Bruce Banner

He'd looked into various ways of getting to the Far East. The only viable options are flying or boat, and while a plane would be easiest, it's not that simple. If something triggered Him, then everyone on board would die. Some days he thinks he's got a decent handle on it, or anyway, better than he used to. But then there are the days he can feel it under the surface of his mind, only a few fragile layers of skin away from bursting through. It’s obvious there are elements he can't predict, and quite a lot he can't control. So flying went out the window pretty quickly, especially when he figured planes would make life easier for anyone tracking him.

And they have to be tracking him. Whoever 'they' may be. Ross isn't likely to give up that easy, though with Blonsky acting as a huge neon sign of guilt, the man should have enough to be dealing with at the moment. But if not Ross, someone else. Governments don't let things like him walk around free.

He walks to the cot, and lies down. The bar falls away with more ease than he thought it might. It was a strange few months – agonising, at times – but it wasn’t his real life. This is real life. An oil-stained box in the depths of some tanker, out in the middle of the ocean.

It probably shouldn't feel like such a relief. But that's OK. He'll take relief where he can get it, and anyway, it's bound to go away soon enough. It'll do for now.

His head jerks in rhythm with the bus. When it’s smooth, it lowers gently, a slow arc towards sleep. And then the wheels hit a pothole and he’s upright again, blinking painfully in the light reflected off miles of endless sand. He stays alert long enough to register how awful it feels to be sticky all over, his clothes twisted and damp, and glued to his skin. Then the heat takes over, and he drifts. Until the next bump, and he’s awake, and it starts all over again.

He lost count of the hours somewhere in Tunisia. He has been on buses forever, and will never be able to get off. Cairo seems like a mirage he’ll always be reaching for. People talk incessantly here, and chant, and shout, and there are animals in cages everywhere. It’s what he expected, but it’s been days, and he hadn’t realised how frayed he was. Every elbow he catches in the ribs makes him grit his teeth, every shout too close to his ear makes him want to put his arms over his head, and scream at it all to go away. His pulse monitor flashes steadily. He tries to ignore it.

Just when he thinks he can take no more: Cairo.

It’s good. He’d been about to leave the bus, and start walking. Not that the city is much better, but at least he can find a cheap room, and close the door on it all for a night. Which he does, with relief so strong it nearly knocks him down.

The next morning, he starts scouting. There’s a Starbucks on the outskirts of the city, set in a tiny piazza that has a few alleys running off it. He checks them out. Most of them end up in open space, away from houses and shops. It’s probably the best he’s going to get, so he finds a café, and sends the email.

He tries not to think about it too much the night before. The man’s on his way, there’s nothing he can do. And it should be routine enough, if he can make himself accept that they’re not about to turn up with gunships and smoke bombs. Surely they wouldn’t dare with this many people around. That’s why he chose it.

The morning of: he almost doesn’t go. But, to hell with it. If it’ll get SHIELD off his back, it’ll be worth it. So he climbs to the spot he found yesterday, and waits. He’s willing to bet, this far out from the tourist traps, the guy will stick out like a sore thumb.

He’s not wrong.

He had had a routine, in Brazil. It had been disrupted by events back in America. He had found it again in Canada, and even managed to stick to it when he started travelling. Milliways had taken it away. He had bounced between the room he hated, and the cell he needed, and fought for equilibrium. He thought he was gaining on it after the nightmare at Christmas, but now, he thinks – maybe not.

He steps off the boat in Panama, and immediately goes to ground. That’s always the first thing. Establish a bolt-hole, somewhere safe to retreat to in case things go south. It doesn’t have to be fancy – it can’t be, he can’t afford it – but it does have to be secure. He finds a room and locks the door behind him, and is aware of how much he has to kid himself, these days. OK, then. It has to have the illusion of security, some pre-Other Guy memory of being able to turn a key, and have the bad guys be kept outside.

He meditates. He runs. He hangs out along the canal, learning what he can about the boat companies and their destinations. He sets up temporary email accounts, and skims some dollars from companies that shouldn’t miss them. It’s a routine, and he sinks into it with relief. If security is anything, it’s the knowledge that he’s doing what he can to protect people from himself. What he dreads – well, he dreads the Other Guy, of course. But that’s all all-pervading fear, too large to focus on a lot of the time. The minutiae of what he dreads can be summed up as aberration.

So when it comes, he’s left with a sense of resignation. And fear. And he would say ‘anger’, but does that ever leave him, anymore? Ignoring it is not the same as it being gone.

He’s in an internet café. He's tired, and unshaven, and just about out of money. He’s steeling himself for the next leg of travel, because he’s been here two weeks, and it’s time to move on. He has a map in his head, mental pins in certain countries. The next one is in Europe. It’s just going to take cash.