Bruce Banner returned to the pizza shop, the gold coin a heavy, solid weight in his pocket. The smell of baking dough and oregano filled the air, but he barely noticed. His original plan had been simple: run. Keep running until he found a way to eliminate the Hulk or died trying.
But now he had a real chance. A tournament. A competition for the Dragon Balls.
He climbed the creaking attic stairs to the small room where he'd been hiding. He sat on the cot. He decided to stay and fight.
But first, he needed information. He realized he knew almost nothing about Smith Doyle beyond the fragmented news reports, and he'd never heard of the Fraternity. If he was going to compete in their tournament, he needed to know what he was up against.
He came back downstairs, his footsteps quiet, and headed for the back kitchen to ask his friend about borrowing a computer.
He pushed open the door and froze.
Betty Ross sat in the small living room, talking to his friend.
Banner's heart hammered against his ribs. A cold panic washed over him. He shouldn't be here. He was putting her in danger just by existing in the same city. He took a half-step back, turning to leave.
"Bruce?"
Betty's voice stopped him cold. She stood, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Banner bolted.
He shoved the back door open, clattering into the alley. His mind screamed at him. Get away. Get away from her. Protect her from what you've become.
He dove behind a large, overflowing dumpster, pressing himself against the cold, damp brick wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing, trying to fight down the familiar, green rage stirring beneath his skin.
After several agonizing minutes, Banner heard footsteps in the alley, then them retreating. The shop door closed. She must have given up.
He waited another ten minutes, his heart gradually slowing, before emerging. A cold rain had started falling, a heavy, steady downpour.
Banner walked aimlessly through the streets, letting the rain soak through his thin clothes. The chill bit at his skin. Maybe the cold would help calm him down. Maybe it would keep the Other Guy quiet.
Headlights cut through the rain behind him, the beams illuminating the spray.
A car pulled up alongside him, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. The passenger window rolled down.
"Bruce!"
Betty. Of course she'd found him again.
She stopped the car in the middle of the empty street and got out, not even bothering to grab an umbrella. Rain immediately plastered her dark hair to her face. Banner looked back at her, a silhouette against the car's headlights, and something broke inside him. He couldn't run anymore. He didn't want to.
He ran toward her instead.
They collided in the middle of the rain-soaked street. Banner pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him, holding onto her like she was the only solid thing in the entire world.
"Don't run anymore," Betty said against his chest, her voice breaking. "Please don't run anymore."
She pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, her palms warm against his cold, wet skin. "Come with me. Please, Bruce. Please."
Banner couldn't find the words to refuse. He just nodded, closing his eyes.
Betty's apartment was small but warm. The air smelled like coffee. She disappeared into her bedroom and returned a moment later with a small, plastic box. Inside, nestled on a piece of foam, was a USB drive.
"This is your experimental data. I copied it before they could seize everything."
She held it out to him. "I hoped that one day, it would give us some answers."
Banner took the drive carefully, his scientific mind immediately cataloging the possibilities. But a more immediate concern pushed through.
"Does the General know you took this?"
Betty shook her head, her expression hardening. "I haven't spoken to him in years."
The pain in her voice was obvious. She'd begged her father to call off the manhunt, to help Bruce instead of hunting him. General Ross had refused. He'd escalated instead, treating Bruce like a weapon to be captured rather than a person to be helped. Betty hadn't forgiven him for that.
"Don't let him find out," Banner said seriously.
"Bruce, why can't we just talk to him together?" she pleaded. "He's my father. Maybe if we both—"
"He told me he wants the mutant cells in my body." Banner's voice turned cold, devoid of emotion. "He wants to analyze them. Replicate them. Turn them into a weapon."
He squeezed Betty's hand, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "But don't worry. I found a permanent solution."
"As long as I win, the mutant cells won't exist anymore."
Across Virginia, at a secure military research facility, General Ross walked through the armory with purpose. He reached a sealed room that required his handprint and retinal scan. The heavy door hissed open.
Rows of refrigerated, cryo-locked cases lined the walls. He opened one and removed a single vial of amber liquid. The super soldier serum. Stark Industries had been involved in this iteration's development, refining the formula that had created Captain America decades ago.
Ross carried the vial to the medical laboratory where Blonsky waited.
The soldier sat shirtless on an examination table, his already impressive musculature on full display. Ross had handpicked him for this. Blonsky was a warrior, a man who lived for the fight.
"This serum has flaws," Ross said bluntly, holding the vial up to the light. "It amplifies personality traits. Aggression, ambition, whatever you've got inside, it becomes stronger."
He set the vial down. "I'll only inject a small amount. I need you to stay rational and follow orders."
"If you experience any side effects, the program stops. You won't return to duty until you recover."
Blonsky shook his head, his expression firm. "With respect, General, a small dose won't be effective against that monster."
He met Ross's eyes. "I want the full dosage. If side effects occur, I'll suspend activities and report for medical evaluation. But I need the full dose."
Ross studied him. The man had courage, he'd give him that.
"Although I'm nothing compared to that monster," Blonsky continued, his voice tight with controlled anger, "I'm still a transcendent. I'm confident I can control this power."
Ross thought about Steve Rogers. A ninety-pound weakling had handled the serum without losing his mind. Blonsky, already an elite soldier with enhanced abilities, should have no problem.
"I respect your choice."
The doctor standing by, prepped in a sterile gown, spoke up. "The injection has two stages. One into deep muscle tissue, the other directly into bone marrow." He prepared the syringes. "The second one is going to hurt significantly. Be prepared."
Blonsky nodded once, his jaw set.
The first injection went into his neck. Blonsky's muscles tensed, a cord standing out, but he didn't make a sound.
They turned him over onto his stomach. The doctor positioned the second, longer needle at the base of his spine, finding the space between vertebrae. The needle punched through.
Even Blonsky couldn't suppress a low, pained groan. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white.
The serum spread through his system like liquid fire. Blonsky's body began to change before their eyes. Already impressive muscles swelled, becoming larger, denser. His bone structure shifted and reinforced itself. Every system in his body upgraded, pushed to superhuman levels.
When the transformation stabilized, Ross pulled out his scouter and activated it, pointing it at the panting soldier.
The numbers on the display began climbing. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
They kept rising, the pitch of the beeps getting higher.
Forty. Fifty.
The reading flickered and then settled: fifty-two points of combat power.
Before the Hulk incident, Ross would have been ecstatic. In a world where eight points qualified as rare and exceptional, fifty-two was extraordinary. Blonsky could take down an entire battalion single-handedly now. He was practically a second Captain America.
But with the Hulk's one hundred and fifty-plus combat rating as the benchmark, fifty-two felt painfully inadequate.
They still needed Banner. Needed to capture him, study his cells, create a controllable version of the Hulk.
Blonsky recovered quickly, the pain fading, replaced by a rush of exhilaration. His eyes were bright with excitement. He flexed his hands experimentally, feeling the raw, thrumming power coursing through his body. He felt like he could crush his former self like an insect. He pulled against the restraining straps holding his arms. They snapped like paper.
Blonsky stood, rolling his shoulders, testing his new strength. "General, what's my combat power?"
Ross watched him examine his transformed body. "Fifty-two points. An increase of forty-three and a half."
Blonsky's excitement dimmed immediately. Fifty-two points. He vividly remembered the green monster throwing a forklift like it was a softball. Remembered being helpless, utterly outclassed.
Fifty-two wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
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