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Bruce looked up at the medic who descended down into his small, dank cell, with a grin. He turned on a battery powered lantern and looked over the man. His own cheeks were sunken and his skin was very pale from lack of sunlight. He ran a hand through his long, peppered curly hair. “Why are you here? It’s not as if SHIELD doesn’t know what’s wrong with me.”Â
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Bruce paced, back and forth, sat up and down. The note didn’t make any sense. Nothing made any sense. It may not have been real. How could he be sure it was real? It was already gone. His very first note, written specifically to him, beautiful, and Hulk had taken it. He still had it memorized though. He’d always have it memorized.Â
Dr. Robert Bruce Banner, Tuesday, at 3pm, you will have a visitor. You must stay on your best behavior. Nick Fury
That was it. No explanation of why, after fifteen years, they decided to remind him real people still existed. No explanation of who would come or what they would do. Really, it was practically nothing. And Bruce worshiped and loathed every word of it, the new big angry god ruining and ruling his life.Â
He tried to tidy up his room the best he could. It was hard when the “room” was a steel box, the only difference in the solid box being one chute going down into the room, and one going down out of the room. But he had his few bits of possessions left from the most recent incident put away neatly.
There were a couple of books piled up on the side. A bucket full of now half-dirty water with a few flat suds swirled around sat next to them. In the middle of the room there were a small collection of battery powered flashlights, pointed in different directions, and a plate of cookies and fruit. He had scrubbed down the corner he used for his bathroom the best he could, and gotten two pillows for them to sit on, as well as his blanket in the corner, and a mirror for him to make sure he looked presentable.Â
He had asked for a suit. Apparently whoever was going through his list decided to ignore him, but he had gotten jeans and a shirt, and even underwear and socks, which he only ever asked for when the floor got cold. He had tried to shave, and cut some of his mange off. His face was covered in stubble, and his hair was a mass of curls a bit past his ears. He was skinny and gaunt, his skin very pale and his eyes very red. His nerves only let him check the mirror for a moment, and then he paced once more.
--He's just minding his own business as he walks, eyes downcast as he does. It's too late to stop when he crashes into someone coming the opposite direction.
Run //Open//
There goes this entire city.
Seattle was a big, big place.
Maybe not as big as Chicago or New York, but by northwest standards, it was pretty big.
And now he had to leave.
Michael had to have slipped up, maybe forgotten to blanket the perceptive barriers he keeps up, but now extra cameras were being put up on nearly every storefront and streetlamp.
So now he's gotta leave, find a new city or small town to hide out in until the same thing happens there.
He leaves at night, making his way from his hiding place and deciding to head south.
But apparently someone has the same idea to leave in a northern direction, because he bumps right into them.
Steal. Alter. Run. Hide. That’s Michael’s daily routine. Steal what he needs: food, clothes, water, ice packs. Alter the way people see his face. His favorite face is thinner, smaller than his own, with brown hair and stormy grey eyes, nothing too memorable to any who would be one to turn him back in. Run, because he can’t change how cameras pick him up, nor can he change how those viewing the tapes remember, unless he is right there. Hide, because he knows he’s being followed, and the ice packs that keep his normally blazing temperature of 102° down to a more manageable 99° melt fast. He won’t go back to the facility, to the pain and electrocution. Once, someone tried to force him. They were checked into the hospital the next day with complete and total amnesia. He doesn’t trust anyone. But maybe he could soon enough.
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