Dr. Bruce Banner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
broke_harlem) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-09-22 02:47 pm
broke_harlem) wrote in singillatim2024-09-22 02:47 pm
Entry tags:
[open] arrival
Who: Bruce Banner & you!
What: continuing & new TDM prompts
When: Early September
Where: Milton & outskirts
Content Warnings: for Tea Time prompt, child abuse, domestic abuse, domestic homicide
If you would like to plot anything specific, please feel free to hmu on PM or on plurk at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
ladybastet92
ARRIVAL
( Bruce doesn't understand.
It's not that this situation is entirely unfamiliar; he has woken up in the snow-covered woods, naked and alone, more than once since his failed experiment that had created the Hulk. It was practically second nature, the way consciousness pulled him from his blacked-out state slowly and tortuously, the confusion that came with the lack of recognition of his surroundings, the sharp bite of cold wind and snow forcing his groggy mind to focus. None of that was surprising, not even alarming.
But a slow sense of dread trickled down his spine the further he walked into the woods. He was clothed - and that was unusual for this kind of circumstance, since the Hulk usually demolished most of his clothes after a transformation - and while he was grateful for layers between him and the snow, especially shoes, it still signaled to Bruce that he was in a situation that he had not faced before. The fact that he even felt the cold was another clue; the gamma radiation in his body had always kept him running warm, even in freezing environments, but he could feel every slap of wind against his face now, and he could tell that his body temperature was not regulating itself the way it usually would under the Hulk's influence.
Hours pass. He walks through the trees with drooping fatigue, his feet feeling their miles of hard work, and the dread in Bruce's gut only sinks deeper. He pushes past a cluster of dead bushes, and he stumbles. Catching himself, he pushes himself to his feet and looks at his hands. They're bloody and scratched from the earth, and they don't heal. He waits a few more seconds, but when the wounds don't disappear, he's certain: the Hulk's powers are gone.
There's no time to dwell on that, to unpack and investigate the greater implications of the threat that had been stalking him for a decade disappearing into thin air. Because if the Hulk's powers are gone and he's human again, there's a good chance he won't survive if his body temperature drops much lower. And even though the Hulk's powers might be gone, the Hulk himself was very much still there, roaring in his mind: Puny Banner must survive. For once, they agree. His self-destructive tendencies aside, Bruce doesn't feel like dying right now.
He walks faster, trying to beat the setting sun, knowing that his chances of survival are much slimmer once it is dark. He stumbles over stones and branches, but he doesn't let himself fall again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the trees begin to clear, and Bruce notices smoke on the horizon. At the sight, he jogs as fast as he's able, racing towards any signs of civilization -
Bruce barely notices the cabin that appears before his knees buckle, finally succumbing to exhaustion, and the Hulk's roars grow dim as the world starts to get dark. )
METHUSELAH'S FEAST
( He barely remembers what happened before he got here. He recognizes that he was probably delusional from hypothermia when he arrived, but that still doesn't explain everything he sees. Sure, at first glance, this looks like any middle-of-nowhere town in the wilderness of Canada, and he could even buy that Hulk had crashed the Quinjet to get them there. But that didn't explain the people who surrounded him now: they wore clothing of all different eras, some from even centuries ago, and as he watched them at his corner by the fire, he noticed that some of them behaved like they came from a different time, too. The old man who had welcomed him had just said that the "Interlopers" arrived from all over, and most in the same way he did. It was a cryptic and vague answer, but the old man seemed busy but nice enough, so Bruce didn't push when he moved away to help some other newcomers.
What also couldn't be explained was the items he'd found in his jacket after he had warmed up from the bitter cold. His glasses and the tablet, fine; there was a chance he could have stored those away in the Quinjet and grabbed them after a crash, since his memories of how he got here were dark. But the picture... the picture made no sense at all.
Nursing a mug of tea, Bruce pauses his people-watching to stare at the photo on the table in front of him. With a free hand, he traces its edges, thin but solid under his fingers: real. It was a photo of him and his first love, Betty Ross, standing together in their cap and gowns as recent graduates. They both looked so young - it's been almost fifteen years since this photo was taken. This photo... Bruce had lost it years ago. His experiment had gone wrong, Betty had been hurt, and Bruce had gone on the run, leaving all his earthly possessions behind in the process. How on earth can it be here?
He stares at the image of Betty's smiling face, and he wonders what she looks like now. He thinks about her face the last time he saw her, heartbroken as he disappears yet again. He thinks about Natasha kissing him, and his heart twists in his chest.
Suddenly, a door to the outside opens, and a gust of wind causes the photo to fly off the table. )
Shit. ( Bruce mutters, then scrambles to get the photo off the ground, desperate not to lose it again. He grabs it, but he also manages to bump into someone else like a complete idiot in his attempt. Standing up, Bruce winces in embarrassment. )
Sorry about that, I didn't see you there.
TEA TIME
( The tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bruce had been walking through the quiet blanket of snow, trying to get his mind right. It was a contrast to the furious storm he arrived in, and he was glad; he could appreciate the beauty of this place better now that his survival wasn't on his mind. Now, his mind is just busy trying to make sense of everything else.
Interloper isn't the worst thing he's been called, but it's still unsettling, the way that man had spoken so vaguely of this place and his situation. He couldn't exactly ask about his lack of powers here, not without giving away who - what he is, and his instinct to hide is a well-worn one after years on the run from Ross and the army.
You could stay, an errant thought offers. It's not like you would be welcome back at Avenger's Tower. Memories of Johannesburg still loom behind his eyelids when he sleeps, the mindless destruction they had wrought haunting both Bruce and the Hulk. Bruce had no idea if his lack of powers was confined to just this place, but it wouldn't be the worst trade to make: his isolation for the safety of everyone else. The Hulk punched against his mind at this, growling in disagreement. Bruce doesn't care; the Hulk can't do anything to him here.
The stranger he encounters is kind enough, as well as whoever is sitting with her by the campfire, and while paranoia still lingers on the edges of Bruce's mind, he knows the chances of Ross finding him out in the middle of nowhere are slim. No one in town has reported him as far as he knows. Maybe he's a fool, letting his guard down, but when the lady offers him the warm mug of rosehip tea, tempting him with its sweet and tangy smell, Bruce takes it with a smile.
With a crash, Bruce is violently jolted from the woods around him, and he lands somewhere new. Worse: somewhere familiar. The house he had grown up in, in the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, in the dead of night.
"Quiet, baby, his mother whispers, holding a child Bruce by the hand, all curls and terror and desperation. She opens the car door, quiet as a mouse, and the younger version of Bruce looks over his shoulder, clutching his teddy bear tight. The car starts, and Bruce and his younger self's thoughts mirror one another - so close, get away, get away from him - but a light in the kitchen turns on, and Bruce forgets how to breathe.
Everything happens so quickly: his father's screams, the tight fist in his hair, the pleads and begs from his mother. But his father is a storm, destructive and indestructible, and when his fist lands on Bruce's face, the force sends him flying. He tries to get to his feet, be brave, be strong, but now his father's fist is in his mother's hair, and he's swinging her downwards towards the pavement - CRACK, the sound that will echo in Bruce's ears for the rest of his life, and blood splatters onto the pavement, onto Bruce's hands, his face, and his mother isn't moving, and his father stomps closer and closer --
When Bruce opens his eyes, he knows that the Hulk has come and gone. His body might not have transformed, but the Hulk had come to the forefront of his mind anyway, trying to shield him from the memories of that night. He sits up in the snow, still breathing too quickly, and he notices that the campsite has been ripped to shreds. It's a fraction of the damage that the Hulk would usually cause, but it mimics it: the fireplace has been stamped out, the tent torn to scraps, the mug shattered to pieces. A tableau of the rage and hurt that Bruce would always carry with him, no matter where he went.
He puts his face in his hands, trying to calm his heart rate, but his mother's blood is still fresh in his mind. Whoever is here with him should be the last thing on his mind, but he still offers the apology: )
Sorry.
WILDCARD
Come throw something else at me! DM me to plot, or just go wild.
What: continuing & new TDM prompts
When: Early September
Where: Milton & outskirts
Content Warnings: for Tea Time prompt, child abuse, domestic abuse, domestic homicide
If you would like to plot anything specific, please feel free to hmu on PM or on plurk at
ARRIVAL
( Bruce doesn't understand.
It's not that this situation is entirely unfamiliar; he has woken up in the snow-covered woods, naked and alone, more than once since his failed experiment that had created the Hulk. It was practically second nature, the way consciousness pulled him from his blacked-out state slowly and tortuously, the confusion that came with the lack of recognition of his surroundings, the sharp bite of cold wind and snow forcing his groggy mind to focus. None of that was surprising, not even alarming.
But a slow sense of dread trickled down his spine the further he walked into the woods. He was clothed - and that was unusual for this kind of circumstance, since the Hulk usually demolished most of his clothes after a transformation - and while he was grateful for layers between him and the snow, especially shoes, it still signaled to Bruce that he was in a situation that he had not faced before. The fact that he even felt the cold was another clue; the gamma radiation in his body had always kept him running warm, even in freezing environments, but he could feel every slap of wind against his face now, and he could tell that his body temperature was not regulating itself the way it usually would under the Hulk's influence.
Hours pass. He walks through the trees with drooping fatigue, his feet feeling their miles of hard work, and the dread in Bruce's gut only sinks deeper. He pushes past a cluster of dead bushes, and he stumbles. Catching himself, he pushes himself to his feet and looks at his hands. They're bloody and scratched from the earth, and they don't heal. He waits a few more seconds, but when the wounds don't disappear, he's certain: the Hulk's powers are gone.
There's no time to dwell on that, to unpack and investigate the greater implications of the threat that had been stalking him for a decade disappearing into thin air. Because if the Hulk's powers are gone and he's human again, there's a good chance he won't survive if his body temperature drops much lower. And even though the Hulk's powers might be gone, the Hulk himself was very much still there, roaring in his mind: Puny Banner must survive. For once, they agree. His self-destructive tendencies aside, Bruce doesn't feel like dying right now.
He walks faster, trying to beat the setting sun, knowing that his chances of survival are much slimmer once it is dark. He stumbles over stones and branches, but he doesn't let himself fall again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the trees begin to clear, and Bruce notices smoke on the horizon. At the sight, he jogs as fast as he's able, racing towards any signs of civilization -
Bruce barely notices the cabin that appears before his knees buckle, finally succumbing to exhaustion, and the Hulk's roars grow dim as the world starts to get dark. )
METHUSELAH'S FEAST
( He barely remembers what happened before he got here. He recognizes that he was probably delusional from hypothermia when he arrived, but that still doesn't explain everything he sees. Sure, at first glance, this looks like any middle-of-nowhere town in the wilderness of Canada, and he could even buy that Hulk had crashed the Quinjet to get them there. But that didn't explain the people who surrounded him now: they wore clothing of all different eras, some from even centuries ago, and as he watched them at his corner by the fire, he noticed that some of them behaved like they came from a different time, too. The old man who had welcomed him had just said that the "Interlopers" arrived from all over, and most in the same way he did. It was a cryptic and vague answer, but the old man seemed busy but nice enough, so Bruce didn't push when he moved away to help some other newcomers.
What also couldn't be explained was the items he'd found in his jacket after he had warmed up from the bitter cold. His glasses and the tablet, fine; there was a chance he could have stored those away in the Quinjet and grabbed them after a crash, since his memories of how he got here were dark. But the picture... the picture made no sense at all.
Nursing a mug of tea, Bruce pauses his people-watching to stare at the photo on the table in front of him. With a free hand, he traces its edges, thin but solid under his fingers: real. It was a photo of him and his first love, Betty Ross, standing together in their cap and gowns as recent graduates. They both looked so young - it's been almost fifteen years since this photo was taken. This photo... Bruce had lost it years ago. His experiment had gone wrong, Betty had been hurt, and Bruce had gone on the run, leaving all his earthly possessions behind in the process. How on earth can it be here?
He stares at the image of Betty's smiling face, and he wonders what she looks like now. He thinks about her face the last time he saw her, heartbroken as he disappears yet again. He thinks about Natasha kissing him, and his heart twists in his chest.
Suddenly, a door to the outside opens, and a gust of wind causes the photo to fly off the table. )
Shit. ( Bruce mutters, then scrambles to get the photo off the ground, desperate not to lose it again. He grabs it, but he also manages to bump into someone else like a complete idiot in his attempt. Standing up, Bruce winces in embarrassment. )
Sorry about that, I didn't see you there.
TEA TIME
( The tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bruce had been walking through the quiet blanket of snow, trying to get his mind right. It was a contrast to the furious storm he arrived in, and he was glad; he could appreciate the beauty of this place better now that his survival wasn't on his mind. Now, his mind is just busy trying to make sense of everything else.
Interloper isn't the worst thing he's been called, but it's still unsettling, the way that man had spoken so vaguely of this place and his situation. He couldn't exactly ask about his lack of powers here, not without giving away who - what he is, and his instinct to hide is a well-worn one after years on the run from Ross and the army.
You could stay, an errant thought offers. It's not like you would be welcome back at Avenger's Tower. Memories of Johannesburg still loom behind his eyelids when he sleeps, the mindless destruction they had wrought haunting both Bruce and the Hulk. Bruce had no idea if his lack of powers was confined to just this place, but it wouldn't be the worst trade to make: his isolation for the safety of everyone else. The Hulk punched against his mind at this, growling in disagreement. Bruce doesn't care; the Hulk can't do anything to him here.
The stranger he encounters is kind enough, as well as whoever is sitting with her by the campfire, and while paranoia still lingers on the edges of Bruce's mind, he knows the chances of Ross finding him out in the middle of nowhere are slim. No one in town has reported him as far as he knows. Maybe he's a fool, letting his guard down, but when the lady offers him the warm mug of rosehip tea, tempting him with its sweet and tangy smell, Bruce takes it with a smile.
With a crash, Bruce is violently jolted from the woods around him, and he lands somewhere new. Worse: somewhere familiar. The house he had grown up in, in the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, in the dead of night.
"Quiet, baby, his mother whispers, holding a child Bruce by the hand, all curls and terror and desperation. She opens the car door, quiet as a mouse, and the younger version of Bruce looks over his shoulder, clutching his teddy bear tight. The car starts, and Bruce and his younger self's thoughts mirror one another - so close, get away, get away from him - but a light in the kitchen turns on, and Bruce forgets how to breathe.
Everything happens so quickly: his father's screams, the tight fist in his hair, the pleads and begs from his mother. But his father is a storm, destructive and indestructible, and when his fist lands on Bruce's face, the force sends him flying. He tries to get to his feet, be brave, be strong, but now his father's fist is in his mother's hair, and he's swinging her downwards towards the pavement - CRACK, the sound that will echo in Bruce's ears for the rest of his life, and blood splatters onto the pavement, onto Bruce's hands, his face, and his mother isn't moving, and his father stomps closer and closer --
When Bruce opens his eyes, he knows that the Hulk has come and gone. His body might not have transformed, but the Hulk had come to the forefront of his mind anyway, trying to shield him from the memories of that night. He sits up in the snow, still breathing too quickly, and he notices that the campsite has been ripped to shreds. It's a fraction of the damage that the Hulk would usually cause, but it mimics it: the fireplace has been stamped out, the tent torn to scraps, the mug shattered to pieces. A tableau of the rage and hurt that Bruce would always carry with him, no matter where he went.
He puts his face in his hands, trying to calm his heart rate, but his mother's blood is still fresh in his mind. Whoever is here with him should be the last thing on his mind, but he still offers the apology: )
Sorry.
WILDCARD
Come throw something else at me! DM me to plot, or just go wild.
no subject
Ah — Mr. is fine, if you prefer. I don't mind either.
[ He smiles. It's an odd thing, his own title, even if it still flows so naturally from his own lips. Most of the others here have shed their titles, so willingly. Little and Irving are amongst the rare ones that still hold to their own, but perhaps he should... try to relinquish the hold upon it. (He doesn't know how. Maybe it starts here, becoming mister instead of lieutenant.) In any case, there are more pressing matters— ]
My own memory of it is like... a dream. As though I fell asleep where I was, and woke up, but not fully. [ He purses his lips slightly in thought. ] During the expedition I was on prior to this, our ships became trapped in the ice. Conditions... not terribly unlike these. That is where I was just before, and for some time, I thought I had somehow.... been brought to a new location, but we've been told that the year here is 2014 — 2015, now.
It was 1848 for me, last. [ A thin, wry smile. He certainly wasn't simply brought to a new location — he's gone through time. Perhaps this really is all just some dream. ]
What year was it for you before, if I might ask?
no subject
( Bruce listens to Mr. Little recall his arrival carefully, noticing the similarities between his and Bruce's own. His own memory being lost could have been chalked up to the frostbite, but it's more than just a coincidence that someone else experienced nearly the same thing - even if they are almost two hundred years apart in where they came from. )
1848, huh? ( After that, tt slots into place fairly quickly that his man was on the Franklin Expedition. He isn't a history buff, but the disappearance of that crew was up there with the mystery of Roanoke in cultural significance. They had even found some remains a few years before Captain America was discovered in the ice. Bruce mentally winces at the word remains - he knows this man would be dead in his own time, but the theories surrounding that expectation weren't pretty. Probably best not to bring them up. )
It was 2015 when I... left. ( 'Stole a jet and ran away' were the proper words, but he kept them tucked neatly inside. ) Interesting that this town is supposed to be 2015 as well. Maybe it means something. ( Bruce gives a wry smile. ) Or maybe not. But I have a feeling that the Aurora has something to do with all of this.