Warning: graphic descriptions of violence, gore, and the like ahead. And essentially for the entire story. Proceed at your own risk.


"Eeny, meanie, mine-y, mo…"

Silence reigns over our little group as a chill descends over us, anticipation already making the air buzz.

"So many options, which one to choose?" the Mandarin muses, as if he were trying to decide on which candy bar to get, not which victim to torture. "A-ha!"

We all freeze like deer caught in headlights, and my heart leaps into my throat. Please no, please no, please no, please…

"The Monster!" the Mandarin announces – or his voice does, from unseen speakers. "Bring out the beast hiding behind a man."

I do my best to push down the relief that coursed through me.

Everyone's eyes immediately find Bruce as he's dragged, quite literally, into the inner ring and onto the table, one of the guards pressing a button that locks the restraints around his wrists, ankles, and head.

It's alright, my brain frantically whispers. They can't hold the Hulk. He'll be fine. He'll be okay.

"Oh, and the 'Other Guy' won't be coming out to play any time soon," the Mandarin continues, as if he'd read my mind. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it? I think so."

Well, there goes that idea.

I wince as four syringes filled with a yellow-ish substance close in on Bruce – one on either side of his neck, one on each forearm.

More drugs. Whoopee.

Bruce, to his credit, doesn't make a sound as the syringes empty their contents into his system, but I'm not sure if that's because he's practically a doctor or because he has a lot of experience with enemies inject him with things.

At first, nothing happens. We're all just staring at Bruce, who has a look of discomfort on his face but isn't doing much else; no screaming, no writhing in agony, nothing.

And then the room around him starts to flicker.

An ear-splitting roar shatters the air, and I involuntarily shiver because although I wasn't scared of the Hulk, the Hulk was terrifying.

The owner of the roar – a familiar, nine-foot-tall green being – suddenly appears in the middle of the room, which was odd enough in and of itself.

But then I start to notice differences in the picture – something was wrong here, very wrong.

The Hulk – or the mirage that looked like him – was splattered with red. It was covering the side of his head, his chest, his back, his legs, but it was mainly concentrated on his mouth and hands.

As if he'd ripped someone apart with his bare hands, I realize suddenly, the mere thought causing my stomach to roll.

"No!" I jump and snap my head over to Bruce, who was now struggling against the restraints. "No! Don't hurt them! No!"

Them?

His words make more sense as, suddenly, seven figures appear, scattered on the ground around the mirage-Hulk.

Seven bodies, I correct myself, a new wave of horror slamming into me. Seven mutilated bodies.

And, worse still, I recognize these bodies. There's a shock of red hair here, a familiar blue glow there.

This is us.

And we're all dead.

The carnage is worse than I'd seen in a long time, if not ever – Natasha's missing both arms, Dad's missing a chunk of his neck and shoulder, Steve's head was partially caved in, Bucky was missing both legs, Thor had a huge hole carved out of his chest, and I only recognized Clint, who was covered in blood and missing a head, because I knew his body as well as his mind.

The worst damage, though, is my own. It's an odd feeling, seeing a copy of yourself torn to pieces by the copy of a man who was currently in the next room.

I was covered in blood, almost head to toe – I think, beneath that, I was just wearing civilian clothes, a t-shirt and jeans. Other than that, my body looked like Swiss cheese – Swiss cheese with holes the size of Hulk's fist.

The sight actually makes me gag this time, and I numbly feel a hand close around my own, a calloused thumb rubbing circles on my palm.

I'm pulled harshly back into reality, the first thing I see being Clint watching me with concern and a question in his eyes. I just give him a nod, unable to form words at the moment, before turning back to watch Bruce.

He's screamed himself 85% percent hoarse by now, but what else would you expect after screaming for…I don't know how long it's been. It feels like eternity.

The scientist's cheeks are blotchy and red, tears streaming down his face and a look of utter devastation and helplessness I never want to see again. His mouth is moving but no words are coming out – luckily, Clint's tried to teach me lip-reading. Key word there being tried, because I'm absolutely horrible at it, but I can still pick up a few words.

No…monster…kill them…because of me! Me…kill them…

"He's frantic," I murmur aloud, as if it weren't obvious already. "We need to get him out."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Stark," the Mandarin suddenly says, causing me to startle and look for speakers. "The beast will only be released when I deem it so."

I grit my teeth and share a grim look with Clint, who was still clutching my hand. We were at the mercy of a madman here.

I had a feeling that this would be worse than anything we'd ever faced before – because we were facing ourselves.


I'm not sure how long Bruce is in that chamber, because time always gets screwy in captivity, but by the time they pull him out he's pale as a sheet, limp, and trembling. I don't get to see much else before he's dragged off down a different hallway while the rest of us are marched back to the cell.

We wait, in silence, for him to come back (if he is at all), all of us, even the trained ones like Natasha, Clint, and Bucky, too shaken to speak about what had just happened.

If that was what awaited the rest of us…

I shiver at the thought, looking up as footsteps echo in the hallway before the door to the cell unlocks and swings open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

We all scramble back as Bruce is roughly thrown in; Steve, Bucky, and Thor, moving to catch him and lay him on the ground.

And here's a piece of irony: who treats the doctor when the doctor's the one that needs treatment?

Clint and Natasha, apparently, since they're the ones with the most battlefield medic training, which is exactly what we needed at the moment.

"He's alive," Clint reports, rocking back onto his haunches, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "He's in major shock and unresponsive for who knows how long, but he's alive."

The prognosis isn't anything I wasn't honestly expecting, not after…that.

"We should get some sleep," Steve suggests quietly. "We'll need our strength for…whatever happens."

I want to point out that none of us will actually get any rest tonight; but, looking around at everyone's faces, I find that it's completely unnecessary.

We all find various places to lie down: they aren't very comfortable (as was expected, captors have a horrible sense of hospitality), but they would do for the night…or however long we were here.

I find myself flat on my back on the bench at the rear of the cell, staring blankly at the ceiling and trying to coax myself into sleep.

I give up just as I hear a rustling noise below me and tense, relaxing at the whispered "Taylor?"

"Yeah," I murmur, rolling onto my side to face my boyfriend.

"C'mere," he taps the ground beside him. "It might help."

I give him a dubious look but slide off the bench anyways, lying down with my back pressed against his chest, one of his arms slung over my hip and the other loosely intertwined with one of mine, my other hand bent under my head as a pillow.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of my neck before putting his head down and lying still, probably hoping for sleep that will most likely never come.

I sigh softly as I lay there, the day's events playing on a loop in my head as I stare through the half-light in the cell at Bruce, who was currently curled in a trembling under the watchful eye of Natasha.

We were already affected – all of us were in some state of shock, except for maybe Clint, Natasha, and Bucky.

And it was only day one of god-knows-how-many.

It was only going to get worse from here.