The Trial of Bruce Banner

Boga

Jennifer Walters enters the small Hulk-proof visitation area—a room with high ceilings and icy energy.

The tiny gated window feet above a light blue cot are on the right, but Bruce sits to the left on the concrete floor. Thin in his oversized orange jumpsuit, he stares past her.

The singular guard remains nearby, though he permits the cousins as much privacy as possible.

"For fuck's sake, Bruce, you look insane,' Jen storms to the desk and opens a binder, 'you haven't been here long enough to merit needing a psych ward."

"Close that book," he spats through his teeth, remaining in the darkest corner with his wrists and ankles cuffed.

"Make me," Jen sits back in her chair, clicks her pen open, and baits him, "What happened in the previous cell?"

Bruce groans and lays his head back, closing his eyes in refusal to answer her.

"The sooner you answer me,' Jen continues, 'the sooner I can get back home to check on your wife and daughter since you refuse to."

Her eyes remain kind, though her words say otherwise. His eyes finally open and hold unwavering contact.

She swallows the lump in her throat and notes restrained tears.

Jen lifts her binder, and the chair behind her squeaks against the concrete as she stands. Her shoes are kicked off, sending the guard's head rotating.

"Turn around, you see nothing."

"Miss, Walters, you cannot transform within these walls without immediate consequences to your hulk body."

"I'm aware."

"Err, Miss Walters?"

The lawyer ignores their audience and lowers herself to sit beside Bruce before reopening her notes and documentation.

"I must ask that you don't get too close to the prisoner," the guard requests timidly.

"Or what?" Jen snaps.

He backs down immediately, looking up toward the security cameras surrounding them, "10 minutes."

Banner's eyes fight exhaustion.

"You need to keep it together," Walters states plainly to her cousin.

He brushes his eyes with his wrist and groans, mumbling in Italian...then Russian.

Jen clicks her pen, "I think you have a lawsuit on your hands. If I can't get a mistrial-."

"'Have blood on them too. So much blood."

"Shut up. Someone did you wrong in the other prison, and I'd like to know the details. I can guess. But I can't help unless you tell me what happened."

"Don't know."

"Bruce, I swear. Give me something."

"Stay out of it, Jen," he pleads.

"I'm in it. Neck deep."

"You should've left me there."

"It's too late for that. Give me something!"

He swallows dryly, voice breaking, "Hong Kong."

She writes it down aggressively, "Okay! Thank you! What about Hong Kong?"

"Boga,' he swallows again, 'his name was Boga."

Jen jolts when his head lowers to her shoulder, melting on her with an exhale.

She rolls her eyes initially and taps her pen against her binder, "Would you wake up!"

Jen sneaks her arm under his head and nudges him off her shoulder.

His eyes widen, jolting awake, "Stop yelling at me!"

"Stop making me yell!"

"Geez, Jen. You're going to trigger the guards into giving us injections..."

"How bad IS that trip anyways?"

"I mean-! It's decent, actually."

"Aunt Susan level?"

"Stronger."

She smirks over his groggy voice, finding some semblance of her cousin still alive and well despite his outward shell;

"Give me five more minutes and then I'll leave. I won't yell anymore."

"Hong Kong, Boga, that's all I have," he spews, the heels of his hands holding his head up with the support of his knees at his elbows.

"No it's not. Did they take your blood?"

"Yes."

Jen grinds her molars, "Who."

"Boga."

"Great! Perfect! Now we're getting somewhere further than your therapist is, so I hear-."

"-No, we are not,' he turns toward her, 'Boga completed his sentence on Death Row a week ago."

"And he was working for someone in Hong Kong."

"Yes," he says with reluctance.

"Tied to Declin?"

Bruce shifts nervously, "Declin is different."

Jen nods and whispers, "You know more you're not telling me. At least tell Nat the next time you call. She'd love- I am sure she'd love to hear from you. She has the contacts, more than I do."

"Natasha needs to move on with her life."

"Stop."

He shakes his head in complete refusal to continue the conversation outside of his mumble, "I'm worried about Becks."

Jennifer's throat tightens as she studies his eyes for clarification. Walters bites her cheek and nods with an understanding.

"Becks is fine," she hopes it's not a lie.