Bruce Banner was depressed.
He knew that. He always had.
But tonight it felt different.
His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming out in short puffs in the frigid winter air. His legs were turning numb as he knelt in the snow.
It had taken years of research and the acquisition of vibranium, but he had done it.
Bruce was 8 years old, watching in horror as his dad smashed his mom’s head into the driveway. Over and over. He couldn’t move, paralyzed in fear as years of abuse came to its ultimate conclusion. Death. Maybe Dad would kill him too. That would be nice, then he could be with Mom without the threat of being beaten hanging over them. He wanted to die, even if he didn’t really understand what dying was.
He had found a way to die.
Bruce was 11 years old, blood seeping through the towel he held onto his wrists. He would have to hide them so his aunt didn’t worry, so his bullies didn’t call him an attention seeker. He didn’t want attention. He wanted to die. That’s all he wanted.
Maybe Tony would miss him, no, Tony had bigger things to be worrying about. Tony wouldn’t miss him.
Bruce was 14 years old, searching through his aunt’s medicine cabinet. He grabbed a few bottles, quickly pouring the pills into his mouth before he could change his mind. He stumbled back to his bed, tears pouring down his face. As he drifted to sleep he thought bitterly about the only thing he wanted. He wanted to die.
The Avengers would miss the Hulk. The Hulk was strong, a one man army. But he wasn’t the Hulk. He was just Bruce.
Bruce was 16 years old, sitting in the basement of his high school next to a ticking bomb. It had taken him all year but he managed to build it in his shed. He had the school evacuated of course, he wasn’t like his father. He didn’t want to hurt people. He closed his eyes as the countdown reached 0. He wanted to die, he deserved to die.
He had loved Betty, once upon a time. And she had loved him. Last he heard she had gotten married to another scientist, putting Bruce and her father behind her. He couldn’t help but be happy for her.
Bruce was 36 years old, ignoring the roars of the other guy as he sat in the frozen tundra of some forgotten country. He pulled out a simple handgun, it wasn’t much but it would do the job. He opened his mouth, positioning the gun slightly inside it. The cold metal brushed his tongue and he shivered. He slid his finger up to the trigger, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulled it. But his vision faded to green like it had so many times before. All he wanted was to die. Why couldn’t he get what he wanted?
It was better to not think about the people he was leaving behind. They would be better off without him. He injected the serum he had spent countless nights perfecting into his veins. For the first time in 12 years, the Hulk was silent.
Bruce was 46 years old, kneeling on a bridge in Russia, far away from any of his friends. He held a pistol to his temple, the gun containing a single bullet. The bullet that would end it all. A lifetime of research, all for this moment. With no hesitation he pulled the trigger, and for the first time in his life, Bruce Banner got what he wanted.