Body and Soul: The Endgame Fix

Part 8: Fight or Flight

Summary: It's the Big Guy's turn. He has a lot more to say than one might think. He may know a lot more about Bruce than the physicist knows about himself.

Notes: This is a flashback within the flashback to Sunday, July 8, 2018, during Bruce's initial visit to Willowdale, VA, to begin therapy with Leonard (Lee) Samson. This is the first of two chapters from Hulk's point of view, which cover what should have been a three-film Banner and Hulk story arc.

Part 8: Fight or Flight

The following day was Sunday, and the Hulk decided to come out. He'd been trying to make a point, but maybe he'd dug his heels in a little deeper than he'd intended. That happened sometimes.

It was easy just to let Banner do it all. That's how it had been at the beginning long before he'd even had the name Hulk, back when the boy called him Guardian. The child was hurting and lonely, so he'd comforted him. Later, the boy had decided he was an imaginary friend, so he'd gone with that since he had no idea what he really was. That seemed more logical than being a ghost or a spirit, since being in Bruce's head was all he'd ever known. The name "Guardian" had suited him back then. He watched out for the boy when he was worried, cheered Bruce on when it helped, and as the child grew to be a teen and then a man, he'd been there to console Banner during the disappointments. He'd never really taken part in the world unless it was a real emergency like the day their mother died. Otherwise, he just watched or slept or dreamed until he was needed. The accident was what had upended and changed his existence forever.

He mostly associated it with pain. Everything was suddenly an explosion of blinding lights and roars and sensations that overloaded him. At first, he felt like he was drowning in the maelstrom of input. He remembered squinting at something and not being able to focus, like Banner always did up close without his glasses. Eventually, he realized it was his hands on the floor and he was doubled over as this strange body convulsed and swelled. The suddenness of being in control and experiencing everything it felt, heard, and saw nearly incapacitated him. Just breathing hurt and was difficult. Instinctively, he pushed himself to his feet. He vaguely knew that things must have gone wrong with Banner for him to be left in the driver's seat. Every bit of him burned down to his very cells. He convulsed again and screamed—even his own cries hurt his ears—and his spine and limbs expanded as his muscles stretched and swelled beneath his discolored skin.

When the room came into focus, he looked at his distorted hands and didn't recognize them as Banner's. As the dust cleared, he looked around him at the wrecked machinery, concrete, and glass. Banner wasn't the only one who'd been in the lab. That had to be Betty on the floor, but it was like he was looking down a long tunnel at her. Then the pain and the noise changed. The man Banner wanted to impress (yet didn't like so much) was screaming, and the General had called in soldiers with guns. He had to get away from it, so he stumbled and pushed until he was crashing through a wall and outside. Then, he kept on running. Eventually, he found a quiet place to lie down under a tree in the woods. Fight or flight . . . fight or flight . . . smash or run . . . those were his options. He was relieved to sink into oblivion.

The next time it was much the same, but there were other people there in different uniforms who had guns. He could barely think, but he knew Banner had been frightened and they hurt him. They were all in the back of a truck, so he knocked the men down and ran until he couldn't and collapsed in another forest under a new tree. He was sure he'd hurt someone. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. It all just hurt so much.

The third time was almost the same and the next. Different places, different people, but usually the guns and always the pain were the same. Once he'd been in midroll down a riverbank and got to enjoy landing on rocks in the water at the bottom. That had pissed him off. The next time he decided not to run. When he felt himself being pulled into the world, he was a little more prepared for the pain and disorientation. He was in a bar, and it stank of spilt alcohol and frightened piss. A man with a beard and a surprised look on his face was holding the jagged remains of a broken whisky bottle's neck in his hand. That explained why the back of his head was wet.