[CENTER][IMG]https://i.imgur.com/uNV0csR.png[/IMG][/CENTER]
[COLOR=AF7AC5][indent][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=white][I]New York City, New York[/I][/COLOR][/sub][sup][right][b]Hounded – 3.02[/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/5084126]3.01[/url][/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][/INDENT]
[indent]Even in a city known throughout the world for its long, historied past with the hotdog, Nate and Frank’s Franks had a certain affinity for gathering customers. The kitchen, tactfully planted by the street, allowed for any walking by to catch the scent, and if they didn’t feel like coming to the nice and warm interior in this mid-winter cold, then hey, there was a counter and register accessible right from the street, and if there wasn’t a few dogs ready to go at any given time then something was very wrong in the world. As for the taste, well, any decent place could get serviceable quality dogs and toppings, but the real secret was in the buns. A little sweetener gave them a near imperceptible smoothness to the taste, but the real trick was in steaming the buns. Grilling was more effective in a service environment, but Nate and Frank agreed that the crunch was meant to be in the onions or peppers, not the bun. Steaming however could lead to sogginess if made to sit in heat for too long, so the accessible access leapt over this hurdle with flying colors, like the vibrant paper tray it was served in.

So, compared to the pickings Bruce was usually able to scrounge up, to find one of these dogs, about a quarter of it bitten off, the rest sitting in an open trash can only barely touching the side of the garbage bag, well, it was nothing short of a miracle. All the little nuances in its construction were lost as Bruce rubbed his hands together, trying to get them to a state where he could pretend they were clean before carefully snatching it up. The cold frank was the only protein he’d gotten in what felt like ages, and the sugars in the ketchup and mustard, the variety of flavors in the relish, onions, even the pungent sauerkraut, all mixed together in a slurry of things his body was craving. Why someone would get ketchup and kraut on a dog was beyond him, and of course meat in general wasn’t something he’d normally partake in. But for all its repugnance, Bruce accepted it without much thought to any other option. These past few months he had been stuck with trying to gather cans and bottles for recycling to try and get some kind of snack, otherwise subsisting on garbage much like this. He’d practically been subsisting on popcorn: no one who got any at Target ever finished the whole bag.

Down to the end, all that remained was the area near where the previous owners bite had been, his fingers carefully gripping that end so as to not touch what he’d been eating, leaving Bruce at an impasse. His mind revolted against him, decades of conditioning regarding basic hygiene creating and odd contradiction in his fresh revulsion (one he didn’t really find rational given that he’d had no problem eating the rest despite literally pulling it from the trash). The other thing holding him back was that he’d noticed a young girl staring at him. She’d just been holding hands with her mother, the woman trying to flag down a taxi, while she just watched silently, eyes wide in abject distaste. Bruce paused, forced to imagine himself from the outside. Not as a man at his lowest doing what he could to survive, but as a filthy parasite living off of scraps and looking like nothing anyone would want to associate with. His ragged puke green coat that was missing half its buttons, and the overly baggy jeans that would be falling off if not for the extra layers underneath. The real capstone on his ‘clearly stolen from a clothing donation box’ wardrobe was definitely the red and green Christmas themed pajama top wrapped around his neck like a scarf to guard against the winter chill. Filled with a sudden desperation to get out of sight, he felt nauseous with himself, holding his breath and shoving the last bite in his mouth. Resisting an urge to gag, he turned away, forcing himself to choke down what he’d gotten. He’d let himself feel like garbage later, eat it now while he could.

Aiming to get out of sight through a nearby alleyway, he was immediately stopped by a mangy doberman that had been minding its own business. At Bruce’s approach it turned about, gnarled fangs bared as it barked, the booming yelps keeping Bruce at bay, the man quickly turning to keep going along the sidewalk. Feeling eyes on his back, he kept his head down and kept moving. The swirl of crowds and lights and towering buildings all felt the same to him. He might not even be in the New York metropolitan area any more for as far as he knew.

Bruce had been mulling about New York for the better part of December, now into January. His autumn had been spent traveling cross country: walking, hitchhiking, sneaking onto a train once, all to get here. But now that he was here, he didn’t know where to go. He didn’t remember his father’s new surname. It used to be Ti- something, it hadn’t been Banner in around 20 years now. He knew he was a neurogeneticist, but the name of the lab had escaped him. The information was too specific to just inquire about, yet Bruce couldn’t think of a way to get to a computer where he could search properly. There were options of course, but the prospect of approaching anyone left Bruce, well…

He was afraid. Even just walking down the sidewalk left him with people averting their eyes after that initial moment. They saw him, the thin beard, the scraggly bangs just barely reaching over his eyes, the ragged clothes. And then once they understood, they looked away. He had become invisible. For a fugitive apparently wanted by the military it was the perfect disguise, especially now that he was across the country. But what establishment would give him access? What person would let him borrow their phone even for just a few minutes? Perhaps it was a smaller hurdle then he was making it out to be, but even the thought of daring to ask again or trying to explain himself paralyzed his vocal chords. His first few attempts had been eye opening. People took out their phones and pretended to busy themselves. One outright responded to his request, a simple “Can you help me?” with “Not [i]you[/i].” And now, just the thought of asking put a lump in his throat. Retching, he didn’t know how much longer he could live like this. Some of his teeth were loose, suggesting malnutrition. His body being in bad condition was fine to a point: all he knew was that he couldn’t reach any near death state, or else [i]that[/i] would come out again, and hurt who knew how many. Face tensing as he swallowed the vomit that had started to bubble in his throat, he needed to ask someone again, no matter how much it hurt, because he knew if nothing was done it could be even worse.

Turning down another alleyway, Bruce looked up to see another person just ahead of him, a woman in business attire, clearly in a hurry. Going after her, he tried to call out, but his words stuck in his throat, thanks to how little conversation he’d been making. As she picked up her pace, fearfully looking back over her shoulder, he himself sped up a bit. His heart rang with fear, the part of his mind wanting so dearly to get out of this predicament threatened him, as though it was a last chance. A flash in his mind, a brief visualization, involved more force, he just needed to chase her down and make her comply. The potential opportunity he’d stumbled across in the alleyway, granted by his desire to be away from prying eyes, twisted into an intrusive desire, one that just as quickly filled him with a deep shame. As she made for the other side of the alley, his legs stopped, wobbling as he lost his strength, his will. Stumbling backwards, he landed against the side of a dumpster, the bang of metal sounding out before the immediate area was cast in quiet, only the crowd and cars beyond the alleyway audible.

Curling up, Bruce shuddered, terrified at the prospect of some[i]thing[/i] inside himself, something that had nothing to do with the monster he’d been trying to keep buried. For the first time in a while, Bruce considered this world of heroes. If one had swooped down to stop him just now, then in retrospect it shouldn’t have been surprising; that had been exactly the kind of situation they were known to intervene in, helping those slipping through the cracks against anything that remotely threatened him. Bruce could be said to have a ‘superpower’ of his own, and the thought of being pushed to use on someone in a state of duress, against someone who was actually capable of doing good in the world, was crushing. On one hand, perhaps being stopped was best for everyone. On the other hand, what if he couldn’t be stopped?

Some while ago, the idealist in Bruce had considered the possibility of using his strength to do some good in the world, but that idea was quickly dismissed, as he couldn’t control it. But now he’d realized something much more demoralizing, that who he was just didn’t seem like hero material in the first place. As moisture seeped into his clothing from whatever melted snow or garbage mixture he’d fallen into, he became rather resigned to the idea that this was the best place for him after all.[/indent]