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“Are you okay?” the fisherman asks, watching with caution as Bruce drags himself up onto the filthy bank of the river.
Bruce laughs.
No one has asked him that question in months. At least not sincerely, not in the interest of his well being rather than -
“And how are we doing today?”
The clipped tone of the woman’s voice cuts through the fog of Bruce’s brain as he comes back into a semi-aware state. She’s not asking him. And even if she were Bruce doesn’t think he’d have the strength to reply. The groan of discomfort that escapes his lips as the feeling returns to his body is heavy in his mouth, lips cracked and tongue dry. They don’t pay him any mind, too busy discussing him to address him. He’s strapped down, arms bent at a 90 degree angle and wrists secured in cold metal on either side of his head. His ankles, waist and neck are bound similarly, stretched out and preventing him from moving an inch. If he could speak it would be to beg for water but he doesn’t try because he knows it’d be futile. Water is a human necessity and Bruce - in their eyes - is as far away as human as one can be.
“It’s attempted to break the cuffs several times in the past week. But the new drug is dispersing into its system faster than it can metabolise.” Four scientists are standing over him now, two looking over his body with scrutinous gazes and intrusive prods, while another shines a painfully bright light in his eyes, which the fourth holds wide open, unforgiving even as Bruce tries to scrunch them closed. Once satisfied, the man with the light clicks it off and the rest of them back away. He smiles and the sight sends a sickening shiver down Bruce’s spine. He’s been shivering since he woke up, the feverish sweat dripping over his exposed torso creating millions of goosebumps as it takes his precious body heat with it. There’s no warmth to be gained from the metal slab he’s lay on either. But this man’s smile, and his next words, send an icy dread coursing through Bruce’s veins that cannot be matched. “I think we’re safe to move on to the next stage of testing.”
Someone out of his peripheral claps their hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. It’s a ridiculous reaction and Bruce would roll his eyes at how cartoonish and fake it sounds… if not for the fact that he knows first hand that these people are genuine, curiosity-driven sadists. Hand picked by Ross himself to exact revenge on Bruce, hidden in the guise of ‘scientific advancement’ and ‘national security’.
There’s a soft clattering of metallic instruments and Bruce, now free to do so, lets his eyes slip shut. He doesn’t want to see what horrors are in store for him today.
But even as he wills himself to not think about it his heart rate rises and his breathing quickens. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears and beyond that there’s a rapidly increasing beeping coming from the monitors that he’s hooked up to. Any moment now he’ll change. He can feel him, the creature, the monster that he created. It wants out, it wants -
There’s a searing heat in the crook of his left arm, followed by the pat of a latex gloved hand on the spot just below where the needle had pierced his skin. It’s a mocking gesture, one that would usually be used to give comfort. Now it’s more of an assurance, a promise. ‘We have you,’ it says and Bruce wants to sob as the roaring quiets down into a dull numbness in his head. He’s never wanted to become the monster before but, in this moment, the promise of freedom it brings, torn away so abruptly, aches more than any other wound they have inflicted so far.
“Let’s see what this monster is made of,” someone says, and Bruce has no other option but to open his mouth and scream himself hoarse, if only to keep himself from biting through his tongue as an intense, burning pain blossoms in a neat line down his chest.
When Bruce comes back to the present, he’s still laughing, silently, tears streaming down from the corner of his eyes. He’s lay on his back, mud and filthy water coating every inch of his bare skin. One hand clutches at his chest, fingernails tracing a line down where deep wounds once resided, healed now through the miraculous powers of the Hulk.
He is alone.
The fisherman must have run off at some point during his breakdown. Probably to call the cops on him. Bruce can’t blame him. He must look just as much the monster that he’d been made to feel like back on the metal slab.
After several more minutes - when sobs that come out of nowhere die down and the cold of the river water becomes too much to bear - Bruce picks himself up of the ground and heads for the nearest road. It’s slow going, his body exhausted so much already, but hopefully he’ll be able to get far enough away before the fisherman spreads the word and the hunt for him begins.
The ground is unforgiving on his tired, bare feet but he carries on for two more hours before his legs give out. Honestly, he’s surprised he managed to get that far.
It takes him five days to get help. There are very few people he trusts but he figures he needs to contact one of them. Strangers certainly aren’t an option, at least not directly and not when he’s in this state. Aside from being naked and covered in filth, he also just feels too unstable to handle talking to anyone right now.
For five days it’s just him, the monster and his nightmares. Several more breakdowns occur during the daytime, as little things remind him of his time in Ross’ custody.
Eventually, he comes to a lone gas station. It’s closed for the night, thank god. Bruce manages to break in undisturbed; the owners hadn’t been particularly careful with their security, which is an unusual turn of luck for Bruce. He finds a large, stained flannel shirt draped over the chair at the counter, and ties it around his waist. It’s not much but it will save him what little dignity he has left when someone finds him. The various snacks lined up in front of the cashier’s counter are tempting too but he limits himself to one bag of chips and a protein bar. He detests stealing from people when he can’t pay them back, even is desperate times such as these. It just serves to add to his guilt and remind him that he’s taken so much from humanity already…
Despite this, he doesn’t hesitate to crack open the register and fish out a few dimes for the payphone outside. As he dials in the first number that pops into his head, his mind drifts to the last week - finally over - only to be cut off by a soft, familiar voice.
“Hi, you’ve reached Betty Ross –”
Bruce slams the payphone back into its holder and presses his hand to his face, breathing harsh. It had only been an answer phone recording - which is fortunate; Betty would kill him if he’d hung up on her in person - but the sound of her voice was still enough to send him reeling.
He’d been right about not being ready to face human interaction. But he’d at least thought he could hold it together for a few minutes with Betty.
When he finally calms down his fingers hover back over the numbers. The phone had gone straight to voicemail so Bruce figures it must be switched off on her end. Not worth another shot, at least not until the morning. But, god. He’s desperate now that he’s had a taste of familiar voice and he’s been so alone…
He punches in the other number, one he knows by heart, that he knows is never switched off.
“Hello?” A voice says, clearly stifling a yawn. He must have been asleep.
At the sound of the voice actually addressing him - definitely not recorded this time, thank goodness - a bout of hysteria bubbles up in Bruce’s chest. Instead of responding in words all that comes out of him is a short, high laugh.
“Doc?” Rick sounds immediately sounding more awake, almost frantic as he fires off a million questions. “Is that you? Where are you, Doc? What happened? Are you still with me? Bruce? Bruce?”
Bruce takes in several deep breaths, feeling lightheaded and bracing himself against the wall with his right arm. “Hey, Rick,” he croaks, voice strained after months of disuse. “I’m, uh. I’m in a bit of trouble. Again.” Another hysterical hiccup of laughter. He hates himself right now. Hates that this is how Rick will remember him for the next few months as he is forced into recovery.
But Rick just laughs back, even if his is more of a gasp of relief than the broken sobs of a man who has just spent the last eight months being treated like the monster he'd been raised to believe he is.
“Just stay where you are, Bruce. I’ll get you some help.”
Bruce nods, not remembering that Rick can’t see him, and whispers, “Thanks.”
And then promptly passes out.