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Very well, where do I begin?

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.

My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.

There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.

Most Recent Posts



"Perry's gonna kill us for this, you know that?"

Lois Lane smirked as the speedometer on her dashboard reached 80 MPH. Her car weaving between traffic on the freeway, The Daily Planet's primetime anchor paid no attention to the fact that her cameraman - dutifully checking his equipment from the questionable safety of the passenger seat - was experiencing a comedown from the adrenaline of being asked to come along for the breaking story happening out at Hob's Bay. Neither Lane nor Olsen could attest to the nature of what the story was yet, given that an explosion at a factory could've been the result of anything from faulty equipment that had passed through half-witted safety inspectors to domestic terrorists hoping to get one in on the morally dubious billionaire that owned the company, but the fire in Lois' eyes more than adequately indicated that she didn't care - she was getting this story first, Perry White's misgivings be damned.

"Olsen, that's your anxiety talking. If you know Perry, you'll know that he doesn't want what he thinks he wants."

Olsen was almost too afraid to ask, but he did it anyway. "Uh, okay. Then what does he want?"

"Whatever we're about to give him. So lose the negativity and keep prepping the cameras."

That unwavering confidence must have been what made Lois Lane the household name that she'd become, Clark mentally noted, hunched over in the back seat while quietly searching for any mention of the explosion from social media. So far, it seemed that any locals that were posting about it were still trying to piece together what'd happened - from the street, the recurring verdict was that none had been injured but there were more police on the scene than paramedics, indicating that there wasn't cause for concern. Clark nevertheless hoped that nobody had been caught in the blast. The last thing he'd want to experience on this job was any human suffering - though he realized how naive that sentiment probably was.

Lois glanced back at the man in the glasses through her rearview mirror, realizing that he'd barely said a word in the twenty minutes since they'd left. People who barely spoke were often a source of frustration with her, so to say that he hadn't made a great first impression was an understatement.

"Hey, intern."

"It's Clark."

Lois took a drag from a lit cigarette, all but interested. "Uh-huh. Find anything yet?"

Clark cleared his throat, his gaze affixed to his phone, still too nervous to look Lois in the eye. The truth of the matter is, he'd become an admirer of her work over the last year. It was even part of the reason he'd thought to apply for an internship at The Daily Planet. Though it hadn't made itself readily apparent so far, her passion for human interest stories and the victims of policies that favored the upper class at the expense of the lower class bled through the screen. She actually seemed to care, which was becoming more rare to find in any news organization. So to his mild embarrassment, he still couldn't shake the feeling of being starstruck. Whereas she seemed more annoyed with his presence than anything.

"Well... going off of this, it doesn't seem like anyone knows anything."

Lane didn't miss a beat as she tossed the burning cigarette out of the window and placed her hand firmly back on the wheel. "Since you're new, word of advice. Never judge a situation at the outset. Somebody knows something. Don't let the overly-polished exterior of this place fool you, there's always going to be a hidden angle. You just have to know how to spot the ones trying to keep hidden."

Clark kept his eyes down for a different reason, desperately trying not to show a reaction that might betray his rather contradictory circumstances.

"To be fair, I said the same thing about Intergang. And yet you and everyone else at the station remain a skeptic."

Clark's eyes suddenly darted up at Jimmy, curious. "Intergang?"

"Yeah. You've heard of them, surely. The whole urban legend about a secret cabal of criminals running the day-to-day businesses. Like the Maggia in New York except, well, more modern and tech-based. People used to think that Intergang was the whole reason that the city got practically rebuilt overnight after the big meteor shower before Luthor resurfaced and took credit for it. But I still think there's alot that Intergang's existence could answer about a few things, like how Lex managed to bribe his way to absolute power."

"He did it by having more money than God, Jimmy. Get enough of it yourself and you wouldn't need some all-powerful committee of stripe-suit fedora clowns from a Scorsese film to buy your way into any backroom dealings..."

"But it wouldn't hurt. And even with all of his money, Luthor couldn't have..."

"Oh, c'mon. You also believe that a giant monkey is living in the sewers."

Jimmy became visibly irate at that. "There is one, Lois! Titano's very real and nobody's doing anything about it! There's a ton of evidence online, you wouldn't believe how many witnesses are out there!"

Clark smiled to himself, his initial nerves finally subsiding. He and Lois even shared a glance of mutual amusement at Jimmy's brief loss of composure - but in a way that he could tell quietly meant she'd deny it if he ever so much as breathed a word to anyone. Even so, he considered it a small victory that she didn't look at him with contempt the entire time.

"Actually, I've read that Luthor gained all of his wealth through the military-industrial complex."

Lois and Jimmy glanced at eachother, surprised that Clark sounded so confident in such an assertion. The mild-mannered intern had barely even said two sentences at a time to either of him in his first week on the job, so hearing that he'd possessed any interest or insight into Metropolis' so-called leading citizen took some measure of adjustment. Most people were content to simply read off the blatantly edited facts approved for Luthorcorp's Wikipedia page.

"At least, that's what I've read in archived national news articles, before everything went digital. His lawyers have tried to have it buried, but a few key moments in the lead-up to the war in Iraq, the ongoing insurgency conflicts in Bialaya, and a few other big government operations were crucial to getting him an audience with S.H.I.E.L.D. And this part is conjecture, but it's likely that he designed a few state-of-the-art weapons for them, pocketed the contract earnings, and plunged it back into Metropolis' infrastructure."

"You read that in... I'm sorry, archived national news articles? Those things that no one ever cites as a credible source because it's just a bunch of cliff notes to be used for some passing-grade college theses?"

Clark adjusted his glasses, perhaps realizing that he was forgetting himself.

"I... had alot of free time in Met U."

Lois scoffed. "I'll bet."

"Isn't your dad in the military? Maybe he could confirm if Lex gets his money from weapons contracts instead of just computer hardware and security systems like he's always claimed. That could be a huge story in and of itself."

"Firstly, my dad and I haven't spoken since high school graduation. Secondly..."

"Mr. White wouldn't let you run a story about Luthor even if you wanted to. He's too litigious and his lawyers are some of the best in the country. Probably even the world."

Lois raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"

"Easy assumption to make. Men like Luthor always have their bases covered."

For a fleeting couple of seconds, Lane looked back at him from the rearview mirror once again, genuinely impressed by the seemingly meek stranger's quick response to the Luthor question. Most people in Metropolis were all too glad to let Luthorcorp foot the bill for the city after the widespread destruction in '94, so the billionaire had gained enough leeway in the public eye to earn very few outspoken skeptics. Lois had always been one of the few, so to hear a brief level of fire from a man who didn't look like he'd seen the outside more than a few days of his life was somewhat mystifying.

"Any more at home like you?"

"Not really, no."

The feeling didn't last. Lois and Jimmy immediately eyed the cloud of thick, billowing smoke that was rising out of the oncoming scene of Hob's Bay. Turning onto the next exit, Lois wordlessly stepped on the gas and started making her way past a growing volume of traffic ahead. As Jimmy started clinging on for dear life, Clark simply looked back down at the phone, hoping that neither of them would dwell on what he'd just said. One of the biggest problems with working at a news media company was the fact that he'd expressly told himself not to be noticed. Getting excited and trying to make connections this early seemed to betray that rather crucial goal.

"Alright, gameplan. Jimmy, I'm gonna need some exterior shots. Crowds, site of the explosion, police presence. The works. That'll give me enough time to charm my way into a few on-camera interviews. See if any factory workers know what's going on. Any cops with a DPNN+ subscription would be a bonus."

Olsen raised his oversized DPNN-branded ENG camera onto his lap, wrapping the strap over his shoulder. "Easy-peasy. What about Clark? What do you need him to do?"

"Who?"

Jimmy and Clark looked at eachother. "...Intern?"

"Oh. Right."

Coming to a stop under an overpass as soon as it became clear that there was too much traffic to circumvent without going on foot, Lois looked back at the man from over her shoulder, struggling to come up with anything. Even if he didn't say it, Clark didn't take it personally. After all, she hadn't anticipated bringing him along, much less giving him firm directions on how to approach his first-ever stab at fieldwork. Even if Lois seemed abrasive on the surface, it was clear that she had simply never worked within the confines of a group beyond her and one other person - likely Jimmy, who seemed to have a genuine rapport with her. It was probably just the mode in which she was used to working.

"Look, no offense, but this could be dangerous. With one explosion, there's always the chance that another could go off if it hasn't already. And the last thing Olsen or I need is a tagalong to complicate things. So I'm just gonna say that for this one, stay in the car. Keep a lookout and call one of us if you see anything. Maybe call the office if we're not back in an hour. I don't know."

She had tried her best not to sound condescending, but Lois wasn't sure if she had succeeded. Surprisingly, however, Clark was amendable to these conditions, giving a nod and going back to browsing his phone instead of trying to respond with any argument. Lois wasn't sure if she needed to be thankful or if she needed to roll her eyes. This intern was probably another millennial who'd rather spend most of his time behind a screen than be around where the action was. And if there was a type of person Lois could never relate to, it was that.

"Right. Good talk. Jimmy?"

"Lead the way."

As the two of them departed the car, Clark shut off the phone and looked back up, quietly watching them approach the crowd of onlookers being directed by police to avoid the ambulances. He sighed under his breath, trying not to let himself get too wrapped up in the rising disappointment. It wasn't that he actually wanted to sit out the assignment - with his abilities, he'd actually be quite the boon to the investigation. He imagined that being able to see and hear through solid walls tended to be extremely useful to uncovering the truth about the origins of an explosion. But then, he also saw the crowd that was still building ahead.

All of those people. They were each potential witnesses if he made a wrong move, or did even the slightest thing out of the ordinary. They'd accuse him of being a mutant, even though it had been clear for years that something else was the cause of these things he could do. And such prejudices weren't just going to go away overnight because he happened to be of a different origin - none of the detractors cared about where mutants themselves came from, much less the fact that they were just people trying to live their lives.

So however the times had changed and whatever the modern public claimed to be in regards to their level of tolerance, Clark was almost certain that the only thing his powers were to be met with was paranoia and fear. And having to face that every day for the rest of his life was the last thing in the world that he wanted.

Despite what Lois had said before, some things were just worth keeping hidden.



From within the still-smoking ruins of the Hob's Bay Luthorcorp Processing Plant, something had awoken.

Firefighters were still inside, tasked with containing the resulting fires that had sprung up after the explosion had leveled the East Sector's wall, sending a few of the plant's workers to the hospital with varying levels of injury. A root cause had yet to be established, but that was for the forensics team still waiting outside. Paramedics had yet to come back for another sweep, either. The police initially seemed convinced that it was the work of one of the mutant workers, a janitor named Jones, but his records had been pulled and the CCTV footage confirmed that he wasn't anywhere near the East Sector at the time. Not to mention that he was on Luthorcorp's own pharmaceutical cocktail of mutant inhibitors.

No, it had been something else entirely. And it started, of all places, in the bowels of the server room. A few lines of code that had been coming in through wireless signals, were unnoticed and seemingly harmless. They hadn't even tripped Luthorcorp's significantly advanced firewalls, they were so minuscule. But whenever this innocuous data had reached a specific point beyond the public facade of the plant, to a massive testing lab sitting several feet below the manufacturing floor that hadn't been on any official records, that was when something had stirred to life. Lights began to flicker in the halls beneath. The whirring of machinery had gradually begun to whine in the distance. Before anyone had even noticed, several large objects had even started moving.

As it turned out, Luthorcorp had been holding onto a secret.

A secret that was moments away from spilling out onto the streets.

"...pppl... peple..."

"...people o-o-of... Me-Me-Metropolis..."


"...People of Metropolis..."
You saw nothing.
@webboysurf @Eviledd1984 In that case, I can't really argue against his usage in the Deadpool story. Fair enough.

To restate for posterity, though: we're treating villains as a free-for-all except archenemies. If a hero character wants to let said archenemy be used widely, that's fine, but the golden rule should always be to ask beforehand if it's questionable. No one's likely gonna use The Joker before Mao Mao does, for instance, so any infraction of that will have to re-edit their posts.

Obviously, a version of a hero created in this game could have different archenemies than the norm aswell, and that's fine. Just try and make it clear beforehand. If someone takes a character you wanted to make the big bad in your stuff, the risk is there that they'll be favored and you'll have to rethink what you're doing.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.
@Eviledd1984 I'm afraid that unless @webboysurf gave prior consent, it's against the rules. Wilson is Daredevil's archenemy.

In the IC, you're free to utilize any supervillain from Marvel or DC to tell your story in the best way you see fit. But don't use an already taken hero character's archenemy. These characters are needed for a hero character's specific development.
Eh, I kinda preferred Hyperion.

But okay, if you insist.

Steve Rogers by @Sep

Here @Master Bruce have this



That's not a dog at all.
I don't have to have a second character. It's not mandatory.


I figured that'd be more fair to mention than those fi... sorry, six Condiment King posts you owe me, now.

@Sep over here bullying his co-GMs when he's got a second app to write...

We're nothing if not equal opportunity when it comes to shaking eachother down.
Pripyat, Kyiv Oblast - Ukraine

He feels the weight of age with every step. The crushing pressure on his joints as they step against the dirt, telling him to stop and rest. The immense burden of mental exhaustion, scrambling half-finished thoughts until they can't be fully formed. The itch of irritated skin, having been forced to forgo any form of bathing in the last few days. And then there's the massive leather backpack strapped to his shoulders, stiffening his body to hang closer to the Earth with copious amounts of research notes, a couple of laptops, some rolled-up paper maps and a few burner phones that he'd pilfered out of wastebins and small town gutters. His only tangible connections to the world, now. But no food or water left to sustain him, no form of ID or credit cards, not even a working watch to tell the time. And the state of his clothes, heavily tattered and worn from years of use before they wound up at local homeless shelters and used good stores, betrayed someone who hadn't seen an actual roof over his head in decades. Each displaying some faded brand or name that meant nothing to him.

This was Dr. Bruce Banner's life. A short thirty-two-year existence that had been recently marred with an affliction. Not his first, certainly, after inheriting certain unpleasantries from a hospitalized mother and a monstrous abuser of a father. But an affliction that had a primary side-effect: habitual distance from his fellow man. It was why he had found himself drawn to Pripyat, of all places - a "ghost" city, claimed to be uninhabitable when it was evacuated in 1986 following Chernobyl. It's levels of radioactivity had waned over the decades since, and some workers frequented the city in off weeks. Tourists even occasionally came to see the spectacle, but radioactive pockets and the resulting dust had made it inadvisable for anyone to stay long.

There might have been a time when that'd have bothered Dr. Banner. The exposure, the rising levels as you ventured North. He doesn't remember such a time, anymore - it might aswell have all been an interesting footnote in the back of a brochure. What he was looking for right now was irrelevant to what the city did to anyone else's health. And if he weren't so damned exhausted from his journey, Banner might have even stopped for a moment to drink in the plethora of quiet that nature and a bit of nuclear fallout had generously provided him.

No, what the Doctor needed right now was to answer a housecall.

Astonishingly, someone had reached out with an offer. Something about a potential solution to a problem within Banner's cellular structure, a problem heightened to a greater degree in recent weeks. They had claimed to have been working on something similar for years, as a potential mutant deterrent that all the world's governments would pay handsomely for if proven effective. They just hadn't been able to convince anyone to come to Ukraine to be a test subject, given the recent struggles and increasingly volatile relations. Banner almost laughed when he'd heard that. The idea of a tank or the sight of heavy ordinance scaring him away from entering the country. No, the crippling horrors of war were almost comforting compared to what he'd been living with. He'd even go as far as to say that he welcomed such an encounter.

"Hhn."

On the long road ahead and through a clearing mist, Banner came to a sudden stop. An old giant wooden sign had fallen over a chain-link fence and partially collapsed it. Three times as big as he was on his best day, the sign displayed some sort of writing that served as either instruction or warning, with a big arrow pointing to the left. Even if he hadn't started reading up on his Ukrainian only a week and a half ago, Bruce would be entirely lost as to the sign's meaning. But he was certain of something - whoever he was looking for was beyond it, and the only way forward was through the mess of splinter and warped metal. Approaching the sign slowly, Banner pushed on it with both hands. It didn't so much as budge. He leaned against it, took a deep breath and tried again with a bit more force. It remained entirely too stable. Letting his heavy backpack fall with a thud on the ground, the Doctor inwardly pushed aside a growing frustration and placed his hands on it a third time. Gritting his teeth, he placed one foot against the ground and thrust himself against it.

His heartrate spikes. His breathing shortens. As he presses on, Banner catches a glimpse of the flesh of his wrist beneath heavy sleeves. Small, unsightly veins begin to appear across his forearm. Normally a faded purple color on an average man at their worst, Bruce's expression quickly turns from resilient to horrified as he notices the color of these: a deep, unmistakable forest shade of green. The sight causes him to immediately stumble back, scared of what his own body was just threatening to do. It doesn't even register it as he falls directly on his tailbone atop the freezing concrete. The pain doesn't so much as vex him as he rolls up his sleeve and looks at the arm. The veins are still raised, still that unnatural color - but they're turning back. Gradually, they're turning back to something resembling human.

Bruce sits for a moment and catches his breath. He'd had a heart rate monitor just a few days before, bought at a street vendor with the few dollars that he could manage to scrounge up out of nothing. The device was long gone, lost in the night like so much else. Given away to time that had been stolen, missing hours of activity that he desperately wanted back - and at the same time, wanted nothing more than complete obliviousness.

"Close, Banner. Real close..."

With a heavy sigh of relief, Bruce slowly pushes himself back to his feet. The sweat beading down his brow was merely an indicator of how fortunate he was - that the worst he'll feel is winded for the next half an hour. Collecting his backpack and staring back up at the sign, still affixed on the path ahead, the Doctor simply waits a beat before turning left and continuing down the next path. If he can't go through, Banner figures to himself, he'll just walk around. Easy enough to say for a man who just nearly broke the Earth over a traffic hazard.

"Anybody here?"

The wooden door creaks open. A thick wave of frigid air strikes Banner in the face as he stands in the vacant opening of a dilapidated building. A bar, from what he can tell of the ravaged insides. The wooden furniture is all there with the requisite cobwebs and dusting, clearly having sat unused for well over a decade. For a moment, the Doctor considers turning right around and leaving. There's nothing here for anyone, let alone a desperate scientist hailing from half a world away. But he takes a closer look at everything inside and begins to reconsider. Fully stacked bar, though the glass bottles are still a little worse for wear. Plenty of hanging pictures and paintings, though they've become so warped that you could hardly be blamed for mistaking them as abstract pieces. A couple of metal statuettes, signifying sports trophies of some kind. Banner tries to think of a reason that this shouldn't be inviting, but - hell, it's the first clear sign of civilization that he can remember seeing since he crossed the border.

With a quiet shrug to no one in particular, Bruce treads past the entrance and allows the door to naturally shut behind him. Cautious in his movement, on the off chance that an owner still lives there or even the unlikelier scenario of someone hanging around to scavenge for some booze, it takes him a few moments to let himself settle into confident ease. Finally, he breaks a tension of his own making by removing his pack and swinging it hard onto the unmanned bar. Nothing makes a sound - even if there were mice or roaches, they'd have scattered well before now. Heavily sighing to himself once more, Banner takes a seat at the bar and allows his tired body to finally rest.

It's still difficult to think. How long had he been on the road now? More to the point, how long had it been since he touched foot on American soil? The details are tantalizingly close enough to be just out of reach in the recesses of his mind. He gingerly rubs the bridge of his nose and allows the aches and pains of his journey to leave him, as if they had been waiting on command. He can only remember flashes of what led him here, like a morbid dream trying to be pieced together out of fragmented edges. Five weeks ago, his problems were... tolerable. Not entirely managed, but at least they were the kind that most people dealt with. The generalized anxiety of a new assignment. The rush of adrenaline that came with playing to his strengths as a researcher. The disdain for having to meet new people, to tolerate following orders as a subordinate. The horrible, unrequited longing for...

He stops himself. The truth is, he was more shocked than anything that she had appeared again after such a long gap in his thoughts. When he left for New Mexico, they had fought rather bitterly about it. Not about the leaving itself, granted, but his rather insane request that she join him. Even now, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone what his thinking was there. She had made it clear from the beginning: once they crossed the line from psychiatrist and patient to... something else, it wasn't anything that could last. She was a married woman, and despite the lapse in judgment, the man she loved still bore a matching ring. Bruce was more like an occasional thrill that she'd foolishly allowed herself. Something that could be dropped at a moment's notice. And at the time, he agreed to let it only be that.

Then the weeks after the affair had bled into months. The visits to the hotel room she'd rented started becoming more passionate. And for the first time, they'd started to really talk. Banner had once actually laughed at the thought that if - and he was more than sure it was an if - the whole thing had been some elaborate way to coax deeper confessions out of him than in their initial psychiatry sessions, it was wildly successful. But Bruce did tell her everything he could've, damn near everything he'd hidden from even himself. And as he did, he couldn't help but enjoy memorizing the shapes of her body. Feeling the warmth of her skin on a winter's night. Watching the way her smile crept along her lips, making some sly joke at his expense if not her own. Turns out that the longer they got to know eachother, the more they realized that they were both screwed up - it just felt better to admit it when they were together.

The truth is, he'd become obsessed with her for a time. And as the path of making some kind of commitment made itself visible with the job offer in Albuquerque, she was far from ready to follow it. Maybe she'd never even really considered it in the first place. It was hard for him to know, even with the benefit of hindsight. But so much had changed in such a small amount of time that when push came to shove, Banner had never even thought about calling her. Not even to check-in. Not even to formally say goodbye, which he was so self-righteously indignant to do before he'd eventually left. Looking back on it now, all he could do was be relieved that she hadn't come. What their life could have even looked like in the face of the absolute horror that would follow.

And horror is exactly what had been waiting for him. The position in a think tank that had been promised to him was quickly turned into an active test. His expertise in radiation wasn't just theoretical anymore, despite being only a few years out from getting his Master's - it was forcibly real and very much crucial to success. And then there was the gamma bomb. The "Worldbreaker", as some had crudely dubbed it. A brilliant piece of work by a leading military technician named Sterns, the idea of the bomb was that, after enough fine-tuning, a controlled blast of gamma radiation could reverse cellular degeneration on a level most wouldn't have thought to even dream of. A cleanse of microbiomes that would jumpstart the body's natural ability to regenerate. With this type of breakthrough, it could've led to everything. Cures for every major cancerous disease as a serious advancement on available chemotherapy. Safe and effective treatment of Alzheimer's.

Of course, there was also the big one. A potential effect on cell receptors. The kind that, when compromised, would lead to certain psychotic disorders. Like the ones his mother had suffered with every day since she was a teenager. Like the ones Banner had started to suffer from himself in early adulthood. Even now, looking at his trembling hands, the good Doctor wondered how much of what he'd experienced over the last few weeks could be trusted. Had he really gone through the whole ordeal at Project Worldbreaker's unceremonious end? Was it even possible that he would be standing here if the project had actually gone as wrong as he remembered it, that rainy night in the desert?

Had he been tricked into suddenly seeing that other face in the mirror, staring back at him with nothing but hate?

"What in..."

Banner suddenly shot up from his seat upon hearing a noise. He'd been lost in thought for so long that he could tell the room had considerably darkened, bringing him closer to midnight than he'd anticipated. He wasn't sure of where his crude lodgings would be tonight, but at the moment, it didn't particularly matter: upon closer listening, he could almost swear that he'd heard someone breathing. Instinctively reaching for his bag, the Doctor retracted, realizing that he had no method of defense on his person. This was likely to be the first human contact that he'd made in weeks, and he was a stranger in a foreign land. He could have at least thought to pocket some kind of knife.

Instead, Banner quietly made his way through the public area of the bar, passing through a large cobweb and brushing off his shoulder as he moved. Whoever was there, they weren't making any attempt to flee. They also weren't making any real effort to be inviting. So either they were petrified of this man entering a place they didn't expect, or they were actively planning something. Bruce's mind raced with possibilities as he found himself in a dark, shadowy back area. About four to five poker tables sat infront of him, almost too difficult to see. Each table was scattered with cards and chips whose plastic had rotted.

Adjusting his eyes to the dark, Banner quickly realized that he hadn't imagined the breathing: someone was sitting at the table in the very back. Their features were almost impossible to make out with no working lamps, but they were tall. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and some sort of thick jacket. Bruce froze, unable to immediately decide what to do. If the person didn't realize he was there, scaring them wasn't the best course. But the figure seemed calm. Eerily so, given the circumstances.

Clearing his throat, Banner remained standing where he was. There was no reason to limit their distance, at least not at the moment. But the figure had to know he was there, and to the Doctor's surprise, it didn't seem to phase the stranger in the slightest. At least that made one of them.

"<Ah, well... am I speaking this correctly?>"

The Doctor wasn't sure of his grasp of Ukrainian. The stranger didn't seem to react to this, either. The natural inclination in Bruce's mind was that his grasp was very poor.

"<I don't know if you can understand me.>"

The figure seemed to raise their head, slowly.

"<I am... from America. I come here... seeking someone.>"

The figure is silent for a beat. Then nods.

Banner's worries about the encounter suddenly morph into some faint hope.

"<You... can understand. That's good.>"

Then the shape of the figure's hand becomes visible. Only just, still partially obscured by the jacket, but it reveals at least some life to a frankly unsettling figure. The hand places something on the table ahead of them. Banner looks at this, curiously, trying to make out what it is. An object that's very small atop some kind of a board that now sits revealed. The Doctor inches closer to see what it is, his curiosity briefly overtaking all rational thought, until he comes close enough to accurately discern...

A chess piece. A pawn, specifically.

Bruce quickly begins to piece things together. This has to be some kind of local. An old man, more than likely, who comes to this bar in the off hours and challenges other locals and passersby to a game. Banner even starts to make out that a full set is already at play, with each piece sat on their respective sides. It stands out for its pristine condition amongst surroundings that show nothing but age and disuse. Still, Bruce politely shakes his head.

"<Oh. I... apologize. This isn't what I... that is to say, I'm looking for someone.>"

The stranger takes the pawn they laid down and taps it against the table. Wordless, with no features still to be seen in the dark. Doctor Banner tilts his gaze, feeling a general unease begin to creep up in the back of his neck. Who the hell is this? Why does it suddenly feel so foreboding to simply decline a stranger's invitation to a simple table game?

"<They work in... I'm looking for a man of science. To help me with something.>"

Once again, the stranger takes the pawn. Taps.

Banner's unease quickly gives way to impatience.

"<I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else. I'm not...>"

Another tap. Bruce feels his fists clasp together, tightly.

"<Listen, old man. I'm not any kind of company you want.>"

Another, more violent tap. Banner feels the veins in his neck straining.

"<Stop. I'm asking you... I'm telling you to stop.>"

The stranger pauses, still holding the pawn. Bruce takes a deep breath, quickly trying to calm himself. Afraid of checking to see what the veins would look like in the light, particularly the color of their shade. He starts to feel a pang of remorse for being so short with what is likely a harmless local. For so easily crossing over the gentleness of uncertainty into almost a blindingly quick rise in blood pressure and an irritation that could spill into something worse. Something far more dangerous than the figure even knows.

Perhaps, Banner surmises, he's looking at this all wrong. He never minded a game of chess in the past, before things got so horribly dire that even a brief moment of levity and civility could feel like the building blocks for something to escalate. Banner slowly approaches even closer, his hand resting on the chair adjacent to the stranger's. Both virtually perched in a now pitch-black area of the room, they both quietly stare at nothing except a chess board illuminated by the trickling moonlight.

"<Maybe...>"

A few more moments pass. He pulls the chair out, and slowly sits down.

All of those weeks, running. Hurrying to one hopeless location after the next.

"<Maybe I could use the break.>"

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh, quietly starting to wonder where everything went wrong.

"<Life has been hell, lately.>"



Albuquerque, New Mexico - Three Weeks After Doctor Banner's Arrival

A low rumble echoes across a military base. Ear-piercingly loud sirens have been going off for the last few minutes, too long for anyone stationed there to tell when it all began. A heavily armored military helicopter has already landed, and a fireteam has been deployed. Their orders were stressfully relayed by Colonel Glenn Talbot himself: breach the perimeter and find out just why direct combat from within the base itself had been entirely cut off. Clearly, something had happened - power had already been shutting on and off for fifteen minutes when Talbot got notice of potential seismic activity. Which wouldn't normally be worrying to him, as the area had been known for such a disturbance. But this was also one of the world's leading radioactive testing facilities, and with that volatile combination a potential reality, the mind quickly starts to wander.

That was why Bravo Team was here. Already in the weeds, as it were, Lieutenant Commander Emil Blonsky leads a squadron of six well-trained military sharpshooters onto the primary sealed entrance of the base. Men and women that he trained in Afghanistan, over a lifetime ago - all of whom he'd have gladly given his life for, given the chance. Individuals who collectively shared a history of weddings, funerals, births, and deaths. The fireteam would follow Blonsky into the fiery depths themselves if he commanded it, and he was well aware of such commitment.

Pressing the side of his sealed and armored helmet to activate the communication line, Blonsky is greeted with static that only grows louder as they approach. Given that they were all about to enter a closed-off radiation facility that had likely been compromised, the choice of attire - an advanced, state-of-the-art hazmat suit crossed with kevlar combat armor - seemed more than a little appropriate. And if it wasn't, Blonsky was going to have to convince Colonel Talbot to send a strongly worded letter to the boys over in Waynetech's Applied Sciences Division of Gotham City.

"Echo Team, this is Bravo Team. Come in, Echo Team. Repeat."

Giving his team the go-ahead maneuver, Blonsky continues to try and reach someone - anyone - inside the base who could still be alive as the forefront of his team, Sergeant Yuri, produces a set of large briefcases. Opening them, he and a fellow squad member retrieve a set of red and green override keys for the door. Nodding to eachother as they slip them into the exterior terminal, Yuri and the other soldier twists the keys in perfect synchronicity and watch as the blindingly crimson screen suddenly switches over to a brilliant emerald. A positive confirmation sound echoed through the above loudspeakers, and Blonsky turned to face the massive titanium doors leading to the underground elevator to watch them open.

"Steady as she goes. Single file, no separation. Maintain R-7 maneuver!"

"Sir, yes sir!"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Sir, yes..."


The doors hiss with a cloud of steam, finally opening.

What they find inside the elevator terminal is entirely unexpected.

The walls are stained with entire gallons of blood. Entrails line the ceilings. Freshly broken human bones are scattered across the floor. Faint screams can be heard from below, with moans of agony drowning them out. Blonsky's eyes practically bolt out of his head and his squadron stops dead in their tracks. A guttural shout roars it's way across the base, echoing up through the horrifically decorated chamber containing a now visibly destroyed elevator. The metal of it seemingly ripped apart with massive hands.


"I..."

Blonsky can't find the words before the situation quickly elevates into something much, much worse. Out of the corner of the fireteam's eyes, a large creature moves alarmingly quick from within a thick blanket of steam and vaults at them. The steam dissipates, revealing not only how massive it is compared to any human height or density, but that it's skin is a deep green. They barely have time to open fire at the new target before it's smashed into them, hard. Whatever it is, as Bravo Team is about to discover... it's angry.

Very angry.
.

Damn. Nicely done.

Easy ass approval goes to Black Knight by @Half Pint.
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