Gray.

This was how Bruce had ended up in quarantine, with some indeterminate time left. A clock ticked in the corner. 

After screaming in pain that was no longer there, he had gone quiet. 

He was deciding what his last words would be. 

He spent many of his last hours trying to think of something profound, something that might be found in an academic textbook, like Marie Curie’s “I want to be left in peace.” He had chuckled at that, when he first read it.

Of course, there were always JFK’s final words - “That’s obvious.” A beautiful irony to his admiration. 

Bruce wanted to be remembered. In his picture of perfect health, as the walking ghost, in his painless decline, this was his selfish thought. He just wanted to be remembered.

There was a glass screen that separated Bruce from another room, a room where others could talk to him. The glass-concrete wall was so thick they needed to speak to him through a microphone, pushing a button to talk. 

No matter what his last words were, they would be heard through static. 

Ross had come by, to give his condolences, gave some speech about how his service would be honoured, but Bruce didn’t care about his military career. That wasn’t his legacy, it was someone else’s.

Betty came to visit him too. She hadn’t said anything, and neither had he.

She had cried, though. He bit his lip, to stop his last words being apologies. She knew he had nothing to apologise for. 

She placed her hand on her side of the glass, and nodded to him. He nodded back, from his sitting position on the bed, not daring to get closer for fear of contaminating her. And, after too short a time together, she turned and left.

And then, surprisingly, came the boy. He seemed unsure, at a loss for what to do, what to say. He had stumbled up to the microphone, as if it was dangerous. As if it might hurt him.

“Uh, hey, doc,” he said, nervously. “I uh… I wanted to say something. The other guy, the General, he uh… he says you’re not lookin’ too hot, and if I had anything to say, I should do it while…” he trailed off.

“Well, I guess you don’t need me to tell you,” he chuckled anxiously. 

“Anyway, uh, I guess what I wanted to say was, uh… thank you.” He paused, and waited for Bruce to say something. When he didn’t, the boy continued. 

“I really owe you one. I was just following a stupid dare, and now I got you… well, I guess what I’m sayin’ is you didn’t have to do that for me. I’m just a nobody.”

Bruce still said nothing. He just exhaled, slowly.

“But I guess, if you wanted to know the name of the nobody you stuck your neck out for…” the boy said thoughtfully. He looked up at Bruce. “It’s Rick. Rick Jones,” the boy said. 

Bruce nodded, and swallowed. Hearing the kid’s name made him feel more human. Less a reason for his death, more what he was - just a kid. 

Bruce chuckled.

“Uh… what’s so funny there, doc?” Rick said into the microphone.

“...Nice to meet you, Rick. I’m Bruce.”

Rick thought for a moment, then nodded. “...Good to meet ya, Bruce.”

Decent last words, Bruce thought. Very human.

He took a breath, and closed his eyes.

He felt cold, and he rubbed his hands. He focused on the sound of his breathing. 

It was loud, and heavy. 

Everything was loud.

As if someone had gradually turned up the volume, slowly enough that it was unnoticeable at first, every sound in the room had suddenly become unbearable. 

The feedback from the microphone grated his ears, his own breathing was hollow and heavy in his skull. 

The clock kept ticking on the other side of the room. 

Counting down the seconds to the moment he would stop.

It was just so loud. Bruce put his hands to his head, blocking his ears.

He knew this was the moment. 

The beginning of the end.

“You… you okay there, Bruce?” Rick said. Bruce shook his head, but didn’t speak. 

“Do you want me to get someone, anyone else you want to see?”

Bruce thought of his father. He thought of home, and gritted his teeth. He shook his head. 

“Do you need anything, do you want me to do anything? Do you want me to get anything for you? I dunno what I can do, but if you-” Rick stammered, watching Bruce start to sweat.

“SHUT UP!” Bruce yelled, looking up, his eyes snapping open. Rick would later say they seemed darker than Bruce’s usual brown. 

Like they were being seen through a black and white filter.

Bruce shook his head and made a noise, annoyed that now his last words had been an outburst. He thought of his father again.

The damn clock wouldn’t stop ticking. Bruce turned to it, his movements less than human. He took a step over to it, and his legs felt heavy.

The ground seemed to shake, and he put a hand against the wall to keep his balance. His arm felt heavy, his muscles bulged, and he felt the concrete wall break under his hand. 

He growled, and took another step, his feet bursting from his shoes. He was leaving dents in the floor.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Ti-

His free hand slammed into the clock, silencing it. His ears popped, and it sounded like everything was underwater. 

His arm was three times its normal size. His skin was stretched over new muscle, his veins bulging through the papery texture.

His whole body had turned a pale, matted grey.

“Oh my god, doc,” Rick Jones said behind the glass, his eyes wide with fear. 

Bruce turned, having to crouch to fit under the ceiling. He caught his reflection in the glass, and stared. 

Something else stared back. 

A few minutes later, General Ross ran into the room. An alarm was blaring, indicating a breach of the base.

Rick Jones lay on the tiled floor, trembling, staring at the room Bruce Banner had occupied, the glass division cracked. It was empty, except for a huge, round hole in the opposite wall. 

Dust wafted around in the cool night air, and concrete rubble littered the ground.

Bruce Banner wanted to be remembered. 

He wouldn’t be quickly forgotten.