THE INCREDIBLE HULK

by Jeremy Harker

Gatefold

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PART THREE

All reasonable forms of investigation would tell you that there was absolutely nothing unusual about a certain federal land reserve in Colorado. If you went to take a look around, you'd find that most of it was open to tourists (except, obviously, in the winter), and that only a few parts had been fenced off--to protect endangered species and keep out poachers and snowmobilers. The security was utterly normal, with pine green suburbans and the occasional Bureau of Land Management helicopter flyover. If you were really interested, you could use the Freedom of Information Act…they'd send you piles of financial documents that showed how under-funded they were, and memos that never said anything important. Its name never showed up on any conspiracy websites. The only notable thing about it was that it had been the planned home for a squadron of firefighting planes--they'd built a large hangar and a runway in a part of the park that was inaccessible by foot. (Civilian vehicles weren't allowed, nor were civilian aircraft permitted to fly over the reserve.) But the funding had fallen through, and it had sat gathering dust for years. That was the official version, anyway.

On the surface, it wasn't that impressive. It looked like an unpainted oil drum that had tipped over and become half-buried in the ground. The runway was shaped like Picasso's version of a lower-case "Y". And if, for whatever reason, anyone had decided to try to break into it, they would have gotten a surprise. Automated cannons would have jutted out of its exterior, and they were capable of firing ammo that ranged from titanium-shelled bullets to lasers to cryo-capsules. A multi-frequency forcefield would have been activated. Metallic tendrils and clouds of gas would have shot out of what appeared to be natural ground. An eletctromagnetic scrambling field would have drenched the region. The simple truth was that the hangar--and more importantly, what laid beneath--had been built to withstand multiple nuclear attacks, an alien invasion, the end of the world, or the Hulk, whichever came first.

An egg-shaped white helicopter flew over the tree-infested foothills of the Rockies, banking right and slowly dropping in altitude. The chopper had a Parks Department logo on it--it looked like every other cheap, outdated government helicopter that flew around the reserve. (Many military insiders laughed at the movies where black helicopters flew around in broad daylight: what, had everyone forgotten that they were all about camouflage?) Sheets of wind ricocheted off it roughly, as it made a halting descent. When it neared the hangar, part of the roof retracted, and it went right in.

Adamantium blast doors (two in the front and one in the floor) notwithstanding, it was all chemically-hardened concrete. There were no windows. A standard-looking army jeep was parked and running, but it wasn't giving off any fumes. Three Mandroids stood guard--they were nine-foot-tall armored behemoths, with domed helmets that connected at the shoulders and square cannons for hands. These Mandroids had been camouflaged green and black, and they had black, triangular visors. They were new additions to H1, the joint military operation that was dedicated to capturing or killing the Hulk…in fact, they'd been transferred less than twenty-four hours ago, on orders of the new commander of H1, who was just now arriving.

General Sean McGregory stepped out of the helicopter. He was a Marine, and he was clad in his dress blues, which were topheavy with medals and insignias. (Though the post he was proudest of was so secret that they'd never been able to give him any public commendations for it.) McGregory was now in his late forties, tall and trim. He had light black skin, and a thin layer of darker stubble for hair. As soon as he was clear of the 'copter, it took off, heading back for the skies. The roof closed, and the Mandroids and the jeep's driver (who were already at attention) simultaneously saluted. McGregory returned it, said "At ease", and watched as the adamantium section of the floor slid open, revealing a sloping concrete tunnel lined with noiseless red sirens. He climbed in back of the jeep and nodded to the private at the wheel. They descended, the sound of a door slamming shut and at least two dozen clanking locks going into place behind them.

A few minutes later, they were on the main floor of H1. It was a large, metallic open area, the ceiling at least a hundred feet high and the width that of a few acres. There were various kinds of vehicles parked in open garages in the walls: sleek tanks, armored personnel carriers, Apache helicopters, automated surveillance glider drones, even fighter jets. Unless they were being worked on (mechanics were running around everywhere), they all sat on flat, low-to-the-ground metal sheets, which had wheels underneath. This was so they could quickly be loaded onto an underground mag-lev train and transported to the H1 launching site, which was a nearby, publicly-known military base. There were yellow-and-black painted strips everywhere, warning people where not to go--unless you wanted to be run over by a prototype electronically-powered humvee. In one area, there were actually three- and four-story buildings, albeit all one color and fairly ugly. Grille staircases led up to doorways that were built into the walls--this area was mainly a garage, the offices and labs and conference rooms and personal quarters were all deeper in the complex. Some had windows that overlooked the main floor, and both civilians and military figures could be seen through them.

The jeep pulled up at a distant end of the main floor, far away from where vehicles were being dissected. Instinctively, the private opened the jeep door for the general and went over to open up the door in the wall--but he didn't have the proper clearance. He looked quite awkward and embarrassed.

"I can take it from here," McGregory assured him. "I should probably make sure this keycard works, anyway." He ran the white, black-striped card through the scanner, and the door buzzed and made a whooshing noise as it slid open.

On the other side, it looked like a normal (if sprawling and top-of-the-line) office. There was a maze of hallways, waiting rooms, phones ringing, people with clipboards and H1-intranet cell phones walking briskly. McGregory had only taken a few steps when he stumbled across just the man he was looking for: Paul Reynolds, the Department of Defense guy that had been acting as caretaker for the base, during the command changeover. Reynolds was a civilian, a babyfaced thirtysomething that looked more like a lawyer or a public relations specialist than someone involved in national security. He had sandy blonde hair, his usual black suit, and the grin that seemed to have been carved on his face for all time and eternity.

Reynolds gave a polite nod, reaching out his hand. "General."

"Mr. Reynolds." After a handshake, "Have there been any new sightings that I need to know about?"

"Not since the one in New Mexico, no. We've still got people looking, but, you know how much ground he can cover before he changes back…he could be in another state, by now."

"How are the Mandroids working out?"

"Oh, that was a brilliant move--everyone loves it. I'd say that I'm amazed that no one ever thought of it before, but, you know. General Ross was never that big on technology. He's a real old-schooler."

McGregory had to bite his tongue. As preparation for his new post, he'd watched the file footage of past military battles with the Hulk--there had been times when Ross hadn't used anything but rifle-packing infantry soldiers and tanks. To McGregory, that was the most asinine thing he'd ever seen. When going up against something that powerful, conventional methods just wouldn't cut it. McGregory was a former Special Forces operative…he knew that there were times when you had to be creative.

"I'd show you to your new office, but, you surprised us--we didn't think you'd be here this early. And, as usual, we're a little behind."

"That's fine. I was hoping we could talk about some things before you go, though…"

"Sure, we can duck into one of the conference rooms."

Reynolds excused himself for just a second and stepped towards one of the secretaries' counters. He quickly mumbled something about which rooms were open, and she responded with "3B."

3B turned out to be a corporate-style boardroom, with a long, oval-shaped table and very comfortable chairs. There was a coffeemaker in the corner, and a flatscreen monitor was at one end of the room. As was his habit, Reynolds hopped up and sat on the table, while McGregory was more comfortable standing.

"I thought you might be able to explain something that was in my orders," McGregory stated. "Something your bosses put in."

"Sure thing."

"They speficially said not to involve local police departments in the search for Banner. I was wondering why that was."

Reynolds sighed, nodding wearily. "Yeah, that's been a real frustration for us--but we have to do it. The thing is, H1 can only use secure comm-networks. Because we obviously aren't the only ones looking for the Hulk."

McGregory knew this. The military was after the Hulk for national security reasons, but it wasn't just because he was dangerous: they needed to capture or kill him before anyone else did, to ensure that his gamma-powered DNA wouldn't fall into enemy hands. The military wanted to use the DNA to breathe new life into their Super-Soldier Directive, while their enemies wanted to harness the power of the Hulk for their own purposes.

"Okay, let's say…hypothetically, we re-release Banner's picture to the media and ask the cops to help us find him. And they do. They'd call it in on an open frequency, and you know as well as I do that there are organizations out there scanning for certain keywords."

"Right. The Secret Empire, Intergang, HYDRA, Kobra…"

"Exactly. They could pounce on Banner before the news made it up the chain of command, or they could buy off someone at a lower level and we'd never even find out about it."

"And the media is out of the question, because of the controlled circumstances theory?"

"Yeah, that's right. Some random guy recognizes Banner off TV, Banner tries to get away but can't, maybe some cop tries to arrest him…and he Hulks out in the middle of a crowd, and we don't have the resources nearby to stop him. We have to find him on our own, so we can choose the time and place that we confront him."

"I was thinking about using superhuman bounty-hunters. I've heard a lot of good things from the CIA."

"Well, we've had a few too many of 'em get a better offer from the 'competition', right when they were getting close to finding Banner. Ross was never big on the idea, anyway, and he always used that as a justification to never try it again."

"Maybe we could utilize some of our in-house superhumans, then. Like the psychic tracker we used in Afghanistan…"

Reynolds chuckled. "Given your history, I'm not surprised you'd be interested in that."

"How many Mandroids do you think we'll be able to get?"

"Unofficially? They're waiting to see more of what you plan to do, before they hand you a blank check. The black budget is a little tight at the moment. But if you do well with the ten you have, I think you can expect another ten."

McGregory paused, rubbing his jaw in silence. "What do we have going on, today? How are they doing with my first round of orders?"

"The gravity-ray you requisitioned works really well--they're mounting it on a tank as we speak. The brainiacs are in a thinktank right now, trying to figure out how to get those Mandroids in the air, just like you asked. It's sounding like actual flight might not be possible, but they think they can install jump-jets in the boots. And it'll probably take a few weeks for our fighter jets to have reverse-magnetism capabilities."

"Well, I've seen how the Hulk loves to jump on 'em--might as well give him a little surprise."

Reynolds started to say something, and then closed his mouth. "Look, I know you're excited about this, but I have to warn you…there's a ton of pressure, here. This is asking the impossible. And we're already way behind. I mean, let's be honest: we should've replaced Ross years ago. Two major screw-ups happened on his watch--the Hulk was created, and Banner was right under his nose for years--and we let him keep going. We owe him a lot for all the hard work he's done, but, he just isn't objective, anymore. Especially after what happened to his daughter."

"I can't say I've always agreed with Ross's tactics, but, staying objective in a situation like that…that's unfair to ask of anyone. He deserves a break."

"And that's the official story. He's on leave indefinitely, because of mourning and 'health problems'. But, we needed someone more…someone who'd more accurately represent today's military," Reynolds said carefully. They both knew what that meant: someone who knew how to handle the media, someone who was comfortable with technology, someone who was more diplomatic than bullying, and someone who wasn't controversial in the least. Every time McGregory had taken over a new command, he'd streamlined, improved efficiency and morale, and gotten them ahead of schedule and under-budget. Though the base was secret, H1 was not…both the administration and the military had been under public pressure to appoint someone less "extreme" than Ross. McGregory was beloved by the media, and in the secret polls the administration had conducted, they'd found that his trustworthiness percentage was high in the military and the civilian world.

"When I was reading the file on Banner, I noticed that the psych people said that there was no point in trying to get him to turn himself in," McGregory commented.

"Yeah, he knows that we want to use his DNA, and he isn't too happy about that. But so far, we haven't had any luck--I mean, we've gotten samples of it before, but when the gamma radiation stops being in contact with his mind, it's too unstable. We need the whole package, not just a little blood or a few hairs."

"Speaking of which--who does our genetics work? Do we have military specialists, or a contractor?"

"Right now, we have some specialists, but there are better candidates in the private sector. That's something we should talk about, too, actually. Corporations are tripping over each other, trying to get work with H1. I'm talking about major players like Lexcorp. You'd be amazed at what they're willing to do to--"

"This is the military…we judge on the merits, nothing else," McGregory said, flatly.

"Uh, right. I'm just saying, they'll try to wine and dine you, stuff like that. They know that we're in a tough financial situation--all that nation-building--and they try to help out as much as they can, with, well, extra entitlements. It's the money that we would be making, if things weren't so tight."

"I'm not really interested in that." McGregory checked his watch. "Thanks for answering all of my questions, but, I should get to work. I want to run some combat sims with the Mandroids. It was nice seeing you again." He stuck his hand out.

Reynolds reluctantly shook it. "Um, happy to help." He didn't know quite what to make of him; the guys that the Super-Soldier Directive turned out weren't usually this ethical…

There was a nuclear timebomb in Nevada--it was, of course, Bruce Banner. Anything could set him off, at any moment. If the truckers had decided to have some fun with him, if he'd thought too much about his horrible situation in life, or if someone who watched too much TV recognized him and made a big deal out of it, everyone in the diner, the McDonald's, and the quicktrip stood a very good chance of being injured or killed. Bruce simply viewed it all as stimuli, and he had ways of counteracting it. Unfortunately, the stimuli he was about to encounter was much less easily-avoided.

The door swung open, and a woman walked inside. She had black hair that went down past her shoulders, and she wore a long, expensive-looking blue coat, and her jeans and sweater were both black and tight. Though she was attractive, it looked like she hadn't gotten much sleep--she was clearly at the end of her rope. Not wasting any time, she walked straight over to Bruce's booth, pushed his stuff to the side, and sat down in the seat opposite him. Before he could say anything, she put a cell phone in the middle of the table.

In a hushed tone of voice, she said, "Dr. Banner, I'm Dr. Del Rio--someone needs your help, and all I ask is that you hear me out. If you don't, I won't hesitate to call the cops on you. But I've been running myself ragged looking for you for the last three months, and this is my brother we're talking about, so don't think that you're gonna get rid of me easily."

He didn't look at all surprised, and that drove her up the wall. In fact, he had the audacity to take another bite out of his biscuit before speaking to her. Then, in an unimpressed monotone, he replied, "What kind of help?"

"Scientific." She pulled digital photos out of her coat, and slid them across the table.

Bruce picked them up and studied them. He saw a purple, crystal-like compound, with black-white tendril growths. Lines of multicolored light criscrossed in patterns, inside. Also, in some shots, a person could be seen within. "The lights--are they real, or is it just a reflection on the lens?"

"They're real."

"Mmm." Still taking them in, he said, "Look at how it's reacting to the floor…that bonding is too clean. It's synthetic."

"My brother did that to himself, yeah. He even left a note."

"What'd it say?"

"Something about how he was sick of living, but he didn't want to die--he hated being human, so he's turning himself into something else."

Bruce nodded perfunctorily, like that wasn't a radical concept. "What are you a doctor of?"

"Psychology. I do a lot of criminal profiling, stuff like that."

"All these computers in the background--were you able to pull anything off them? Did he leave any notes or formulae behind?"

"No, he wiped everything out. I even brought some of his computers to a specialist, to try to, uh, salvage his hard drives, but he used some advanced program."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Just this one guy--he's a friend of mine. He's a scientist, so I tried to hire him to deal with it. He said it was out of his league. But you're a supergenius, right? I mean, you know all about how weird energy can affect genetics…"

In the style of a true control-freak, Bruce gathered all of the pictures in his hands and tapped them on the table, straightening them.

"And he's down in San Francisco, if you're wondering."

"He hasn't come out of the cocoon, yet?"

"It's a cocoon?"

"For all intents and purposes."

"You think we should hurry?"

"Probably." Bruce cocked his head. "What kind of equipment does he have in his lab?"

"I have no idea. I mean, I looked at a lot of it, but I didn't try using it--I was afraid I'd just make things worse."

"Anything that looks kind of like a jackhammer, with a triangle on the end?"

"Not that I saw. But if you need one, I can probably buy it. We aren't really rich, but…"

"Look--I'm willing to help, but, I can't promise you anything. I can't even cure myself, okay? And it's not really safe to be around me, anyway."

"All I want is for you to take a look at him. I'm willing to pay you. For that matter, maybe I can even give you some counseling…no offense, but you look like you could use it." Getting to interview the Dr. Bruce Banner was every psychologist and psychiatrist's dream--god only knew how complex and screwed-up a mind had to be, to give birth to something like the Hulk. Paula had interviewed many serial killers, and others with a tremendous rage against the world…looking at Bruce, she never would have guessed his true nature. It was all in the eyes: most people who harbored that kind of subconscious anger had very intense eyes, while his were all but dead.

Bruce looked through the pictures again, one by one, and Paula had to struggle to keep her eyes open. She'd gone through a ton of rental cars and hotel rooms, searching the less-traveled roads of the southwest for Bruce. Any time there was a Hulk sighting, she'd make a wild guess as to where he might go next (some nearby, out-of-the-way place, surely) and head there. Then, she'd sit in her car for about twenty hours, just waiting. Out of fifteen sightings, she'd guessed wrong on fourteen of them. And, just in case anything were to happen to her (Bruce was dangerous, whether he intended to be or not), she routinely gave updates to her scientist friend. He knew that she'd found him, so, if she were to suddenly vanish…she doubted he'd do something like that, but the authorities often made him sound like a crazy person.

"I have some theories," Bruce informed her. "But I'll obviously need to see him. Do you have a car outside?"

"Yeah, but it's a rental. The company's policy is--well, we'll have to trade it in for one with Cali plates at the border."

"That's fine." Bruce wanted to add something about how both she and her last name seemed somewhat familiar, but he couldn't think of how to phrase it without making it sound like a cheesy pick-up line. He suspected that he knew her (or of her); he just couldn't remember the context.

"So, are you ready to go?"

"Sure." Bruce stood up, and as he did, he could see outside--there was a tiny gap between the price-poster outside and the top of the window. In that sliver of rainy reality, he noticed someone. Without a word, he sat back down and locked onto Paula's eyes with his own.

"What?"

In a voice that someone would use to read a grocery list, he said, "Take my backpack and go to the ladies' room."

"But--"

"You don't know me. Unless there's a fire or explosions, don't come back out."

Paula initially thought he was kidding around, but then she remembered that he didn't have a sense of humor. She grabbed her cell phone and his backpack and quickly paced to the ladies' room.

Bruce finished off his biscuits, neatly dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and folded it up on his plate. A few seconds later, what looked like a man walked into the diner--he'd been designed specifically for the region; he could have been mistaken for a tanned white guy, a Hispanic person, or a Native-American. He was dressed a bit like a cowboy, but not enough to stand out. In truth, he was an android, and Bruce had run into this model before. A few hundred of them had been released into society by AIM, Advanced Idea Mechanics. They were a terrorist organization comprised of geniuses, who believed that civilization should be in the hands of those best-equipped to guide it, rather than being ruled by the whims of the uneducated masses. Their attempts at world domination were much more subtle than most--they knew that trying to militarily occupy an entire planet was virtually impossible, so they were setting up more secret means of control.

The androids were basically a physical manifestation of a search engine: they had a visual database of people that AIM wanted to capture, and they were released in areas that the people had been known to frequent. Since they didn't need sleep, they were active 24/7. They'd walk into a public place, and they wouldn't leave until they'd gotten visual confirmations on everyone inside. Bruce knew there was no point in hiding--it had infrared capabilities, it'd see that there was someone in the restroom or in the kitchen, and wait until it got a look at them. Most of the time, they never found anyone interesting, so they quickly moved on to their next location. But this time…

Unsurprisingly, it did a double-take at Bruce. It then tried to act normally, as not to make him suspicious. Bruce was impressed: they'd definitely improved upon the design. The movements were more natural, the skin tone was capable of flushing, and the eyes were looser, not locking onto people with computer-like precision. But the posture was too perfect, and the shoulder-swivel still looked artificial. He knew that it was using its interal communications system. Bruce gave them about thirty seconds, as they were an extremely professional organization. A little under half a minute later, there was a flash of light outside, which everyone but Bruce took for lightning.

Then, the power was cut off--not just at the diner, but at the McDonald's and the quicktrip, too. The lights above the parking lot went dead. Glass shattered, and the walls of rain that were coming down outside could be heard much clearer. The other people in the diner had gone from murmuring to screaming and shouting, as boots rhythmically hit the floor. Weapons could be heard cocking, though they sounded different than normal guns. For a split-second, real lightning bathed the diner in a pale glow: a dozen AIM stormtroopers were revealed. They were clad entirely in black, with squat, cylindrical, flat-topped helmets that had silver visors. (Bruce guessed that the uniforms were some kind of advanced kevlar.) Also, they wore metallic silver backpacks that crossed in X's across their chests. Weapons were tech-morphing out of their packs, staying connected via segmented cords and lowering themselves into their hands or forming around their wrists. The weapons were the size of assault rifles, and they were all pointed at Bruce.

Their voices were filtered through their helmets, so they were electronically enhanced and distorted. "Dr. Banner, we'd like you to come with us. We appreciate you staying calm like this, because we don't want any…ugliness."

Despite being covered in shatterproof glass and having enough firepower to take out a skyscraper pointed at him, Bruce hadn't moved an inch. He was still sitting in his booth, a bored look on his face and a simple statement on his lips. "You need to leave, now, before you all get killed." It wasn't threatening, nor was it gloating--it was an earnest warning.

"Dr. Banner…

" "Don't be stupid. Don't give him an excuse to get out."

Without warning, their weaponry changed ammo, and blue gas blasted out at him. It was muscle-relaxant. No inhalation needed; it was absorbed through the skin. It billowed through the diner--the other people (who'd been hiding) were dropping like flies. The wind and rain coming in from outside wasn't affecting it…conventional gases could only be used in close, enclosed quarters, while AIM had tailored theirs to work in any atmosphere. But Bruce was still on his feet. And in their helmets, their scanners were picking up spikes of gamma radiation.

"No chances!"

They all opened fire…purple energy-blasts sent him flying through the shattered window. The smell of charred flesh was pungent. He bounced off the parking lot's pavement a couple of times, while they ran after him. They kept hitting him with muscle-relaxant, and they activated a feature that would lace it with a more powerful version of traditional knockout gas. Blue vapor was everywhere--they could only see through it because of their fiberoptic visors. Wasting no time, they formed a circular firing squad and pinned him to the ground with energy-blasts. They didn't need him alive. But the gamma radiation was still spiking, as were his vitals. (And especially his brainwaves.) Banner should have been a corpse a couple of times, by now, but the attempted transformation kept kicking him back to life. New technology leapt out of their packs and snaked around their arms: neuro-shock whips lashed out, wrapping around Banner's neck and scrambling his thoughts. They knew that he needed a psychological trigger to change, and they could only hope that that would screw it up.

Of course, it didn't.

Through the darkness of the storm and the thick blue gas, Banner's eyes could be seen turning green. A pulse of bitter feedback went flying up the neuro-shock whips, blowing the stormtroopers backwards and causing their whips to explode. The infrared outline they saw of Banner began to change. Their attacks had slowed it down, but they certainly hadn't stopped it. The squad leader was screaming for everyone to pull back and keep firing energy-blasts. Cords slipped down their legs, forming silver boots that were equipped with jets, and they took to the air, widening the perimeter around him. Backup was called in, though they knew it'd take a minute or two to set up a teleport for objects that large.

All they had to do was last a hundred and twenty seconds against Banner's other half. Massive arms were waved, and the gas was swept aside. The Hulk straightened up--he stood at least ten feet tall, with oversized hands and feet. His body that was thick with muscles. His face wasn't Bruce's face. He was a healthy, vibrant shade of green, and his matted hair was so dark green that it was almost black. Bruce's bluejeans were barely cutoffs, for the Hulk. It wasn't clear if he noticed their constant stream of attacks or not, but either way, it didn't seem to bother him. His expression was terrifying…it was insane, condescending, and outraged. The Hulk roared at them, and then took two quick steps forward, punching one of the AIM stormtroopers right in the torso--they'd underestimated the Hulk's speed and reach, and there was nothing left of the stormtrooper but a bloody smear in mid-air.

The Hulk cannonballed backwards, blindsiding another stormtrooper and snapping his neck on contact. The remaining ten quickly activated bright yellow forcefields, switched to sonic-blasters and solar grenades, and started flying around and shooting. This weaponry had been specifically designed with the Hulk in mind--they figured that they had a better chance of hurting his senses than actually hurting him. And it seemed to work, for a few seconds…then, his eyes glossed over, his pupils cleared up, and he stopped covering his ears. He leapt at one of the stormtroopers, grabbing him with both hands and applying an insane amount of pressure to his forcefield. To the credit of AIM's engineers, it lasted a good five seconds before it popped, though the stormtrooper inside didn't last quite that long. With open hands, the Hulk began lunging and swatting the rapidly-veering stormtroopers, sending them careening in the wrong direction. Some accidentally flew into him, as he'd stand still and stick his arms out straight. The severity of the impact would cause their forcefields to cancel out, and after hitting the ground, the Hulk's foot would be the last thing they'd ever see.

At the end, when it became clear that the Hulk's senses had somehow adapted to their sensory attacks (just as he'd adapted to their muscle-relaxant), they unloaded everything they had left--kinetic-energy cannons, antimatter bombs, tractor beams, laser-staffs, organic shrapnel, plasma rays, and more--but none of it had any real effect. One by one, they were smashed. Standing amongst their bones and bodies, the Hulk roared with a fury that indicated that he was ready to take on the entire world. Was this all they had? He was sick of getting out of trouble that Banner had gotten into, but if they were going to attack him, they might as well make some kind of effort.

A sphere of light appeared about a hundred feet in the air, and three massive silhouettes leapt out of it, plummeting rapidly. When they landed, nervous systems of cracks rippled through the pavement. They were twenty-foot-tall mechs, silver and gleaming. There was extra black armoring around their torso, hands, and feet, and they had broad shoulders, but no heads--there was a cyclops-like, glowing blue orb implanted at the top of their chests. Those blue orbs blasted the Hulk instantly, sending him flying backwards and upside-down. Plumes of explosion-tinged propulsion detonated under their feet, and they took to the air, chasing him. The Hulk dug a hand into the lot to stop himself, dragged up asphalt for a few dozen feet, and flipped himself down to a standing position. Right as he did, the lead mech caught up with him and decked him…he was spun around. In the process, the Hulk lashed out with a backhand, knocking the lead mech into its companions. One of the other mechs had been getting ready to shoot him, again, but its aim was jarred--it took out the McDonald's, instead, killing everyone inside it instantly.

The Hulk jumped, trying to get clear of them so he could find another angle of attack. Missile-launchers popped out of their wrists, and they showered him with auto-homing mini-missiles. He shrugged them off, throwing himself at one of the mechs and punching it right in the stomach. Sparks flew, armor cracked, and its jets faltered, as it crashed onto the lot and skidded across the rain-washed desert. Another mech snuck up behind him, wrapped him in a bearhug, and electrocuted him. Because of the size difference, the Hulk's head didn't go above its shoulders. So, the Hulk reverse-headbutted it in the chest. That surprised the pilot, causing him to loosen his grip--when he did, the Hulk grabbed one of the mech's arms, dropped down, planted his feet, and swung it into another mech. The arm became detached, and the Hulk started beating both of them with it. Meanwhile, the third mech had picked itself up from the desert scrub, and it was taking long-range shots at the Hulk with its blue orb. They all hit, exploding the arm and giving the other two a chance to scramble to safety and shoot, as well. The trio walked forward, closing the circle and firing nonstop.

Getting sick of being ganged up on, the Hulk jumped at the armless mech and sank his hand into its chest. He tore out the orb (which was flickering with volatility) and pitched it at the mech he'd punched into the desert--the orb exploded on contact. The mech staggered, and the Hulk shook off energy-blasts and missiles from the other two and nailed him with a double-punch, once again sending him far into the Nevada flatness. Of the two mechs he was immediately facing, only one had both its arms and orb, though the Hulk was planning on changing that. Ignoring the limited attacks from the wounded mech, he tackled the third mech and beat the living crap out of it. Ten punches later, it was flaming wreckage. The wounded mech tried to pull him off, but the Hulk put his foot down, literally--he stepped on one of the mech's black boots, partially crushing it. Now, only one of its bootjets worked.

The mech desperately, clumsily tried to back up, as the Hulk slowly advanced. Its hand reconfigured into an energy-cannon, and crimson, black-striped energy came shooting out of it, hitting the Hulk right in the chest…but he kept moving forward. The Hulk smiled. He reached out a hand, covering and crumpling the cannon. It backfired, sending a chain-reaction of internal detonations up the remaining arm. Jets of smoke shot out of its shoulder, and the arm hung there limply. The top started to open, so the Hulk quickly put a hand over it--the pilot (apparently equipped with a jetpack) tried to eject, but he ended up hitting his head on the mech's headless area, as it hadn't completely opened, thanks to the Hulk's interference. The Hulk squeezed its top, making sure the pilot was trapped inside, and then checked on the third mech.

It was flying towards him, covered in mud. The Hulk acted like he was going to destroy the wounded mech--he pushed it around, drew back a fist, used it to block the third mech's line of sight--and waited for the third mech to get close. When it did, he flung the useless mech into it…the useless mech blew up. Amazingly, the third mech kept on going right through the explosion, wrapping the Hulk in a flying tackle and amping up its propulsion. It electrocuted the Hulk, and shot him at close-range with its orb, but the Hulk interlocked his fingers into a club and brought it down on the mech's back. That smacked him to the ground, creating a huge hole in the pavement. The Hulk touched down lightly and rolled to the side, preparing to attack or be attacked. A torrent of mini-missiles came flying out of the hole, but they were just a distraction--the last mech popped out, both of his hands having been converted to cannons, and blasted him with his cannons and orb. The Hulk went crashing through the parked semis, the diner, and the quicktrip, before finally hitting the ground.

As expected, the mech kept firing, and his computer-targeting made the vast majority of his shots hit home. The Hulk roared once again, throwing himself into the pain and rushing the hovering mech. It tried to fly out of range, but the Hulk managed to grab his ankle and bring him down hard. He didn't let go--he punched at his knee joint twice, before being blasted back to the other side of the lot. Before he knew it, the other mech was on top of him, trying to pin him. It had converted its cannons back into hands, and was shooting him in the face with its orb. Though it was twice his size, the Hulk kept peppering it with body-blows, punching and kicking whenever he got the chance. The mech had to squat down to reach him, and the Hulk took advantage of this--he kicked straight up between its legs, sending it flying.

Before it could use its jets to straighten its course, the Hulk had jumped straight up at it, his shoulder impacting its already-damaged stomach. It was forced to land, and he leapt onto its back, grabbing it by the upper arm and punching its back repeatedly. After a few seconds, it shook him off, but he'd done his damage--its upper body was moving awkwardly. They traded punches, which wasn't exactly fair for the mech: the Hulk was much shorter, and he easily hit it in the legs, while the mech had to stoop to hit him, and the Hulk was quite adept at ducking. The Hulk managed to leap and connect with the orb, damaging it badly. Soon, the two of them were grappling with each other, grabbing the other's wrists or fists and pushing as hard as they could. The mech had the reach advantage. Suddenly, the Hulk pulled, locked his legs together, planted himself on its arms, aimed his feet at the mech's chest, and pushed off, pulling on its arms while kicking it in the chest as hard as he could. Its body went flying, while the Hulk was still holding its torn, smoldering arms. The mech exploded about three hundred feet over Nevada.

The Hulk dropped the drooping armatures onto the slick pavement, snorting derisively. "Idiots."

There wasn't much left of the capitalistic oasis--the buildings and vehicles were flaming ruins, and the parking lot was pocked with holes. The Hulk saw the surviving humans (he refused to think of himself as human) gathering by a roadsign, as they'd been trying to stay away from the battle. The rain was still coming down noisily, but sirens and helicopters could be heard in the distance. Then, the Hulk remembered the woman that Banner had been talking to. He could sympathize with anyone that Banner got into trouble; that guy was a magnet for all kinds of crazy problems. With one leap, he landed near the remains of the diner, and tossed the collapsed roof and walls aside. She was a few layers underneath, passed out from the blue gas. The Hulk prodded her head with a giant finger--he didn't get a response. With one hand, he picked up both her and the black backpack that was slung over her shoulder, and took a quick look around, getting his bearings. He'd crisscrossed the southwestern deserts dozens of times, over the years, and he had a very good sense of direction, anyway.

In seconds, he was flying through the air, coming down on thin sand and taking another jump. Though the Hulk was very solitary, he liked the idea of having a friend. The woman's brother sounded like he just might fit the bill, and the Hulk wasn't planning on letting them "cure" him…