Hulk Peter David (best motivational novels txt) 📖

He should have realized that it was pointless to share such a scientific breakthrough with a pathetically normal individual who couldn’t begin to appreciate it fully. Indeed, the guard responded in what should have been a woefully predictable fashion. His hand started to drift toward the butt of his holstered gun. “I’m gonna have to ask you to put your hands up, pal. Okay? Nice and easy.”

David Banner thought this was just about the funniest damned thing he’d ever heard, and his peals of laughter obviously rankled the irritated sentinel. He didn’t pull his gun, however, since both of Banner’s hands were empty and, aside from his erratic behavior, he didn’t yet seem a genuine threat. This turned out to be a mistake although, in the final analysis, it probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference if he’d yanked out his revolver and pulled the trigger.

Still laughing, Banner stepped forward, quick as death, and swung his metallic hand. There was another crunching noise, not dissimilar from the one the wall had made when he struck it. He moved his hand quickly away from the side of the guard’s head, not wanting to get any blood on it lest he absorb that, as well.

It didn’t make any difference to the guard, who sagged to the ground with blood welling up from the large, smashed-in section of his skull. Banner didn’t know whether the guard was still alive or not, and didn’t especially care. He was far too busy staring at his metallic fingers, pleased with the fact that they hadn’t yet reverted to flesh and blood and wiggling them like a puppeteer enjoying a new creation.

The world was swirling around Bruce Banner, bizarre images that he couldn’t sort out colliding with one another. He had a feeling he’d been incredibly angry, but he couldn’t remember why or where or what it had all been about. There was a sense of disorientation, similar to what he’d experienced when he had transformed back to normal by the side of the lake, but different as well. His nostrils flared and he knew he was no longer in the forest, for the smell of trees and leaves and fresh rain were all gone. The air was sterile and odorless, like the interior of an airplane cabin only worse, and as his eyes opened to slits, the world was blurred and glaring and there was a sense of the metallic.

And then something was stroking his hair, smoothing it, and he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. Her scent. That wonderful perfume of hers, and he’d never been so happy to smell it as the aroma filled his nostrils now.

“You still need a haircut,” she said softly.

He tried to sit up, but his muscles didn’t want to cooperate. Betty sensed the desire, but was able to keep him down with a single hand on his shoulder. “I bet you’re wondering where you are,” said Betty. He nodded. As gently as she could, she said, “You’re home.”

At first he didn’t know what she meant. This wasn’t the bedroom he’d grown up in, under the close watch of his adoptive mother, Monica Krenzler. So what could she mean . . .

Then he realized, and the full import sank in. He ceased trying to sit up, and instead stared at the ceiling of what he now realized was some sort of containment unit. Tears began to well up in his eyes. Bruce Banner had spent as long as he could remember working to suppress his feelings. Now he was in a place that was part of the hidden section of his life, with all the answers and all the possibilities of a full and comprehensible existence being dangled in front of him—and he had no clue how to feel.

Betty saw the moistness in his eyes, saw the tears trickling down the side of his face, and looked as if she was going to start crying at any moment. She reached over and brushed the tears away from him.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked.

He couldn’t even manage a nod. But she knew what he wanted. More than that, she knew what he needed.

going home again . . .

or not

“Out of the question.”

In a hallway outside the containment chamber, Betty Ross faced her father, who had a cigar jutting angrily out from between his teeth. The “No Smoking” sign nearby didn’t seem to make the slightest impression on him.

“Dad,” she began.

But Thunderbolt Ross continued to shake his head, spraying cigar ash in a semicircle. Betty stepped back to avoid having some fall on her. “I said out of the question! That containment unit could restrain a herd of elephants. You let him loose from that, and he turns into the jolly green giant in a heartbeat, we’ve got a major scuffle on our hands! Provided he doesn’t just leap out of here and go . . . go destroy Tokyo or something!”

“Dad, the transformation only occurs when he’s filled with uncontrollable rage. . . .”

“And who knows what could cause that?” insisted Ross, folding his arms and glaring down at her firmly. “The other day I found out the price of milk went up a quarter; I hit the damned roof! We don’t know what might set him off.”

“I’m reasonably sure a trip to the grocery store isn’t going to send Bruce Banner off the deep end,” Betty said, although she was still having trouble dealing with the notion that Bruce’s name seemed to have changed overnight. She rested a hand on her father’s forearm. “Dad, the other day, when I called, I said I needed to trust you. That was . . .”

“Difficult,” he said with a low sigh. “Yes. I know it was. I appreciate that you were willing, and able, to make that request. That was . . . a huge step forward. For both of us.”

“I