates erosion, layers of sediment, and there were no reports of abnormal gravitational behaviors.
He follows at a jog, keeping a healthy distance. It's not that he doesn't have faith in what they're detecting. The doubt lies in who claims to perceive it.
At a decent pace, they duck away from marching, monitoring S.H.I.E.L.D personnel. The ranks track through destruction, but Bruce and the mutants have artificially enhanced senses on their side. Berhanu leads — smelling, Lenora claims — but more frequently pauses to touch a building, a metal post, then orients them. Flushed and swinging dampness from her untied hair, Lena tries to keep on his heels, panting off her fatigue. Every corner they turn, each stretch exposed to the arid morning sun makes Bruce regret not packing any shorts.
The farther they run, buildings start to change. Stone becomes wood, painted in vibrant turquoise, oranges, and yellows. An average of two stories diminishes to one, and more unwarned faces occupy the sand dust roads.
They stop on the porch of a long, white building topped by a roof with mismatching red patches. Unlike several other structures, glass guards the holes which windows occupy. Here, there are no squealing children, idling adults, no lights flicked on. The windows are closed, glowering at the outside sunshine.
Berhanu flattens both palms against the frame of an entryway with a door propped open with a rock. Lena drops to the ground, using her knuckles to support herself like a crouched chimpanzee.
"Yeah, she's here." Lena confirms in an exhale. "B, you should go in."
For approval, he looks, once again, to Bruce. Log alone presents no reason for his protest, and personal curiosity provides a motive for wanting to talk to one of the two alone — even if this isn't an ideal time. S.H.I.E.L.D's smothering security doesn't touch these lands, though.
So Bruce nods, and Berhanu takes the cue to slip in.
Cautious footsteps echo on porcelain tile, bouncing away from the entrance toward the room's center, where the reverberations cease.
In the molded stillness, Bruce seizes the chance to utter his wonder, "Is Berhanu in there because he's the one who senses frequencies?"
Stray pebbles crunch under Lenora's shoes as she eases upward. A rose blush unaccredited to heat or running fatigue stains the rims of her ears. Inside the structure, there's a simple call, what could be a greeting or a warning. A peal of squealed laughter ripples through the town street.
She does not turn to respond. "We need to know we can trust you."
"So you started by lying to me."
A door slams in the distance. The sun grows in power, trying to glare into the shadows that shelter them. Again, volume constant, Berhanu repeats himself.
"We're lying to everyone. Don't take it personally." In a swift step, she turns and crosses to the other side of the door, opposing him. Berhanu coaxes the unseen with short, chipper beckons in his native language. "He wanted to tell you, though."
"I'm not here to treat you like experiments," he implores, restraining the bubbling in his gut, the growl underneath his lungs. They've been treated like monsters, he reminds himself, appealing to empathy to defuse the trap of aggravation. "You're victims. I could find a way to help."
"And he believes you." Her retort comes with haste. The street laugher has ceased. Berhanu continues to coax. "But I'm not gonna let anyone hurt us. Not Jung, not the bastard who did this, not you."
That jabs at his own dormant beast. Anger simmers into outrage, winds its scalding ropes around his muscles and pushes, strains at layers of sunbaked peach skin. Tremors intrude on his breathing, and he must slow himself before an earthquake begins.
Wisely, Lenora takes a step back and tells him, "I need to know I can trust you."
In a whirlwind, she evaporates around a corner, as nonexistent as clouds in today's sky. He inhales warmth through his nostrils, down his lungs, into the bottom of his diaphragm. His chest and ribcage open, then clamp shut on the tyrant too eager to emerge. It's a temporary measure — always awaiting the next transformation — but should permit him long enough to chase her down.
After skid marks in dirt and a lick of red hair, he chases and calls, "Lena!"
From the back of the building, a yip responds, and out a streak of sandy white emerges. A blur zooms by him on four legs, no trace of crimson.
This was absolutely not in the job description. Then again, it never is with S.H.I.E.L.D.
With that at the forefront of his mind, he eases to a stop, long enough to roll his eyes, then doubles back.
It's not far, but the hyena has positioned itself at the mouth of the alley, panting and crouched to strike. Behind her, a gangly child secured in front of his chest, Berhanu dashes away from the encroaching silence that has overcome the local street.
"Berhanu!" He calls, slowing. The closer he nears, the louder the hyena growls.
The girl outfitted in jubilant yellow snaps her head toward his voice and releases a yelp followed by a warning tremor. He's not even green and he's still a monster to this child.
He stands down this new form of Lenora. "Lena, I don't want to hurt you or her." To demonstrate his pacifism, he tries to ease around her.
An eerily anthropomorphic howl smacks him in the gut, then she lunges, nipping at his dust-soaked pant legs.
"Lenora!" It's not himself who shouts; his mouth is merely a vessel for the menace that's been roused. Radioactive hatred tears the seams of his gut apart. The muscles in his back seize in a constant riptide, spurring a vortex of tension that twists his skin into pinching pain. Thorns sprout inside his lungs, along his ribs.
From beyond, where dangers lesser than what is within him lie, a command comes, "Stop him!"
Lena slinks away with a foreboding snarl, then flings herself into the middle of the street, right in the path of however many troops approach. A low buzz hums underneath the surface as boots stomp together, squashing the ground beneath them with a simultaneous crunch. This off-white and desert dirt hyena doesn't budge.
Some lieutenant, whose programming has replaced his critical thinking, bellows, "Take care of that, soldiers!"
A metal hammer bashes against the side of his skull, cracking Bruce away piece by piece until beast flesh swells through. Merciless fingers dig through his lobes, wrenching apart thoughts, cohesion, and sense in the hunt for him. Resisting an invasion, he collapses to his knees.
A firecracker pop thuds among the disarray of boots on gravel. Both entities within this one body knew, Gun.
Without instruction from either man or beast, Bruce's limbs dragged along dirt, pulling him forward through a humid shroud of soot. The buildings on either side could have fallen away, for a tunnel encloses around him. As he crawls, it feels as though he's entering a solar flare; it forms a pod and tugs him toward the crux of the primordial Sun. Every shuffle is a compromise with the ravenous green, fed by frustration, obstructed by concern — concern and years upon years of practice, failed trials, minor disasters — for a kindred creature.
Unsure of how far he's moved, a verbal exclamation shoots out automatically with his voice. "Hey!" Fire sears his tongue, snakes into his chest. Still, he crawls, he yells, "Hey!"
"Hold your fire!" A previous voice booms. Padded feet shift, kick up a dirt haze as they gallop away. "Jones — find and apprehend the mutants! Mercer — secure Doctor Banner."
No, Bruce thinks to the fools uneducated in his capability for terror. An earthquake rumbles through his bones from Hulk's growl. The tunnel of scorch silences both with a surge of flame that snuffs out their spark of consciousness.
Fewer than two dozen people on this planet have access to this phone. All of them S.H.I.E.L.D-affiliated, all numbers saved, all outside the reach of persistent telemarketers. The destruction of Asgard is more likely than an unknown, unauthorized number appearing on this screen.
Yet, here they are — device buzzing, digits instead of a contact name displayed. If Nick Fury distributed this number, he may find himself without his one functional eye.
A past of hiding off the grid, refusing to fly on the same radar as everyone else, insists against answering. The potential fallout that could result should the call go unheeded overrides the implanted instinct.
Breath more quiet than the country air, a hand draws the device upward, posed to listen. A beat passes. Overgrown grass rustles. From inside, a child yelps, then tiny footsteps thunder on wood. It's not loud enough for the receiver to detect.
"Agent Romanoff?"
A U.S. military standard voice emerges, clearly dictated, unnerved. Another beat.
"Agent Romanoff?"
Unsteadiness seeps in. Worry, dread, perhaps irritation — it doesn't matter. The stranger tries to suppress it, and almost does so without a hitch. It makes him a more skilled deceiver than other men, though still not nearly good enough to trick her.
Without confirmation, she asks her own question, "How did you get this number?"
"I was recruited by Agents Brenda Liu and Ali Elizabeth to work under Commander Maria Hill—"
"That's enough." S.H.I.E.L.D would have to purchase her a new phone — one that Maria wasn't privy to. That, unfortunately, did not change the fact that some operative had her on the line. "This is Agent Romanoff."
"I'm Asher Jung, deputy strategist for a special forces division—"
"An illegal division." What unbastardized fraction of S.H.I.E.L.D remained was to keep quiet, not engage with the public. This sounds like the opposite, and they want to rope her into it.
"According to the world's major political leaders, yes." He admits begrudgingly. "This division is operating out of concern for the global population's welfare."
Supposedly, something was always threatening the global population. It varied depending on who they asked. Only a minute fraction of those surveyed had any clue as to the actual menaces in this universe. But she'd listen to what this soldier boy had to say, see if he had any scrap of sense.
"Three weeks ago, we witnessed an influx of seemingly supernatural events in several countries. The individuals affected were all below the age of twenty five and, thus far, it appears that is the only commonality."
"What were these events?"
"We observed displays of superhuman abilities with high degrees of variability. Some observed phenomena included reports of X-ray vision, mutated photographic memory, voluntarily divided appendages, and so on."
He has her attention. "Strong kids."
"Um...yes." Pretending as though her comment were fiction, he continues, "We have two mutants in custody and Doctor Banner examining them. We had hoped the doctor's presence would placate our subjects, but it seems to have inspired the opposite."
Something in her chest freezes. Floodlight shines on an instance months ago, which inspires a phantom throb in her ankle, which has nearly completed its rehabilitation from the sprain. "Did Doctor Banner…"
"Hulk out?" He says it like an indirect taunt. "No. He refuses. So adamantly that he's currently unconscious. The mutants tried to provoke him." But Banner didn't transform; the agent fails to give him that credit. "Which is why my colleagues decided to contact you. These subjects refuse negotiation, Doctor Banner seems keen on research—"
"And you need me to make sure everyone behaves," she finishes, not without adding, "Because you can't keep your troops in order."
The voice on the other end inflates. Even not knowing what he looks like, she could see his posture straightening, chest puffing out. "I was trained to engage and orchestrate elite combat. I have more pressing matters than soothing some rowdy kids."
A small hum vibrates on her lips. "With all that training, you'd think keeping two kids under control would be easier." He attempts to smother the claim with excuses, but fails. She concludes the interaction cooly, "I'll report to Stark Tower in two days." Then her finger hits the red button that ends the call and seals her revised agenda for the upcoming weeks. She hopes Clint's kids won't be too torn up over her absence at dinner.
Unable to face the damp eyes and the pouts that come from the crack of disappointment, Natasha departs with the twilight. Clint's family goes to bed after Go Fish and painting with her in the spare bedroom and awaken to a note in her place.
Whether he goes green or not doesn't matter. Every time it arises, his body yearns for a quick hibernation. His confused physiology believes the mutation a virus and, as such, tries to sleep it off, sweat it out — both to no avail. That's how he awakens shuddering, damp from whole body perspiration, and needlessly paranoid. There's also muffled talking right outside his door, which is not a symptom of a narrow run in with the Hulk.
As quickly as his limbs allow, he tumbles out of the bed he'd unconsciously occupied, dust and rubble pinning worn fabric to his grimy skin. The air vessel's recycled oxygen collides with his bare arms in a stiff, stale front. The brief trek to the door reminds him of the elderly as they shuffled through a nursing home.
Flashbacks to past medical residencies dissipate when he shoves the door open to reveal Lena and Berhanu engaged in debate. In the same language.
Once the metal door collapses into the wall, Lenora drops her sentence midway through — child with her hand caught in the cookie jar Berhanu carries on, "You want another enemy?"
"He speaks English." Bruce says it like an accusation directed toward the younger girl.
Both guys look to her for an answer when she presses her lips shut, seals the truth in.
Berhanu responds when she refuses, "I do. I'm sorry we deceived you."
"How many things did you lie about?"
"Only that and our powers. To give us some security."
At that, Lena throws her hands up in exasperation.
You were arguing outside of my door, Bruce wants to point out against his better judgement. Instead, the need to know the motivation behind their rebellion in Ethiopia wins. "Did Jung tell you to provoke me?"
"D'you think he'd tell us anything?" She fires back, propped against the opposing wall.
Assuming the role of mediator, Berhanu clarifies, "We are tools to them, not people. But you are not them."
"I already told you — we needed to know if we could trust you." The statement shoots out like a bullet. Coming from her, though, it was more petulant, like a foam pellet from a toy gun.
Another question pushes him to disregard the brazen exclamation for now. "What happened to the girl?"
"I told her to run. I hope she got away," Berhanu says in earnest.
Bruce can't say he's disappointed, especially after his brief exposure to S.H.I.E.L.D's mutant treatment. Externally, however, he presents no opinion. Now, his attention turns back to Lenora — the hyena out of the duo. He could explode, lecture her, slam the door in both their faces, even report information on the child to those who would undoubtedly seek her out. But this isn't simply a rebellious teenager. She is the product of an irrevocably altered future. It would be crass if he denied his ability to sympathize with that. So he addresses her sincerely, "If you want my help, we work together, and you tell me the truth. I can't be useful if you lie to me." On that note, he also establishes, "I'm here as a scientist, not the Hulk. Don't provoke me." The "or else" goes unspoken.
Silence prevails for two, three beats, wherein both men stare in wait at her.
After hesitation on her part, Berhanu impatiently goads, "Lena—"
"Fine. Fine!" She exclaims finally, slumping down a bit. "But you have to promise you won't tell Jones or anyone."
"Unless they treat us as equal," Berhanu adds.
Without missing a note, she snorts, "They won't."
"What we discuss is confidential," Bruce promises. "I won't provide S.H.I.E.L.D with anything unless I have your consent."
Berhanu nods, looks to his cohort for kindred affirmation. One shoulder shrugs her approval. He expresses his gratitude, "Thank you, doctor."
These three, genuine words allow Bruce to breathe easier, though not freely.
