Caught in the heart of a nuclear explosion, victim of a gamma radiation experiment gone horribly wrong, Dr. Bruce Banner transformed in times of stress into a rage filled monstrosity. Twenty years after his disappearance, former compatriot Rick Jones, joins Banner’s son to discover the

Legacy of the Hulk

I am running out of options. The sedatives are not operating as planned. Even when under, Bruce's subconscious is still capable of triggering the gamma effect...

"Doctor?"

Samson looked up from the monitor, irritation plainly etched into his features.

"Yes, Nurse...Myers, isn't it?"

She smiled, "Mathers. Doctor, It's Nurse Mathers. I've brought the projections you ordered."

Samson studied the readouts carefully. It was, of course, exactly as he feared. His patient was continuing to exhibit signs of developing an immunity to the sedative. At the current rate of effectiveness, he could regain full levels of consciousness within days.

The doctor frowned, "Damn..."

At that moment an alarm sounded softly off of Samson's desk. Both occupants of his office glanced at the accompanied flashing light in alarm. Samson touched the console intercom control quickly.

"Doctor, you should get in here. The patient is experiencing a level three gamma spike."

"Level three? I'm on my way!" Samson's alarm was growing. A level three spike could develop into his patient's full transformation. Fear building inside, he quickly made a decision that had been culminating for months, one he hoped he would not regret. "Prep the patient for phase 5 of the project"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"By any chance, are you a religious woman?"

"No, sir. I'm afraid not." She stopped a moment, turning to him quizzically, "My mother was protestant, my father catholic...They decided to leave me out of it."

"Pity." He thought to himself. Just as well, I guess. After all, who would pray for the Hulk?

General Thaddeus E. Ross opened his eyes. He had been dreaming ...about? Betty. And, the monster. He peered into the darkness of his room. "Who's there? Show yourself!" he barked. No one there. Gettin to be seeing things, am I? Damn old fool...I shouldn't be doing this anymore...It's a young man's game, now.

A sudden ringing from the phone next to his bed interrupted his musings. Ross started at the sound, and then reached over to the nightstand table, picking up the receiver.

"General. Are you by chance, a man of God?"

The aged general was instantly alert as he recognized the code, giving the required confirmation, "I have been known to read the scriptures…"

"The seventh seal has been deciphered."

"I see, and the promised land is close at hand?"

"The promised land has been delivered. We are walking into the kingdom of heaven."

"And the beast?"

"Shall fall before the might of our righteousness."

Ross paused… "And those who know not the power and glory of the lord?"

"What are the instructions of Jehovah?" the voice replied.

"My god is a vengeful god."

"The word of god is word of law." With that, the call was ended.

‘Thunderbolt’ Ross smiled as he hung up the phone. The message was clear. The Major had located Banner, and was to terminate him and those around him with extreme prejudice. No survivors. No witnesses. His only dismay was over the fact he couldn't be there in person.

Rick Jones hit the lighting panel as he entered his office. A plaque on the wall revealed the room as the headquarters of Jones and Jones Investigations. An absent smile played across his face as he paused a moment, musing on the day Marlo and he first walked in through this space. Sighing, he ran his fingers thru rapidly graying hair. Twenty years…has it really been that long? His face darkened… Twenty years and still no sign of Bruce. I miss you, old friend. Twenty years and still neither hide nor hair of you. Twenty years stolen from your son…where are you now, I wonder? Where can they possibly be keeping you?

He stopped at the battered old desk situated near a spacious bay window, leaned across and hit the power switch on an obsolescent computer monitor. Chuckling to himself as he recalled his wife, Marlo’s term for the machine (she referred to it as, the ‘digital garbage man’ ), he pulled up a list of the evening’s messages.

Ah, hot off the press, Old ‘Thunderball’s’ weekly wire taps. Rick paused a moment, lighting a cigarette before continuing to read the screen’s contents. Skimming through the highlights, he suddenly stiffened. "Oh my god." The cigarette fell from his trembling hand. "I don’t fucking believe it!"

Quickly, he reread the transcripts. Then, he leapt from the chair and began pacing about the office. I’ve got to call Marlo! No, wait, she’s off on a case, who freakin knows where. I can’t reach her. Dammit! I’ve gotta leave, now.. Shit, who do I tell…the kid?. Yeah, he can tell Marlo when she gets back. He should know anyway, right?

Shaking, he sank back into the chair, and carefully punched in the dialup code for one Richard ‘Smash’ Banner’s east London flat.

"All right you, you filthy bastards! One more, and then we’re out of here. You got it?? And remember, they won’t pay us if you tear the soddin’ place down again!" With that, Smash turned to his band and muttered under his breath, "Right mates, as if they’ll pay us anyway."

"Hey, cheer up Smash. If the old queen holds out on us, then we’ll tear the place down!" replied Charlie, his best friend and, coincidentally, the drummer.

"Right. Here goes then, One, two…"

The band launched into one of their more popular numbers, and the crowd let out a raucous roar. Charlie had seen this sort of thing before, and grew concerned. Invariably, it meant yet another venue would be closed to the band. The kids had been drinking it up all night, and many of the more rowdy of the bunch hungered for a free for all. Ordinarily, Smash would recognize this, and close with a less volatile song. Charlie sighed. He could see that Smash was right well out of it, and well…they didn’t call him Smash for nothin. Throughout the night, he had been nursing a bottle of Jamison’s. The same bottle, now empty of course, that he was flinging into the crowd. Attempting to gain some sort of cover, Charlie shrank behind his kit, still keeping the beat. He knew what was coming. Hell, the band was well known for this particular antic. The bottle flew into the slam pit. Moments later it, along with several other bottles, returned full force. One struck Smash on the side of the head, busting open a wide gash across his face. Smash took it all in stride, stepped up to the mike amidst a continuing hail of more bottles, and broken glass…and began to sing.

Charlie braced himself. He knew all hell was about to break loose. Already, many of the punks in the crowd were kicking over chairs, and upending tables in their quest for release. He caught the nod from Rob, the bass player, and began the shift that lead to the chorus.

"And the world is not my friend, I ain’t ever been able to fit in.

All hell broke loose. People began to throw chairs through the windows. A group of the crowd had rushed the stage, surrounding Smash’s bloodied form and lifting him into the air. Moments later, Charlie’s kit disintegrated in the oncoming rush of people, and his last thought before being forced to enter the fray was, "Bloody Christ! Are we ever gonna get to finish this fucking song!?"

On the way into the airport, Rick made a brief stop at a small storage facility on Heathrow Ave. The venerable, brick building had the singular distinction of being the only structure in all the neighborhood to survive the Battle of Britain, some three score years earlier. The management of the establishment were direct descendents of the original owners, now three generations removed. Every month, for the last twenty years, Rick mailed the required sixteen pounds to pay for a small room in the back of the business. A grandfather clause in the original contract kept the price satisfactorily frozen. During this period, Rick had not once been to visit the contents kept safe here, and so naturally, the desk clerk was curious.

"Mr…Jones, is it?" he rasped softly. "Well, the signature matches right enough. Give us a hint, will ye? Wotchya got back there? Some sorta top secret spaceship?"

Jones cracked a grin, "Well, it looks like my secret’s out! Do me a favor, and keep it quiet, will ya?"

The clerk grunted, and Rick was allowed walk towards the end of the hall alone. The door safeguarding his valuables was sturdy, and well constructed out of hundred year oak banded with iron. He paused a moment searching through the layers of keys he kept on a large brass ring. He tried several different keys, of varying sizes, before finally settling on one that appeared to fit. With a bit of effort, he eventually made the lock turn and removed the bolt from the door. Taking a moment to glance over his shoulder, he was bemused to note the clerk’s intent stare. Then, with no small amount of effort, he forced his way pass twenty years of disuse and opened the door into the room. Peering inside, he fished around into the pocket of his battered Abercrombie overcoat, retrieving a small pen flashlight which he then activated and methodically began to peruse the contents of the room. Quickly, working from memory, he located a mildewed satchel and retrieved from within a set of documents. These papers, signed personally by one Nicholas Fury, should greatly facilitate entry to the country of his birth, at least if the old man still had any pull left. Softly, he berated himself for losing track of current American politics. Turning swiftly, he then opened a large wooden sea chest, rummaged about a bit, and selected a few small, metallic objects.

Moments later, having resecured the entrance, Rick was back on his way towards a destined meeting over two decades in the making.

Smash gingerly exposed his pupils to the morning sun, wincing as he awaited the dreaded hangover he knew was lurking about. A moment passed, and then another with no sign of nausea. Well, allright then…might as well look into the possibility of breakfast… He languished in bed for a few seconds, and then rose to greet the day.

Fifteen minutes later he was puking his intestines out into the john. Twenty minutes more and he decided to test the possibility of relocating his sodden carcass to the living room couch, if only he could remember how to get there? After taking a good half hour to navigate his path through a sea of empty whiskey bottles, cigarette butts, and fallen mates, he found the aforementioned couch. Right where I left it. Idly taking a moment to light a cig, he flipped on his portable vid screen. In the left corner of the display, a blinking icon informed him that he had messages waiting. Seconds later, he was viewing a miniature version of his uncle.

"Richie, call me as soon as you get this. It’s important, ok? It’s about your dad…"

"Bloody hell." he muttered under his breath. His uncle looked worried, and that troubled him. Rick Jones was a very capable man. Anything that could worry him was definitely cause for concern. After a few moments of introspection, he pulled up the dialup protocol for Rick’s portable vidphone. Smash never knew his father. He and Rick had left the elder Banner behind while he was a baby, and all he knew for certain was that something horribly wrong had occurred. Whenever Smash pressed him, all Rick would say was that his dad had been terribly misjudged, and that Smash was better off not knowing. "All that shit is dead and buried, kid. And it’s better that way." Rick would tell him. Doesn’t look too buried now, does it? Smash’s vid signal connected, and an exhausted Rick Jones came into view on the screen.

"Rich…heh, you died your hair green. That’s funny."

Smash looked annoyed. "Ha fuckin ha. Where the hell are ye?"

"On the way to see your dad, kid. With any luck." Rick replied.

"Great, tell me where your heading, an I’ll meet up with ye."

Rick frowned. "Uh…nope. Too dangerous. Makes more sense for me to scope it out first. Look, when she gets back, I want you to tell your aunt that I’m tracking him down. Once I make sure the scene’s safe, I’ll call you back."

"Bollocks to that, old man. Where are ye?"

"Sorry kid. Didn’t make that out. You’re breaking up. Hello? Hello?" An instant later, the connection was broken.

An hour later, armed with a bottle of rum (and Rick’s gold card), Smash was in the air.

Leonard Samson collapsed into his chair. His nerves were exhausted, the procedure had taken well over fourteen hours and the good doctor had been involved in every aspect of the operation. Nothing left to do but wait… he sighed wearily. Leaning forward, he activated the intercom, "Nurse Mathers, could you bring me the current ekg charts on the patient…I want to make sure the neuro sedatives aren’t causing any adverse effects."

The speaker crackled, "Yes, Doctor. Right away."

He slumped back into the chair, letting his gaze wander throughout his office. Amidst several years of mementos, one item stood out in particular…a picture of he, Bruce, and Betty Banner taken some three decades earlier. Simpler times, he mused. I’ve caused you so much pain, old friend…let’s hope this time I’ve gotten things right…

A few minutes later, the nurse entered the room, charts in hand, only to find Dr. Samson asleep at the desk. Hesitating a moment, she decided he could use the much needed rest, and soundlessly exited his office.

Wordlessly, the Major watched Samson sleeping through the window, several hundred yards away and wearing a pair of night sight lenses. Having mapped several points of entry into the clinic, he was about to give orders for his men to begin the assault when a lone figure in a Ford pickup truck pulled in front of the building. Halting the operation he peered questioningly at the newcomer. It was an older, white male, approximately fifty to sixty years of age. Realization dawned upon him, as he began to recognize the man. Rick Jones. With a smile, he recalled the General’s exact orders. No survivors. Grimly setting about his mission, he gave the signal to attack.

All hell breaks loose.