The Quinjet dipped in the air, its left half swinging lower than its right for a moment before correcting itself. The controls were sophisticated, designed to keep the plane from crashing despite minor pilot error. The controls were not designed, however, for the hands of nine foot tall, hulking green giants with fingers too fleshy to push the autopilot button. The controls were especially not designed for giants who had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, hunched over in a cockpit built for normal sized humans.
The momentary dip slightly roused the green beast, but he didn't last long as his chin nodded down to his chest once more. He slumped forward, one giant hand flopping down, catching the control wheel and aiming it forward, pointing the nose of the plane toward the dark sky beneath.
The shock of the plane hitting the surface jolted him awake. Moments later, water flooded in around his feet, splashing his back, pouring in with increasing force. Exhausted, yet full of sudden rage, the Hulk yelled. He threw his head up, smashing into the roof of the cockpit above him. One more giant smash with his arms and the glass and metal gave way, shattering and rending with a horrible screaming noise. Water instantly flooded in from above, drenching him and knocking him backwards. The Hulk leapt to his feet and launched himself upwards, fighting against the gushing flow.
His leap was enough to free him from the vacuum of water rushing into the Quinjet, but it wasn't enough to launch him to the surface. His momentum petered out after a moment, the heavy force of water above him pushing him back down. He didn't have far to go—the sandy bottom was only twenty or so feet below. As he sank, the pressure around his eyes and ears grew increasingly uncomfortable. He felt his lungs collapse inwards, all the air he had bubbling out of his nose as he sank. Even without air, he could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest. There was no telltale burn, the feeling of his lungs going without oxygen. He wasn't drowning.
He looked around. It was dark—but not pitch black. Faint shafts of light shone down from above—the water wasn't too deep. Or cold. There wasn't enough light to truly see the ground or any of the foliage around him, but one thing was clear: this water was tropical. There was a slight slope in the sand in front of him and the Hulk started walking up it, moving one leg laboriously in front of the other.
The heightened resistance of water paired with his exhaustion made the going tough. He lumbered forward, doggedly putting one foot in front of another until he tripped, his toe catching on some unseen obstacle in the sand. He fell forward slowly, almost lazily, the water muting the impact as he hit the ocean floor. He wanted to stay down, but after a minute or two the burn did start faintly in his lungs. He righted himself slowly, then mustered the energy to jump, high enough to break the surface of the water—perhaps some twenty-five feet above? He gasped in a new lungful of air before sinking back down to the bottom. He kept walking. Even a lungful of air couldn't make his dense muscle mass float.
After twenty or so minutes, the sand began sloping upwards in earnest. The Hulk followed the curvature until at last, his head broke the surface. He ran the last few steps onto the beach. He made it two more steps before flopping down on the warm, fine sand and falling fast asleep.
He woke when the waves reached his toes, the gentle touch of warm water rousing him slowly. The sun shone brightly above him, high in the sky. He itched. Everywhere. Worse on his front; there was sand there, clinging to the salt from the ocean. He scratched the itches, scratched until he broke skin and they burned. He howled with the pain of it.
But howling was hard, and he was hungry. He glanced around, noting some driftwood nearby, palm trees lining the edge of the sand and some reed-like grass, then jungle. Coconuts hung on each palm tree. The Hulk grabbed one tree by its trunk and walked along the ground, bending the tree down until the coconuts were in range. He ripped the entire top off the tree, leaves, coconuts, and all, letting the empty trunk swing back up to the sky, naked.
He grabbed one of the coconuts and put it between his teeth, crunching down on it. With half in his mouth, he set to chewing, breaking down the woody fibers and enjoying the sweet flesh inside. He popped the other half in his mouth and chewed. He breathed. And as he did, images started to appear in his head.
Red hair. Swinging around, always turning away from him. A hand, tiny, reaching out. His own hand resting on top, the mottled green skin against the ivory of hers. The glide of her fingers along his wrist. . . the Hulk felt overwhelming sadness, fear, and hurt well up within him. Weakness.
"NO!" He bellowed, jumping to his feet. He could feel Banner rising inside him, trying to come out.
Bruce fought. He felt the warm air, the rays of the sun, the breeze blowing sweet tropical scents his way. He remembered Natasha kissing him, Natasha pushing him, the Hulk turning Natasha's face off on the console of the Quinjet. . .
"NO." Hulk demanded. Bruce replayed Natasha's face flickering out again and fell back inside himself, unable to break through the rage of the Hulk, his own rage at the world, his fear and confusion holding him back.
He tried again twice that day. Once when the Hulk found some abandoned beach cabana; perhaps intended to become a resort or private beach villa for some rich couple to get away to? Made of bamboo on stilts perched over the water, it was an empty shell, a big bamboo deck out over the water and a bare floor within. The representation of humanity yanked Bruce back to the forefront. He remembered the air growing thinner and more difficult to breath, a metal playground with empty swings swaying and the sunset—or are those flames?—illuminating the sky a warm orange, walking towards her. . .
"NOOOOO!" The Hulk roared. He remembered gunfire. Concrete flying, motors whirring, threats incoming. Bruce was hopeless.
The second time was that night, lying on the floor in the empty cabana, banana leaves and a mountain of plucked reed grass beneath him cushioning the lumpy bamboo floor. The Hulk turned over, getting comfortable in his nest of greenery, trying not to lie on his burning skin where he had itched himself raw. He was fading off to unconsciousness, still exhausted from the ordeal the day before and the rage of it all. Bruce slipped forward, seeing his opportunity in the lull, the half consciousness of the monster. He remembered the outstretched hand, the voice whispering, "Hey big guy, the sun's gettin' real low. . .". He remembered her eyes. Full of fear, looking at him expanding, growing, greening. . . the Hulk rolled over vindictively, squashing Banner back down inside.
Days passed with the Hulk in control. He smashed coconuts with his teeth and picked their fibers from his gums. He leapt into the water and emerged with a handful of fish, gathered in the split second before they could panic and scatter on his intrusion. He ate the fish raw, chewing and swallowing them, bones and everything.
He itched. He couldn't help it, didn't have the self-control to stop himself. The saltwater and sand were his nemesis, collecting in the creases of his elbows and knees, under his arms, between his toes. He opened sores that wouldn't close, a constant irritation as the days grew into weeks and weeks grew into months.
Banner appeared—or tried to—four more times. Once was the first time Hulk caught and killed a shark. The second was a night when the Hulk stepped on a tree stump and bruised his foot horribly. The other two followed after that, echoing attempts for the man within to re-emerge and face the world again. The Hulk won. There was just too much rage to turn the tables. Too much fear. And perhaps a bit of relief—for letting go, for hiding, for being out of play.
So, the months stretched, staying routinely warm and sunny and tropical. A stormy season came and went, winds buffeting against the cabana Hulk came to call home. A few times the bamboo structure swayed, but it never fell into the water below. The weather grew from warm to hot, and Hulk sun-burned for the first time. His skin grew leathery—except for the sores, of course.
He lived. The rage faded in him without terror or anger or provocation—his biggest enemy now was hunger, and the island had abundant fish, fruits, and wildlife to meet his needs. The Hulk thrived. Bruce hid, partially trapped inside, partially hiding away.