A/N: Like I said before, some characters backgrounds have been changed. This is introducing Clint Barton's character and I'll warn you now, his background has changed for this story as in that he's not associated with SHIELD.

And if you're wondering what happened over these past three years, I will get to that in flashbacks. I did, however, write the immediate aftermath to the experiment gone wrong in chapter one. Now, onward with the story.

The Beginning of the End

Part 4, Ch. 1

Three Years Later

Outside Nellis Air Force Base

Sunrise Manor, Nevada

No one knew who he was. He had no name nor identification other than a codename. He didn't use email, didn't have a phone or home address. He had a P.O. Box and used payphones or a disposable phone if he had to. Those who wanted to do business with him got the word out, the word spread, and he went to them. They never came to him directly. He would setup a meet without them even knowing about it. He would follow them, run a complete background check on his wanted employer to learn everything about them, and then he would make his presence known once he decided if he wanted to do business by accepting their offer.

He has had many employers and all for different reasons, but all wanted the same service: an assassination. This time it wasn't a job to kill a man, but to find a man and bring him in. He'd been curious enough to look into his new employer (if he accepted the job). The first thing that struck him was that the man seeking his expertise was a military officer. General in the Air Force; Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross was a well-decorated officer with an impeccable record. Yet he sounded desperate for his help and willing to pay him more than any other job he'd been contracted before in the past.

Half a million pay-day not to kill a man, but to find him. It was hard to say anything other than yes to that offer.

After talking to his contacts, doing his fair share of research, and was satisfied that this wasn't some way to get he himself out of hiding in order to be taken down-he feared that the most-he decided to accept the job. Now, it was time to let the General know that as well.

Like clockwork the General left the base at half past 6'clock and drove into town. Ten minutes later he walked into a sports bar named 'Til Sunrise for his usual nightcap. Ross sat at the bar, not at a table, and drank Coors on tap while watching the television. He kept groaning and moaning about the football scores while making quips about how the Dallas Cowboys were going to be the best team in American football. The older man sitting next to him wore a Chicago Bears hat and looked ready to punch the General in his face.

A waitress approached and asked if he wanted another beer, he smiled as he said, "Yeah, and I'll buy the Cowboys fan at the bar one too."

She gave him an odd look but once he handed her the fifty dollar tip, she smiled and did as he asked and got him a beer but not before giving one to Ross as well. The General looked back toward the booth where he'd been sitting. At first, Ross looked perplexed and maybe a little offended before grabbing the beer and getting up.

Despite the beers he'd consumed, Ross never wavered as he approached the booth. Stopping right in front of him, he asked, "Do I know you?"

"No, sir, but I know you. General Thaddeus Ross, U.S. Air Force. Born into a military family, graduated from West Point first in your class; you're widowed with one child, a daughter. Tell me, General, did you really learn to fly a plane by barnstorming at county fairs? I never would have taken you for the "flying circus" type."

Ross sat down across from him, his eyes quickly scanning him and then the bar. "How'd you know that?"

Smirking, he said, "I make it a point to know everything about my employer."

It didn't take long for Ross to figure it out as he sat back in the booth. He looked him over and shook his head, saying, "You're Hawkeye?"

He could only imagine what the General was thinking. Due to the fact that he never wanted his employer to properly identify him, he always wore a disguise. Right now, he was looking like anything other than a contract killer. He was casually sipping his Bub Light and looking like a man who'd seen one too many Cheetch and Chong movies, and then decided to live them. Which was what he was going for so he thought he succeeded. He had gone with the wayward hitchhiker look. He wore a black long-hair wig with it pulled back, a fake beard and mustache, and a pair of glasses that reminded him of an Iranian scientist he once meet...right before he put an arrow through his eye-socket.

That was his signature, he supposed. Every contract killer had one. Some killed with two shots to the forehead, a shot in each eye, three to the chest and one to the head; he heard of one guy who used a sword to make an 'x' on their chests before cutting their heads off. Now that guy had problems.

Then there was the Black WIdow. He thought out of all the other assassians-for-hire in the world, she was the only one he'd love to spar with. Word had it though that she had disappeared a little over two years ago. Vanished. Some assumed she met her match and was dead. He suspected otherwise. There was no way anyone could get the best of the widow. She was probably just deep on assignment or on vacation.

Once he this job was over, he was planning on riding low for quite a long time. A few years at least; he would finally be able to afford it.

The General was still eying him, not sure if he should believe him or not. Then, making a decision, said, "You accepted my offer?"

"Depends. If I say yes, I want half up front."

"Not a problem," Ross quickly reassured him then said, "And you'll have my whole entire squad at your disposal, government backing-"

"That's the other thing. I'm doing it alone. I want all you have on the target, but once I'm on the hunt, I'll need you to back off. I want him to believe you're gone so he'll make a mistake and let his guard down. If he's as hard to find and capture as you say he is, then you need to let me do my job."

Ross was silent for a long moment as he drank his beer and stared at him. He didn't seem like a man who was used to taking orders, but the one giving them. "Do you want to know why I want him?"

"No."

"Okay. How'd we do this?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and then opened the case he had next to him on the seat. Opening the laptop, he typed in a username and password then turned it around to Ross. Handing him the slip of paper, he told him, "A quarter of million in this account, the bottom is the routing number. Once that's done, I'll get started asap."

Ross hesitated to take the slip from him but finally reacehd out to take it. He looked at it, the numbers, before looking at the computer screen. On it, he had already had already brought up the homepage to the General's bank. All he had to do was access his account and transfer the money.

"How'd-"

"The software I have on that laptop is the absolute best there is. It's ecrypted and that account is untraceable. Plus, I always cover my ass. Once you transfer it to that account, I'll transfer it again, and again. Splitting it up into many different accounts...I don't like all my cash in one place. Just in case." He picked his beer up and took another swig as Ross finally started typing.

He finished his beer, and once Ross was done, he took the laptop back and in less than seven minutes had the quarter million split between three different accounts, all of which were untraceable. Shutting the laptop, he shoved it into the case and then went to standup with Ross went to reach for his arm. Before his fingers got halfway to him, he had Ross's hand pinned to the table with a kinfe sticking up from the table, right between his ring and middle finger.

Ross barely had time to register what happened but was staring wide-eyed with panic in his eyes. Leaning down to the General, he told him, "We'll be in touch. I expect to have all the files, photos, whatever you have on the target in my possession by 0700 tomorrow."

"How will I get it to you?"

"Put it in your mailbox," he told him as he yanked the knife out of the table as he headed for the door.

It was at 0705 the following morning when he learnt who his target was: Doctor Bruce Banner. And there was a reason General Ross didn't need him to kill the doctor; Dr. Banner was already presumed dead.

Reading over the file, he shut it and shook his head. Even though he'd told Ross he didn't care about his reasons why, he did like to know. He always vetted his assignments to make sure he was taking down someone bad or who deserved it. He never killed some innocent person. There had to be a justifiable reason. As it turned out, this Doctor Banner had been responsible for the attack on Harlem a few months ago. According to the file, he had been a U.S. Government scientist who went rogue, lost his mind apparently, and created those monsters then let them loose on the city.

In his opinion, Dr. Banner wasn't some innocent man who deserved to be sparred. If he was all about attacking and killing innocent civilians all because he wanted to create whatever in the hell those things were, then he didn't need to be running free across the world. General Ross said he wanted Banner brought in and that was what he was going to do.

He hoped the military stuck the doctor in a deep dark hole in the ground somewhere far away from people and never let him out.

Digging into his bag of fake passports, he pulled one out at random as he did for most assignments. He didn't know yet where his tracking would take him, but he liked to only use one identity with each job unless it was compromised.

With this assignment he would go by one of his favorites: Ronin J. Welker. Even though it wasn't necessary, he liked to develop backstories for his fake identities. It gave him something to focus on when he had to first get to know his target before taking them out. The backstory he had for Ronin wasn't unlike his own. Midwest kid with an asshole father who had left, leaving his mother to raise him as a single parent. However, unlike him, Ronin had straightened up after his wayward teenage years and went into the military where he made a career.

He, on the other hand, had only served eight years and once out started using his newly learned skills to become a contract killer; an assassian. Though his weapon of choice was no longer a sniper rifle but a bow and arrow, it required the same dedication and training to steady an arrow on a target and with great concentration and will, take the head shot. It wasn't his ideal job, but with his background there was no way he'd be accepted into the CIA or anything. He had a criminal record, and even though the Army overlooked his past, the secret government agencies wouldn't.

Therefore the only direction he had to turn to was the dark side. And he had to admit that the dark side paid pretty good. Making his own hours and choicing his jobs was also a nice little bonus. He'd taken out mob bosses, drug dealers, engineers building weapons of mass destruction, and now a nuclear scientist who wanted to create monsters and destroy the world with them.

Not anymore. Not on his watch. Not ever again.

Anyway, back to his cover name and story. Ronin was a man still figuring out his life after the service while suffering from PTSD with nowhere to turn in life. A lost American hero looking for answers to a life he was no longer certain of anymore.

In order to sell his lies, he had to believe them. He had to turn Clint Barton off and turn Ronin Welker on. Like a switch. That was how he worked.

Italy

The streets were busy with people, cars, bicycles and motor bikes rushing around. Arms bumped into mine, faces blurred and faded as they walked on by, and the noises of car horns and running engines had my head pounding. Stumbling into the building I slid down into the narrow road between two buildings and sat there with my head in my hands. I'd been walking for hours and I still hadn't figured out how I ended up there or where I'd been before or what day or week or year it even was. Everything was in a fog and it all made my stomach lurch.

Leaning my head back, I tried to breathe and think but every time I closed my eyes all I saw was the gun in my hand. And all I could think about was the death that followed. There was a dull ache of emptiness in my chest as I remembered how I had wanted to die. I wanted to end my suffering and the fearing and the not knowing.

I remembered my hand shaking uncontrollably as I was putting the gun in my mouth. I had gotten off a shot. That I was certain. I heard the bang. Then the snow and ice that covered the earth under my feet opened up and swallowed me whole. There I had drifted in darkness until finally there was light. And water. Waves crashing down on top of me and I couldn't move. The sun had been low in the sky, barely making dawn a reality, as I stared out over the ocean as a new day was born.

At the time I hadn't felt reborn; I felt that I was stuck in a nightmare that would never end. Him...the other guy...the Hulk, he wouldn't let it end. I was stuck. There was no end as long as the other guy existed. I would never die. Lying in that sand, with the sun breaking over the horizon, I had wept until my eyes ran dry. I realized then that I had an incurable disease, but it didn't end with me dying. It ended with me living every waking day in that Hell, over and over, until I withered away from old age...hopefully.

Somehow I had found the strength to get up off the sand and move. I hadn't made it far before I was picked up by the local police. They weren't too fond of a naked man wandering the streets. I was given an ugly gray jumpsuit to wear in the police station but I hadn't stayed long; at least, I don't think. All I remember was being moved to a cell and then a fury of pain right before a green haze sent me into a dark emptiness.

The green haze faded and I had woken in a field. In the distance I had seen buildings of a city and not knowing where else to go or what to do, I had headed for the city. While I walked I passed a sign that read "Riserva Naturale della Marcigliana". I'd awoken in a nature reserve right outside of Rome, Italy.

The top portion of the gray jumpsuit had mostly shredded, but the bottom portion had remained intake. I'd lucked out that the jumpsuit had been two sizes too big for me to begin with. However, I was still bare chested, no shoes, and starving with no money. It hadn't been the first time I'd woken in a similiar situation, but I'd never been in such a populated area on most occassions. At least this time I could get to the one place where I knew I could be okay for a day or two: a hospital.

Getting up off the narrow street, I went to find the nearest one. I realized quickly that wouldn't be a problem as I had already caused a lot of concern from more than a few people walking by who'd called an ambulance, and the police, for me. The whirl of a police siren jarred my head as I saw the blue lights break across my vision along with the word "Polizia".

I was too weak to talk, too dehydrated to see or think straight, as I felt the world tilt and I went with it. I didn't even feel the impact of hitting the stone walkway as everything grayed then went black.

Water was everywhere; in my mouth, my eyes, my lungs. The air was thick and heavy as I tried to breathe in air but only filling my insides with rushing water. I struggled aganist the impending fog of forever darkness and nothingness as I dug my nails into the solid wall that encased me as the water got deeper. I was drowning in a sea of green water.

There was no door to open, no window to break, no vent to escape into; there was nothing but four walls, a floor and ceiling, and green water. I could no longer touch the bottom as I hit the ceiling with the water rushing down on top of my head from somewhere far up above that I couldn't see. Taking one last sputtering gasp for air as the cell completely filled, I began to sink as I felt the breath of life get sunked from my lungs. I sunk hard and fast as a stone into the dark green abyss.

Gasping in a breath of air, I sat upright on the bed and sucked in another lungful breath of air as my head spun. There was a high pitched beeping noise in my ears as a bright light hit my eyes and I had to clench my eyes shut agaisnt the assault. Rubbing a hand over my head and eyes, I felt a pressure pulling at the back of my hand. There was a thin plastic IV tube going from my hand to a bag filled with something clear. Looking around, I realized I was in a hospital and all the words printed on the equipment were in Italian.

That's when I remembered the field, the police car, and the sirens. Italy. I was in Italy.

My heart rate returned to normal and the high pitched beeping slowed as I calmed my panicking nerves. I wasn't drowning; it was only a nightmare. Lying back down in the bed, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered if that nightmare had been caused by the other guy. I had realized a long time ago that the nightmares I had were due to my memories of being that monster.

This time it was of dark green water surrounding me as I drowned. After my attempted suicide, and the ice and snow cracking under the weight and anger of the Hulk, I had to have dropped into the icy waters of the Atlantic. Had the Hulk walked the ocean floor? Was he physically able to do that? I supposed so since I ended up washed ashore literally thousands of miles from Greenland.

I looked toward the door and spotted a tray of food on a sliding table next to the bed. Sitting up, I eyed the food and wondered when it was brought. At hearing my stomanch grumble and felt the pains as the acid swirled around my gut, I pulled the tray over and started eating. There was another man in the room. He looked to be in his sixties or seventies and he was still asleep in the bed next to mine; he had a tray full of food as well.

Survival instincts had overwritten most of my moral code by now as I grabbed his tray of food as well. He could always get more. I hurriedly shoveled the food into my mouth as I thought through my options. I could stay and possibly sleep some more and regroup, but also face a lot of questions from doctors and possibly the police, or, I could run. After I finished the food, I pulled out the IV and took off the pulse reader from my finger and put it on my sleeping neighbors finger.

There were drawers next to our beds and I knew mine wouldn't hold any clothes or belongings. Next to the other man's bed were get-well cards and flowers. He had family, people who cared. People who cared also brought clothes. Opening one of the drawers, I spotted a clean pair of trousers, belt, a button-down plaid shirt, socks and a pair of boxer shorts. I took everything but the boxers and belt and dressed. The older man was taller than me but about my size. However, his feet were longer as he wore a size twelve to my size ten and a half but I much preferred bigger over smaller. I slipped the oversized shoes on and that was when I spotted the wallet that had been under the trousers.

I'd never considered myself a thief, but that was before everything went to hell. I never considered myself a killer neither yet there were the dead bodies that shattered my denial. Picking up the wallet, I took a quick glance at the old man, and then at the still closed hospital room door. He didn't have much cash but he had plenty of credit cards and a bank card. I left the cards and took only a few Euros, twenty American dollars worth, and put the wallet back and shut the drawer. I wasn't above begging for money and Lord knows I'd done more immoral things to get by while on the run; I would deal with my conscious later.

Right then I had to get out of there. Hospitals were full of innocent people that I didn't want to hurt but to save. I breifly wondered if there would be a whole force of police outside the door, and whether there was or not, I still had to leave. I still had to open it to be sure. Cracking the door open slightly, I peered out and didn't see any police officers. In fact, I saw no one.

The hallway was clear of people as I slipped out of the room and picked a direction. Keeping my head low, I found my way to a stairwell and down and out of the building.

In two weeks I had made it from Rome to Florence without drawing attention of the polizia. I'd also learnt how to get by with the few italian phrases I knew while learning more. After a month I was able to understand most of what was said and have an intelligent response.

I hadn't yet decided where to go, but I had decided what to do. My focus was no longer on a cure because there wasn't one. I was incurable. So, what were my options? I could either throw my hands up in surrender and give myself over to General Ross and the military, or I could do the only other thing I could do: help people.

I wasn't a medical doctor, but I had medical training. I'd nearly gotten my M.D. but opted out of the program in favor of the teaching position at Culver. Plus, I was a quick study. With the little money I made I used some of it on medical books, journals, anything I could get my hands on to further my knowledge. I would find libraries and just spend the whole day there reading, and sometimes even the night when I knew they didn't have a security system, before continuing on my way to the next town. All the while on my journey offering up my services as a doctor.

It wasn't the path I expected to be on, nor the life I wanted, but for the first time in years I felt satisfied. I thought that I could do this, that I could be content going from town to city to village and help by treating the sick or injuried. A missionary doctor was what most asked of my title, and despite my lack in faith and a license, I had labeled myself one for the sack of argument. It got me a free pass on many occassions. If they could afford it they would pay me and I would always humbly accept. If I knew they couldn't spare a single cent, I would graciously decline while accepting a meal or place to sleep instead. Most of the time I didn't even have to ask but was offered a warm meal and accomadations.

Sometimes I would offer up my services as a mechanic as well as I helped a few people with car trouble in exchange for a ride. I'd slept in the back of several delivery vans, beds of trucks, and backseats of cars. All the people I'd meet were just fading faces in the crowd once I got to where I was going. We always parted ways, never bothering to continue our journey together, and I never asked to stick around. I was risking enough by being in the same car with them for a few hours or more; days would be tempting fate.

A piercing scream of the woman on the bed below me snapped my head into focus as I heard her husband's soft whispers of calm. The screaming turned into moaning and deep breathing as I felt my breath get stuck in my chest as a new scream filled the small flat.

This scream had me smiling as I lifted the tiny baby, no more than four pounds, into my arms. "Una bambina," I told them. "Figlia." They had a little girl; a daughter.

The husband kissed my forehead as he celebrated the birth while I handed the mother the child. She was weeping with joy, as was the father, and I went back to making sure the mother had no further complications. There was still much to do after the baby was out.

Half an hour later, as the mother slept and the baby was now resting peacefully in her father's arms, I relaxed back into a chair on the balcony. The father was sitting next to me, holding the sleeping child, and said, "Bernardo."

"What?"

He smiled and said, "My name...Bernardo. Anna my wife."

"Oh." In all the excitement and desperation to get me up to the flat to deliever the baby, I realized I hadn't gotten any of their names. "Robert," I told the man. Having gone by Bruce for most of my teenage and adult life, I decided to make things easy on myself and revert back to being called either Robert or my father's middle name of David. They were easy to remember.

"Roberto," he said as he looked down at the baby girl. "Roberta. I like."

I smiled and chuckled as I closed my eyes.

"Beatrice Roberta," Bernardo said with a wide smile as he looked over at me.

"What does Beatrice mean?"

"She who brings happiness."

It was a fitting name. Bernardo couldn't seem any happier than he did right then. Lifting the bottle of red wine from the floor of the balcony, he refilled my glass then his before putting the bottle down and picking up his glass.

Raising it up to me, he said, "Salute."

"Salute," I repeated back as we toasted before taking a drink.

"You stay night, si?"

Even though Bernardo was speaking English, it was still choppy but I smiled and agreed. I wanted to keep an watchful eye on his wife anyway. Tomorrow we would make the trip, almost an hour, to the nearest hospital to make sure everything was all right.

The next day all four of us piled into the small delivery truck, the only vehicle the man had, and started for Padua.

Outside of the hospital, Anna had pulled a beaded necklace out of her purse and put it over my head as she leaned up to kiss my forehead. It held the pendant of St. Luke; the patron Saint of Doctors among others. Not wanting to upset the new mother, I thanked her before Bernardo bid me farewell with a hug and kiss to both my cheeks. The parents seemed sad to see me go, but their excitement as new parents had them rushing inside and once again I was left alone. Looking up at the tall building, I let out a sigh as I stepped away.

Across the tiny street was a hotel and shops offering gifts and snacks and transportation and food. I had eaten with the family that morning but still needed a shower, and shave, and more sleep. I was exhausted having barely slept last night as I watched over the mother and child. Going to the hotel, I got a room.

I would head to Venice tomorrow.

After a quick shower and trim, I spent the rest of the day wandering around Padua as I took in the sights. In all my travels I never bothered to get a camera to take pictures. There was no point. I would lose them the next time there was an incident and I woke up in some other foreign land with nothing but my dignity. Sometimes not even that. So, I tried to charish every moment, remember every detail, because all I had now were my memories.

I'd been raised in the Catholic religion, both my parents and Aunt, and to anyone who remotely cared about their religion, Italy was awe-inspiring. Even though my faith had all but evaporated in my forty years of life, standing outide the Cappella degli Scrovegni, the Scrovegni Chapel, had me at a loss of words as my scientific mind seemed to shut down. I wouldn't dare venture inside though. To improve preservation, getting inside involved spending 15 minutes prior to entrance in a climate-controlled airlocked vault that was used to stabilize the temperature between the outside world and the inside of the chapel.

Let's just say no one wanted me locked inside a vault for 15 minutes unless they wanted the historic building reduced to rubble. I may have been able to control the other guy, and my anxiety problem had nearly all but vanished since the incident, but I was still clastrophobic.

I ate lunch in a square across from the Caffé Pedrocchi as I relished in the heat from the mid-day sun. I loved feeling the heat and warmth. I much preferred waking up in a hot dry climate over the freezing cold tundra any day. It was early November, and despite the air holding a crisp cool breeze, it was comfortable.

There were a lot people in the square, spending time either eating or reading, or just taking a moment to rest. The square was a tourist attraction so many of the people were foreginers and I could pick out every single one of them. Un turista, or tourist, were obvious from the way they dressed to what they were drinking or eating. A man sitting further down from me on the bench was drinking a cappuccino. No Italian drank coffee after breakfast hours, which usually meant eleven o'clock. They might have a quick shot of espresso after lunch to get a kick before going back to work, but that was it.

This guy though had a look and vibe to him that put me on edge. He had a crew cut and wore a tight white t-shirt under a thin navy colored jacket, a pair of jeans, and black colored Nike's. On the ground by his feet was a black backpack. His look behind the sunglasses was stern and tight as he looked everywhere but over at me. Then when he did, when his head turned and we were facing each other, I just knew he was military.

Looking away, back at the thin sandwich in my hand which only consisted of a few slices of genoa salami, capicola, and provalone cheese, I finished it off in one bite and got up. Tossing my wrapper away, I took the opportunity to take a quick glance over at the bench. The guy was still seated, casually sipping at the coffee, and once again ignoring me. With my head down but eyes sharp and alert, I started walking again.

Somehow later I ended up staring up into the sky while stretching out in the grass in the largest square in Italy, the Prato della Valle, or, as the Padovans referred to it, Il Prato. If I knew for certain I wouldn't get arrested I would've stayed there all night, starring up at the sky, and being surrounded by the city of Padua and all its 78 statues that circulated the edge of the square.

As the sun started to settle lower in the sky, I managed to pull myself from the the bed I'd made in the grass with a mornful sigh. Keeping my head low as I stuffed my hands into my pants pockets I headed back to the hotel.

Then once in the bed, with the sounds and lights of the city shut out, I couldn't sleep as my mind kept going over the past few months.

It'd been three months since I had awoken naked and wanting to die on the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Three months since I last thought of killing myself. I found myself thinking back often to that day. Lying in the sand, I had thought that the dawn was like a rebirth of a new day. At the time I didn't want to live another day as I felt that there was no tomorrow. That each day was like the last and nothing was going to change for the better. I had lost all hope.

However, I realize now that it had been a rebirth. Something inside of me had changed that day as my thoughts had changed because I no longer was in denial of my condition. What had made me so miserable before was that I had believed there to be a cure. I thought I could go back to the life I once had at some point if only I could cure myself.

Now, after accepting there was no cure, that my condition was permenant and life-long and that the life I once had was truly long gone, I felt...free. A weight lifted off my shoulder that I hadn't even known had existed until I tried to blow my brains out. Until I had sunk so low that the only direction I had to go from there was up.

Each day was a new day. I had been given another chance, and this time I wasn't going to waste countless hours wanting to die or to try in vain to find a cure. I had made a vow that I was going to live again by helping those who didn't have the immunity to every disease known to man running through their veins like I did.

The irony was that I didn't have the immunity to my own condition, but all the others. I couldn't get deathly sick and if I was ever in a death defying situation, I would always come back. The other guy made sure I would come back. Immortality. Well, until I hopefully died of old age.

Then there was that notion of old age. As the days went on I had noticed that I wasn't aging like I should have been. I didn't feel like a forty year old man. There was no aches and pains in my knees as I ran like there had been when I was in my thirties. I didn't feel beaten and worn-down after a long day of work. No pain in my hands as I worked on car engines or tended to the sick all day. There was no pain at all in my joints and muscles. I hadn't had to take a pain reliver in years. I could get winded, I would get sore if I hurt myself and feel the pain when I accidently hit my hand or stubbed my toe or something, but there was nothing lingering. Nothing that aging should have brought like arthritis or muscle fatigue.

I hoped for death at old age because I wasn't so sure how long that would actually take. A hundred years? Two hundred years of living before my body finally gave in? Maybe if I started smoking it would speed up the process. Smoking and drinking and a bad diet. Then I thought that nope, I would just Hulk-out, burn every amount of fat off in seconds while cleaning my system out and then return to Banner again feeling renewed and back to square one. There would be no carbon monoxide in my blood and no damage to my lungs from the smoking or to my liver from drinking. No cancer risks. I could jump out of a space ship, fall to earth, hit the ground, and still live.

Living with gamma radiation poisoning was supposed to be dangerous; I should have died right when it happened. The formula saved me, I guess. What I had thought to be a formula to protect people, soldiers, from radiation exposure was actually a recreation of the Super Soldier formula that had created Captain America. The exposure to gamma radiation hadn't been what was used in the '40's, so instead of turning into a Super Soldier I had inadvertantly created the monster that raged all day and night inside my mind and body.

And now, whatever my purpose on earth was, it was no longer what it had been. The past was over and some days it was like it never existed. Everyone I had once known were either dead or no longer a friend. They all thought I was dead anyway and for good reason.

Bruce Banner had died the day the Hulk was born. This other guy...sometimes I wondered if it was the monster inside me or if it was the man lying in the bed staring at the ceiling.

The other guy was foreign, a mystery, and he no longer fit the skin he was in; and I wasn't referring to the Hulk. Maybe I was just the cover, the alternate personality to the monster. Banner was the disguise while the Hulk was who I had become. It wasn't like I hadn't known that this monster had existed inside me all along. He'd been a part of my subconscious since I was a kid. He'd been the constant anger and hatred that I'd felt my entire life; the angry voice in my head that would not let me think I was worth a damn as a man.

The incident pulled that monster out of me and made him real. Instead of only being a voice in my head he now had a body that he could use to reap his wrath. Where the formula had turned Steve Rogers into Captain America, it had turned me into the monster I'd been fearing I was my whole life. Now, ironically, the monster was my only friend, though an unwanted one, and it was hard to tell some days whose mind I was living in. It was hard to determine if we were seperate or the same. There were times when all I could hear was his rage and all I could feel was his pain tensing and flexing my muscles and twitching my nerves. Some days, I swear, it seemed that Banner hardly existed at all. Except for today.

Today I had felt alive and I didn't want that feeling to go away. I didn't want to wake up tomorrow feeling like a man who was a stranger in his own body. I didn't want to feel restless and have to look over my shoulder with every step and had to restrict my enjoyment and my pain along with my pleasures of living in order to prevent death and destruction for others.

Today had been so good; felt so good, and it was a welcome change. Picking up the St. Luke pendant from my chest, I rubbed it through my fingers as I eyed it. It was silver and no bigger than a penny; on one side was the words 'St. Luke' with the image of the Patron Saint and on the back was the image of the rod of Aesculapius; a serpant wrapped around a rod (or staff). It was the symbol for a doctor.

Dropping it to my chest, I got up out of bed, dressed, grabbed the bag I'd put together from the few clothes and supplies I'd bought from the shops, and then left. Checking my watch, I saw it was only seven o'clock at night.

It was a cool fall night and the breeze had me turning the collar of my jacket up as I left the city of Padua. I had plenty of water for the 40 or more kilometers walk to Venice but would rather catch a ride if I could. Sticking to a path along the river that lead out of the city, I lost myself in my head as I put motion to my silent mantra of putting one foot in front of the other.

TBC...