Fear had a smell - sweat, rancid smoke, metallic tang of blood – and the Hulk knew it well, could track by it into any hole or hiding place. He knew the give of flesh when his fingers sank in and the fierce joy at the crack of bone. It was simple, really; the Hulk thrived in the middle of battle, the chaos fueling his rage.
"Hulk," Cap shouted. "Stop them!"
Weapon fire bounced off his skin, irritating little pings that didn't need attention. Jetpacks buzzed like flies to be swatted, and puny humans scurried around him. Any within his massive arm's reach were smacked aside as he plowed through the big gun, weapon, whatever it did, waited for him to smash it, powerful fists bursting the soldered metal seams, colored wires and shiny parts spewing out of the gashes. He scattered overheated pieces back in their faces before he swept more of them aside. Voices shouted in the tumult, but he ignored them, crashing through the outer wall, tearing into the building where there was more fighting to do.
It was no more than a tiny touch, and he didn't notice it, didn't even see the yellow-suited human who pushed the small dispenser into his thigh. As pings of bullets go, the pinch of the injection against his thick skin barely registered. Trampling the annoyance of the guns was more important and much more fun. Then the pins and needles started to crawl up his leg in fits and starts, leaving numbness behind; he shook his leg and growled, but didn't stop pounding the seemingly endless string of bad guys. Smash one and another took his place, an overwhelming line that pushed him backwards towards the bank of windows. Pain hit his abdomen and spread down his legs; sharp now, like a thousand bee stings at once. He roared and lashed out, upending a work table laden with more machinery that crashed with a satisfyingly loud boom. An arrow flew by him, taking out a man heading for the elevators with a case under his arm; Hulk turned his head as the pain flashed into knife-like sharpness, driving into his chest.
"Cupid…" he tried to shout, but his throat closed up, constricted and tight, unable to breath. Stumbling, he hit another table, microscopes flying and glass beakers shattering. He struggled forward as he saw the knife catch the light before it slashed across Clint's back, throwing him forward into a crowd of the enemy. Hawkeye's blood was red like the rage that covered the Hulk's vision, pushing back the effects of the injection long enough for him to hurl the table towards the knot of bodies. And still, he was unable to say anything, spasms in his throat blocking all sound.
Then they were on him, crawling up his legs, forcing him back another step, then another. Arms flailing, he slung them away as fast as he could, not caring what he destroyed as the inside of his head felt like it swelled to bursting. With a grunt, he tried to move forward, but the world spun; head light with hot waves of pain, he fell to his knees, suddenly weak. The anger that sustained him drained away with his strength, and he went down, boots holding down his shrinking arms and legs. Head on the floor, his last sight was Clint's closed eyes and a pool of blood on the floor.
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"I do so apologize for the men's treatment of you. I instructed them to be gracious. They shall be reprimanded."
Bruce struggled to bring the speaker into focus, shaking off the effects of the drug that was still in his system. The groggy feeling hung around his eyes, but he could see the beautiful black haired woman who sat at the small table.
"Monica?" he rasped out, confused. "Monica Rappacini?" Metal bands spanned his wrists, digital readouts blinking green; they were heavy to lift as he absently rubbed a hand through his hair. His arms and pant legs were spattered with red boot treads, even his chest, and he brushed at the dried stuff.
"Nice to see you again, Bruce, even if it's not the ideal situation." She tipped up the fine porcelain teapot, pouring a stream of steaming brown liquid into a cup. "Do you still take cream?"
"What the hell is going on?" Bruce demanded. His mind was clearing slowly, and memories were flooding back to him. Arriving back from Asgard alone, each of them on their own bridge punched through one after the other to different locations. The rendezvous point, meeting with Fury … all going according to plan until hell broke loose in New York at the Baxter Building. Rushing to get there in time to stop the theft of some important data.
"You didn't use to be so direct," she laughed as she offered him the cup. "I didn't think the parasite would change you so much."
He shook his head no, afraid that the cup held something more dangerous than tea. "The parasite?"
"The Hulk, whatever you call him. Don't worry; he's under control for the moment." She took a sip herself, blowing across the top to cool it slightly. "The injection was a neural inhibitor; we've had good success in the trials. Short-term only, unfortunately. Long-term use has some very nasty side effects. Victor Von Doom was on the right track after all, just had the wrong delivery system."
Bruce had a thousand questions rolling in his head, but he kept quiet, trying to piece everything together, dragging the memories of the other guy's last fight out of the shadows. The pain flashed into focus, some kind of aerosol pen, the memory making him rub his chest and throat.
"Bruce, we need you," Monica leaned forward in her seat, eyes empathic and understanding. "We can help you with your condition; we have the best facilities and scientists from around the world. And you can continue your work here without the distraction of the Hulk. Think of the good you can do, people you can save." He could hear the friend she'd been in her voice, reminding him of late nights talking about their dreams of cures for diseases and equal care for all. She'd been top in her field, creating antitoxins from natural sources, almost winning the Nobel Prize for her work. But then she'd disappeared.
"Who is we, Monica?" Bruce asked. "Who are you working for?"
"We're like-minded scientists, people who think technology should be available to all," she spoke, earnest and sincere, seeming to believe it herself. "A world without government barriers holding us back from helping each other."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce fought down the nausea as the memory slammed into him; Clint, on the floor, boots walking through his blood, making red footprints as they dragged Bruce away. "By stealing things, killing and hurting innocent people?" he demanded, feeling the familiar anger rise up and exulting in the knowledge that the other guy could, and would, break him out of here.
"Well, nothing is easy, you know." She sat back, and a coldness settled over her fine features. "What we need, we sometimes have to take. And those who try to stop us, well …" She shrugged elegantly, picking up the tea cup and sipping. "We have a world to save, Bruce. Not everyone agrees."
He reached then for the pool that rested just outside his consciousness, deliberately ready to unchain the beast, driven by the need to know what had happened, if Clint was … Rage boiled, but remained elusive, just out of reach. He tried again, and felt the Hulk slip further away, felt a lethargy spread up his arm and into his chest and shoulders.
"Sorry, dear, but the bracelets are programmed to administer another dose of the neuro-inhibitor if you start to get upset. I'd try not to stir yourself up, as I have no idea how much of the drug you can take before you have any adverse effects." She poured another cup of tea and left it sitting on the table as she rose. "You have some time to think about it. Work with us, Bruce. I don't want to think about what will happen if you say no."
On the edge of the cot, he breathed heavily, as she left, an ache like nothing he'd ever felt in his heart. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the plunge of the knife, the closed eyes, and the limp hand. He scrubbed at the blood on his arms, Clint's blood, and, for the first time he could remember, he felt the absence of the Hulk keenly as he wondered what to do.