[CENTER][IMG]https://i.imgur.com/uNV0csR.png[/IMG][/CENTER]
[COLOR=AF7AC5][indent][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=white][I]Navapo, New Mexico[/I][/COLOR][/sub][sup][right][b]Hounded - 3.01[/b][/right][/sup][/indent][/color][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][color=AF7AC5][sub][B]Interaction(s):[/B] [COLOR=white][I]None[/I][/COLOR][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][b]Previously:[/b] [COLOR=white][I][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5064400]2.05[/url][/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][/INDENT]
[indent]Betty still hadn’t gotten used to the quiet yet.

Just around the New Year, it was now close to four months since the Hulk’s attack on El Diablo, and things had really only quieted down for Betty in the last few week or so. The bulk of it was done in just a few weeks, but some persistent types just kept trying to reach her. Some people just [i]needed[/i] to know everything the could about Bruce, as if his case was something that could happen to anyone. Betty on some level understood: she’d be concerned about mutants and meta outbreaks for so much of her lifetime. It was an idea that had scared her, even still (given that she’d experienced it herself). But in going through the experience, she had her preconceptions shown in a whole new light. Imagination, formerly trying to put herself in the shoes of someone in her present position had only made her retroactively realize how little she’d really grasped. To have the obvious been in front of you the whole time without suspicion. To have someone you cared about being hunted like an animal by the forces keeping the country safe, forces she’d once lobbied for so they can do exactly what they were doing. Thinking about Bruce’s circumstances made her sick. Thinking about how for once the systems in place were working as intended gave her a bittersweet flash of hope, one that was buried as she thought about the kind of expressions she knew her father could make.

It was hard not to think about. Betty sat on the floor, curled over a mess of loose papers on Bruce’s side of their bedroom. He was sloppy when it came to his own space: there was old schoolwork here, lab paperwork, junk mail, confidential materials from the base, all shuffled together, the only real organization being chronology, newer stuff settled on top. He’d always shied away from Betty cleaning up after his messes. Despite everything, Betty couldn’t help herself, lips twitching in amusement as she realized how much he’d always been like this: trying to do everything himself while in actuality not really being able to manage it whatsoever. Helpless as he might have been, Betty couldn’t help but to find some solace in his persistence. She wasn’t going to give up on him, and she could hope that that trust wouldn’t be misplaced as long as she could trust him to stay that way.

Organizing some of his mess, fearing pests had moved in while she’d been out, Betty was at it for a good couple hours, back growing sore from her time spent craning over. Cheap, disposable gloves on, she’d gotten to his trash can, small container having been recently emptied, but bits of refuse still remained, fallen around it, ignored in the last dumping. And in that cleanup, there was a discovery, a postcard from the Big Apple. Betty knew Bruce had never been there, nor was he in contact with very many people, but a closer investigation drew a curious name from the sender. “Brian Bush.” The last name was an anomaly, the first name got her blood rushing. Other sounds faded out under her heartbeat, its sound pounding at her ears as she poured over the first lead she’d gotten in weeks. Attempts to find Brian Banner had only run into dead ends grown cold in her childhood, the same time he vanished from Bruce’s life. This postcard however was less than a year old, dated March last year, and if he’d changed his name…

Hopping onto the bed, she whipped out her phone, opening Facebook and typing in the name and location. He hadn’t been trying to hide, Betty had just been going about it all wrong. And there it was. Four men named Brian Bush in the state of New York, only one in the city of New York. Flopping down, her back as relieved as she was. It was something really: never before was she so glad to have a mess to clean up…

[center]---[/center]
[b]October, Previous Year
S.T.A.R. Labs, San Diego, California[/b]

“Dr. Desmond, you have a meeting.”

Glasses askew, head coming up from the desk, Mark Desmond snorted before pressing a finger on the intercom, saying without missing a beat. “Thank you, send them to my office.” Patting down his wavy hair, fixing his glasses, and letting his blurry office come into focus, he ignored the dozens of pages added to his word document from holding down the ‘a’ key in his nap, looking to a calendar on the wall and blinking as he tried to read the note he’d left for himself. Then he saw who he was meant to be expecting. “Oh shit.”

Leaping from his desk, throwing on a white lab coat, Desmond burst through the door and into the hall. Coat trailing behind him in his speedy walk, he headed towards the front desk, turning a couple corners until he saw a blue air force dress coat coming his way. A smile of relief crept to his face as he reached the man, hand extended, reaching for his lucky break. “General Ross, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

A bit of trepidation showed on his face as he slowly returned the handshake. [color=BE1C1C]“Desmond? I was just heading to your office.”[/color]

“Oh no, that was my mistake, we’re heading to the lab. I’m glad I caught you. I was wondering, what drew you to my work in particular?”

Ross shook his head. [color=BE1C1C]“Not out in the open you...”[/color] The man bit his tongue, hedging his frustrations, admitting in exasperation, [color=BE1C1C]“This is classified. If word gets out its your head on the block, not mine.”[/color] Desmond went pale, step staggering before he resumed his course, the rest of their journey. Reaching lab 012, Ross was shuffled in before the door was closed and locked. Desmond let out a sigh of relief, turning to see Ross mulling about the rather plain lab, whiteboards blank, papers strewn about, several marked cages of white rats lined up on the counter by the wall had drawn Ross’ attention in particular. Look incredulous he scoffed, [color=BE1C1C]“That’s a thing, isn’t it...”[/color]

Desmond opened his mouth to explain, but Ross shrugged him off just as he got the first syllable out. [color=BE1C1C]“So, show me what you got.”[/color] Desmond nodded, confident as he brought Ross over to the cages, made entirely of metal. Gesturing for him to lean in closer, Ross did, focusing on the rat that was passed out in the corner. Desmond indicated the bars themselves, scratched and chewed like they were plastic. “We have to replace the cages every day.” Following his words, there was a bang, as one of the cages lurched upward and banged back down, as if of its own volition. Ross’ eyes widened, looking to see nothing of note, just a rat inside like normal. Desmond couldn’t help but find amusement in his reaction, not caring to hide his smile as he explained, “It slammed against the roof of the cage with its full body weight. Rats that could squeeze under a normal door easily could also chew through it in moments, or just break it down if it slammed into the doorknob enough. Well, they don’t have the tenacity or smarts for it, they’re rats. But they [i]could[/i].”

Ross shook his head, clearly impressed. [color=BE1C1C]“That’s what I was looking for: simple, raw, power. Not fancy tech that needs months of operating experience for it to go out of date in weeks: strength can’t go wrong.”[/color] Walking down the line of rats in cages, he explained, [color=BE1C1C]“War doesn’t stop changing. Years ago they said drones would replace men, and they did. They’re pricey but a bunch of insurgents in the desert aren’t going to be knocking them down. Drones are less likely to develop PTSD too. But we’ve got a new war. We can’t walk down streets with guns and tanks, we can’t send drones. We need people again, just different ones then the ones we had last time.”[/color]

Desmond nodded along. “A super soldier? Like-”

[color=BE1C1C]“I was thinking a full squad. It’s a waste to put just a captain...never mind, doesn’t matter. Now, what do we have to worry about? Constipation? Dizziness? Drowsiness? If commercials have laundry lists for whatever they’re advertising then what am I in for here?”[/color] Desmond clearly felt himself wince. Understanding, he turned off, reaching for one leaflet in particular. “There were some, yes. We obviously have a lot of human testing to go through but even in the current stage the subjects suffer from overheating through exhaustion and cognitive lapses. Even though the cognitive capabilities of rats only go so far, there are pretty clear deficiencies post injection of the formula. We’re not quite sure exactly what is lost, if it’s memory, processes, problem solving ability, but performance in tests previously taken by the same subject has gone down.”

Ross studied one of the rats, watching is mull about the cage, sniffing at the air. As if sensing the coffee on Ross’ breath, it got closer, reaching the bars, its teeth scrapping them and leaving a few metal shavings in its trail. Ross took a breath before raising his hand, thrusting his palm out where the rat was. The was a bang as the cage was knocked back, the rat leaping in panic, the others in the room similarly reacting to the noise. Desmond’s jaw went slack, the man unable to formulate a response while Ross stood up. His eyes were cold as he looked over, noting, [color=BE1C1C]“They still feel fear, so they can’t be [i]that[/i] stupid. And if they can recognize authority, they can listen to orders.”[/color] Ross shrugged, casually stretching at his collar. [color=BE1C1C]“To be honest, that’s all I really need.”[/color]

Desmond froze. His mind was blank as he tried to work out what the General was getting at. [color=BE1C1C]“We’ll need dosages for a whole squad and its field commander, 13 men.”[/color] Desmond felt his heart fall out of place, energy fading like he was losing blood. “N-no, no. I thought...it’s still in the testing phase! It isn’t ready for human experimentation.”

Ross’ gaze fell, the man letting out a deep sigh. Shaking his head, he ran a hand across his mouth and chin, patting down his mustache. [color=BE1C1C]“You fucking scientists. Smartest men on the planet, but you don’t [b]think[/b].[/color] Ross leaned in, his few inch difference in height being all the more pronounced when that same difference was all that separated them. [color=BE1C1C]“This [i]is[/i] the human experimentation. You won’t catch me saying soldiers are expendable, let alone anyone. But there’s a difference between a man and a soldier. A soldier signs up to put their life on the line for their loved ones, their country, and the brothers fighting by their side. Every man getting this formula is ready to die to protect you and everyone in this country. I’m not saying this lightly. They’re not my men, but a friend of mine who I see eye to eye with is working with me. This is a joint operation.”[/color] Ross had begun to pace, and now he took a moment to lean up against one of the desks, one leg still on the ground while the other hung a foot in the air. The rats behind him had started to calm, one running in its wheel, the squealing plain in the background. [color=BE1C1C]“Eiling and I get the big picture. Idiot chest thumpers and dump humpers get all up in arms about which branch is the best, like kids. That’s not the point: they’re specialized. The Marines are like a scalpel: they’re smaller but they’re there to get the job done as quickly and accurately as possible. You don’t make it as a Marine without a propensity for following orders. And the Air Force has the brains. This time they’re the ones holding the scalpel. The tech, the operational knowledge, the critical thinking, the eyes above. That’s why I’m here and not Eiling, he doesn’t know how to get what he wants without shouting, where [i]I[/i] don’t need to. I just like too.”[/color] Desmond realized his mouth had been hanging open. He tried to close it, but only ended up gaping like a fish. [color=BE1C1C]“That was a joke.”[/color]

Desmond swallowed, admitting, “You raise a good point sir, but I think I’ll have to talk about it with my superiors…”

Ross forced a smile, [color=BE1C1C]“Of course you do.”[/color] Standing properly, he clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying, [color=BE1C1C]“You have my number. Stay in touch.”[/color] Desmond still starstruck, Ross moved towards the door, stopping just before he reached them, turning his head over his shoulder. [color=BE1C1C]“Oh yeah...does this juice have a name yet?”[/color]

Desmond’s head still spun. All he wanted was a grant to further his study and research, and now he was being given too much, too much advancement, too much funding, too much risk. Hand pulling at his collar, his neck felt exposed, like any choice he could make would end with his head rolling over the remains of his career. Something Ross said earlier sparked in his brain next to a jab his coworker had said last week about his project, Desmond spitting words as they came to mind, just as he was beginning to see success as his ideal path to salvation. “Block...buster?”

Ross stewed over the words, eyebrows going up in acceptance. [color=BE1C1C]“Yeah, that’ll do. Blockbuster. Hulkbuster. Fits like a glove.”[/color] Throwing the doors open he took his leave. Tension in the air going with him, Desmond let his knees give out, the man keeping upright only because his arms clung to the desk behind him. A few feet away, the rat that had been chewing at the bars no longer had any interest, sitting quietly in its wheel as it rocked back and forth, breathing heavily, the reflection in its small black eyes nothing but its cage.[/indent]