Bruce Banner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spit_it_out) wrote2012-11-20 09:48 am
spit_it_out) wrote2012-11-20 09:48 am
Entry tags:
OOM: Haiti
In the end, he'd had to fly. Days of hanging around the port was starting to look suspicious, and the couple of people he approached weren't interested in selling passage to a guy with no passport. It figures, really. Shipping along the canal is watched, and he was stupid to think that it'd be easier to hop on a boat just because there's a lot of them here. He thinks about stowing away, but it's not as easy as it sounds - or maybe he just hasn't mastered the unsubtle parts of criminal behaviour. Stealing someone's uniform and creeping into a hold, not being noticed long enough for the ship to leave, dealing with what might potentially happen if he were discovered - he recoils from it. It might be something he'll have to get used to.
Not today. Today, he takes all the money he'd had wired to the Western Union office from his black transactions, as well as the cash he earned from helping a few people who weren't feeling well at the port. That wasn't as hard as he'd thought; when deckhands don't speak Spanish, or English, it seems they're quite willing to give a few bucks to a guy who can help, and save them a trip to a hospital in the city. He'd stitched a few cuts, reset a shoulder - it added up to enough to persuade a down-at-heel pilot with a rickety plane to make the flight to Haiti. He'd objected at first, thinking Bruce was asking him to fly without a destination, but he convinced him that he could file a flight plan. Just not ask for a passport. The guy shrugged, and took his money.
Getting out of the tiny airfield was more difficult. But hiding out, and slipping away unnoticed, wasn't so much difficult as time consuming. And the week was up; he had to get to the hotel today. That was the easy part - the difficult part was resisting the temptation to use the room reservation. No way was he going to stay in a place where S.H.I.E.L.D knew he'd be. But he needed the phone held there, and they would only do that for a guest. He got enough strange looks because of the state of his clothes when he appeared; not a chance would he hang around to answer questions. The most pertinent being, how would you like to pay, sir?
So he took a room in a boarding house, little more than a bed with four walls around it. That was yesterday. This is today.
The floor is bare boards. The sink has a split basin that pours water on to the floor, and the whole place stinks of the crack someone's smoking on the floor below. He's slept, woken up, packed to go. Just a phone call to make first.
He dials the number, and waits. A childish part of him he didn't know he had, hopes this is waking Nick Fury up.
Not today. Today, he takes all the money he'd had wired to the Western Union office from his black transactions, as well as the cash he earned from helping a few people who weren't feeling well at the port. That wasn't as hard as he'd thought; when deckhands don't speak Spanish, or English, it seems they're quite willing to give a few bucks to a guy who can help, and save them a trip to a hospital in the city. He'd stitched a few cuts, reset a shoulder - it added up to enough to persuade a down-at-heel pilot with a rickety plane to make the flight to Haiti. He'd objected at first, thinking Bruce was asking him to fly without a destination, but he convinced him that he could file a flight plan. Just not ask for a passport. The guy shrugged, and took his money.
Getting out of the tiny airfield was more difficult. But hiding out, and slipping away unnoticed, wasn't so much difficult as time consuming. And the week was up; he had to get to the hotel today. That was the easy part - the difficult part was resisting the temptation to use the room reservation. No way was he going to stay in a place where S.H.I.E.L.D knew he'd be. But he needed the phone held there, and they would only do that for a guest. He got enough strange looks because of the state of his clothes when he appeared; not a chance would he hang around to answer questions. The most pertinent being, how would you like to pay, sir?
So he took a room in a boarding house, little more than a bed with four walls around it. That was yesterday. This is today.
The floor is bare boards. The sink has a split basin that pours water on to the floor, and the whole place stinks of the crack someone's smoking on the floor below. He's slept, woken up, packed to go. Just a phone call to make first.
He dials the number, and waits. A childish part of him he didn't know he had, hopes this is waking Nick Fury up.