#Peace Mission

[builder051]

This ain't a scene (it's a goddamn peace mission) Part 1

I've written some Nat and Bruce fics before, but I haven't explored Bruce Banner as a stand-alone character (not in published form). I like getting into his head, especially in that after Avengers-before Ultron time period when the Avengers were kind of like, generic superheroes? Before there was soooo much drama involved in their comings and goings?

Anyhow, that's the time period. I've mentioned in some nooks and crannies of other fics that Bruce still engages in personal travel to disseminate resources and medical supplies, and to provide care to those in need. He's setting off on one of those trips today, and, with the rather fresh resurgence of his Hulk reputation, things are a little more dicey than they were in his peace missions of the past.

Warnings--profanity, anxiety/slight mental health, i&i, emeto (self-induced, but not ED related), the bare truth of Airport Security (inc. people being very unkind to each other)... that's about it. This one's pretty clean.

Expect part 2 soon.

________________________________

Bruce stands patiently in line. He's glad for the airport's free wifi, but is disgruntled at the the movement of the security line. Surely the same person would have donned their shoes and moved on by the that Bruce surpasses the 16th level.

Passport verification should be a breeze, as long as the agent in charge knew the ropes. Bruce still uses his old passport, the one with so many rectangles from India, Mexico, and everywhere in between. It's still valid. So's his drivers licences, which he'd renewed online and put off the visit to the DMV for at least 8 more years.

Bruce is Bruce, no matter if his appearance had changed greatly in the last decade; he could continue to act under his own free will, which allows him to be openly himself with so much less anxiety and shame. His identity, though, immediately tied him to the incident. It seems the period of social mourning hasn't let faded away.

Bruce is an afterthought. a man-behind-the-curtain. Everything from trading cards iron-cast busts of the other guy appear as expressions through the world's collective mind, laser sharp neurons zooming over myelin to find minds, the extent to which he's to be held accountable for his involvement... God, people liked playing "invisible casino." Even the kids who bought his action figure. "Hulk Smash!" is audible from at least three aisles away. Then there was the sister's dramatic cringes, and the father, calling with loving authority, that social behavior expectations are to be uphed, even by children who have both earned toys for previous adherence to said rule.

"Dang, dude," the girl with the many-toned afro comments as she scans Bruce's passport. "Wherever you're going, have fun."

Bruce hurriedly pulls his glasses, another antique from his college days, out of their secure spot, hanging by an arm beween the first and second buttons of his polo, and perches them on his nose. He tucks his credentials into his jacket pocket, subtly zipped and tucks the double-velcroed into place. If the girl tried for a second look, it would definitely be of the back if Bruce's head. She hopes she stays busy with all the hustle and bustle out in front.

"Ok, ok." Bruce bounces on the balls of his feet. He inhales slowly, closes his eyes, and lets it out. When the urge to cough doesn't go away, Bruce swallows, shakes his head, adjusts his neatly arranged surgical mask, and mutters himself some more motivation.

It's difficult to keep a rhythm, not only because he's breathless, but because he's had the hikers resoled since his last of these... missions. He's not stupid; he did give them a little wear and tear ,to break in the heel cups and the oilcloth strips around the ankles, when he'd played basketball with Tony last week. Well, Bruce had played target practice with the red square above the net, while Tony used a blowtorch and two screwdrivers, alternately held in his mouth as he switched that in his hand from philips to flat, to remove the screens from the air conditioning vents set in the walls of the indoor court.

The dust filters had needed replacing.

Bruce had used the sweaty collar of his jersey to cover his mouth and nose when grey snow suddenly blew at him and his nose twitched with a warning clench that sent his chin down and his jaw up, which felt like was about to send a few discs of thoracic spine to leap out of line.

The sneeze didn't break Bruce's neck, but it made his eyes water, and gritty, ashy dust stuck to to his face from stubble-line to eyebrows. His hair collected powder, like the wig of an early president, and he didn't dare to blink. The man-made fibers of Bruce's jersey made a loser mesh around the neck, sleeves, and bottom. He should've worn his pajamas; the plain white T shirt would've been a better filter.

Bruce and Tony exchanged a few shouts, made fuzzy by Bruce's dry coughs and intermittent need to scrape off his tongue. Tony's unhelpful attempt at creating a hole in the cloud with a downward firing of the blow torch wasn't much better. Bruce felt the intense heat on the top of his head, and skittered away from the possibility of a forced haircut.

Anxiety. Breathlessness. Frustration. No, no frustration. Breathing. Bruce will focus on breathing. He hacks until he almost feels like he's going to vomit. He swallowed hard, the now-bulging muscles running cheek to jaw stretch, and his teeth gnashed in a way that makes the other guy laugh. Bruce swore once, just in his head. Then he started slowly started the sequence of belly breathing, bringing everything back to his own, peaceful center. He didn't bother with waiting until he could speak properly again. Bruce took his leave.

He wondered if taking the Korean exfoliating glove and the rechargeable toothbrush with matching waterpik into the walk-in shower. He wants all the dust off as quickly as possible, but was it all a bit...showy? He was taking off for Guatemala next week, where he wouldn't shower for two weeks at a time. A bar of soap and bowl of water would do, just as it did for everyone he'd meet in the local population. Then Bruce remembered the mandatory COVID test coming up in three days. He took his entire bathroom cabinet into the walk-in shower, washed every bit of his hair and skin with both an antibacterial soap and a moisturizing coconut bodywash.

Then Bruce resolutely opened his mouth to catch some of the cascading. He swishes, puffing his cheeks in and out, then swallows the viscous, foam created of chalk, saliva, and the mucous his body's already decided to run in excess, mistaking the inhalation of powdery substances for the onset of a sudden illness, from which he must be protected. The benefits of his increased metabolic rate are usually an advantage, and they do a number on household injuries. But being ill in fast-forward? It only made they symptoms harder to tolerate.

He wasn't a wuss, though, and Bruce stared down the waterpik and its conveniently long, slim, and sturdy upper attachment. He just bowed his head, ignored the hair plastering itself to his forehead, and induced the old-fashioned way. He doesn't have a problem. He doesn't. It's self protection. But Bruce used his foot as a mop and forced the vomit down the drain. He wouldn't care for anyone else to see the yellowy-grey sludge splattered all over the shower floor.

The cough lingered. Mucous. The burn of regurgitated mucous. The burn of the tea he tried to make with water from the electric kettle, because stirring in honey, lemon, and elderberry syrup evidently hadn't taken long enough to drop the temperature down to soothing, not scalding. Bruce hid. He rested. Though his need to sleep was often overtaken by an urge to rearrange the suitcases of medical supplies that would go overseas with him. Sometimes to put a chrysanthemum seed under the lens of the microscope. Then consume most of a sleeve of Ritz crackers.

The COVID test was self-swab, and, surprisingly, no-stress. An agent from medical met Bruce in the lobby of the tower. Both masked, they waved at each other instead of shaking hands, and, both also familiar with the procedure, the medical agent handed over the swab.

Within three minutes, the agent was gone, and, after waiting out the full day of PCR processing, the results were in. Health app: Negative. SHIELD profile: Negative. Medical record: Negative. Travel application: Negative. License to practice: Negative. WHO information: Negative. Biological Warfare-related risk to the US- Negative. Pre-TSA check-in: Granted.

With this, once it's printed and slipped into the folder alongside all his other travel documents, he's golden. It's perfect. Passport, visa, the stack of paperwork in which the COVID test result will be included, another 4 forms of ID-- his license, a water bill, the SHIELD ID card that scans to unlock the doors of secure buildings on the campus, and an original copy of his MD diploma, plus some meaningless name badges and button pins from the Peace Corps.

"There's not that much left," Bruce reminds himself, then bends his knees to force himself into physical activity again. It's just the security checkpoint. Just him, his backpack...and his jacket and his shoes and his glasses and his smart watch (which he'd meant to leave next to his bed)...

"This line!" a white-gloved worker directs, pointing Bruce to the very end of the series of lanes. It feels somewhat like a bowling alley, with everyone pulling things in and out of rumbling machines whilst hurrying to catch their own shoes.

He's not afraid. It's a medical mission. Another medical mission. Bruce emphasizes the fact, all said and done, this trip will not be monumental. A complete non-accomplishment.

"Go on." The worker uses enthusiastic bicycle hand signals to send Bruce along faster.

"Yeah." He hastens his gait. And right as he steps behind the young boy with just enough object permanence to understand that the machine will not eat his bouncy ball, another worker roughly gives Bruce his own flat grey box. Long having gotten over their resemblance to emesis basins, Bruce tucks his backpack into the top corner, then ditches his electronics beside it. He awkwardly pats himself down, unsure if a stick of lip balm or a pair of tweezers had survived the laundry and were still married to his pockets. It wouldn't be the first time.

Bruce approaches the circle of floor in the center or the, perhaps a bit intimidating, retracted revolving doors. Camera, X-ray, drug sniffer, Bruce didn't care, but the box... it brought just a touch of anxiety. Healthy anxiety, Bruce decided. The ratio of comfortable to nervous flyers made it obvious, anyway.

And he's forgotten his boots. He backtracks and rights the mistake.

"Your glasses, sir." The worker points his white-gloved finger at Bruce's box.

"Yeah." Bruce steps back and tosses them into his mess of things.

"Anything else in your pockets?"

"No," Bruce answers. He's wearing jungle pants. Not quite cargo, but, well. "I checked."

The worker scowls.

Bruce digs his hands into the pockets at his hips. Then the next set down. Shit. There's his passport. Bruce sets it down, but the worker just cocks his head and continues to glare.

"Fine." Bruce loudly pulls the velcro to open the pockets on his ass cheeks, feeling both mortified and set up by the smug worker as the placement of his hands coalesces with the noise. Bruce dips his fingers into the folds of fabric, and--

He sets the paperclip carefully in the only open spot left in his box.

"Ok." The worker nods, and Bruce's box jiggles indelicately through the searching machine. "Stand there, in the center." He points, too, as if Bruce can't see the neon footprints showing exactly where to stand.

Bruce breathes deeply, then nods. He would've given a verbal affirmative, if not for the damn tickle in his throat. He double swallows, then softly bites his tongue to combat the dryness in his mouth. His papers may put him in the clear, but he won't show cold- or flu-like symptoms. Authority can only go so far to override people's personal experiences, colored or not by prior knowledge or reputations.

Once his feet are planted on the marked spot, Bruce waves at the workers to let them know he's ready for action.

"Wait, please," commands the one who'd insisted on doing the pocket check. He leans in over a screen, brushing ears with a second worker, whose hat seemes disobedient to the pins that hold it to her hair. She points at something, and they both whisper for a moment.

The pocket-check worker rummages in Bruce's box, now free on the conveyor belt on the other side of the machine, and grabs the passport.

"Bruce Banner?" The worker raises his eyebrows, but manages to maintain his angry expression when he looks up at Bruce.

"I, um. Dr. Banner, yeah." Bruce doesn't like to heft authority, but he is a person, a smart person, and, he hopes, a good person.

"Slowly back out of the machine with your hands up." The pocket-check worker shows Bruce his hand, flexed back at the wrist and waving powerfully back to front. " Any more green and Airport Police will restrain you."

"Ugh," Bruce sighs. Is it only he that sees the neon glow emanating from the tablets and photo-viewers on the non-public side of the checkpoint? Black screens running data in green, for easier visibility and easier color differential from the problems that came out in bright red, had been part of Bruce's life for... he doesn't care to count the years. Of course the workers see him under the greasy, unflattering glow. They're looking pretty under the weather themselves from Bruce's view back at them.

Bruce looks for weapons. Pocket-check has a maglite on his belt. The worker's a dweeb, though. Young for a career man, and still gangly, short of that last hit of growth that'll take him to full adulthood. He still has acne. Bruce imagines knocking the maglite away and taking him down with the simplest of martial arts moves. He wants to smile and laugh. No need for super strength. The other guy would just watch and clap from the audience.

The worker originally in charge of the screens presses through several touch menus, selections leading to more selections until the glow is multicolored, strips of magenta and teal illuminating the area among the reds and greens. It resembles the semi-rainbow of beams Tony shoots from the knuckles of his gloves. Bruce knows it's worthless to express his annoyance that the colors aren't in proper rainbow order, but he acknowledges the passing thought, then tucks it back away. That's the last thing he needs to point out in the midst of a crisis with the TSA.

Bruce moves backward, languidly, making no noise in his stocking feet, though he feels the floor transition from carpet to linoleum, and he despises the change in feeling. But he has boots. Nice boots. And Bruce will feel better and calmer after he deals with this and gets his boots back.

"There are urgent safety concerns tied to your identity, Mr. Banner," the pocket-check worker says.

"I have all my paperwork," Bruce assures him. "If I can show you the documents in my folder--?"

"Stay where you are!" Out comes the maglite. But the worker holds it in the center of the handle, the lighted end balanced against his hip bone, as he unfurls the long, curly cord of a walkie-talkie that connects to the set of screens with a usb-port and a couple of zip ties. Bruce wishes he had his phone, if only to send a picture to Tony.

"It's a valid passport," Bruce tries again. "And I have pre-TSA check-in." He gestures hesitantly toward his folder again. "I printed the confirmation document--"

"That's not valid," the worker replies, coldly. "Comply with my instructions."

"I am." Bruce feels bewildered. Anxious. No, just quickly settling on what to do next. Which includes breathing. "I did gather all my credentials. My Pre-Check was approved." Bruce forces it all out in one breath, so as to prevent the worker from taking a talking turn before he was finished getting his point across.

"That is not valid, and you are not complying." The worker raises the walkie-talkie and mumbles a string of letters in the NATO phonetic alphabet, which don't spell a recognizable word in English, Spanish, French, German, or Russian. Bruce looks carefully right and left, trying to move his pupils only. The entire room is staring at him. There are no sounds of clanking machines or whirring doors. Every person in every line is staring directly at him.

"Hey!" Bruce closes his eyes, dreading whatever shout's coming next from the mass behind him. "It's the green guy!"

Forgiveness only comes because the exclamation could only have been delivered by an excitable child lacking the vocal control that tends to develops alongside the re-growth of one's two front teeth.

"There's been a mix-up," Bruce enunciates, adding a kind smile and lifting his hands, fingers spread, to the rough height of his ears. "Can I speak to someone else? Is there a, um, er," he stumbles. "Supervisory agent? I'm only familiar with the TSA from the information on the website."

"Yeah, the boss is coming down," the pocket-check worker informs him. "And how many times do I have to say that's not valid here."

"I still don't--?

"You're not talking to the TSA." The worker puts down the walkie-talkie and takes the maglite in both hands, pointing the butt of it toward the ceiling as if it's a Roman candle. "And you're not complying with instructions."

[dead-girl-tells-stories]

DP x DC prompt:

Daniel was seething. It's been a year since he left the league and they've already found him. Well, it was his mother who found him. Not that that was any better but at least it wasn't Grandfather.

It also shouldn't have taken him so long to dispose of those soldiers. They weren't even that capable. Far below his level and yet he struggled. He needed to resume his training soon or else he would become rusty.

He cursed himself for getting too comfortable with civilian life. Not that his life was comfortable, far from actually.

He had been adopted by a pair of mad scientist with no concept of lab safety; and for all the intelligence they had, they couldn't fathom how to properly take care of a child, leaving their daughter to take care of herself and now her newly adopted sibling!

He sighed. He was starting to get angry. He couldn't afford to get angry. Especially not at Jazz. She was only two years older than him and was doing her best. She's also the only good thing in his life right now meaning that he had to cherish her, not break her. (He wouldn't be like his brother)

His mind stayed on Jazz for a while before immediately increasing his speed. He really needed to resume his training. How could he be so slack to forget such a possibility! Daniel desperately hoped that his sister Jazz was okay and that they wouldn't dare.

Entering through his bedroom window he rushed straight to Jazz's bedroom. It was open. She wasn't there.

Daniel started to panic when he heard a muffed scream coming from downstairs. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen.

In all honesty Daniel expected the worse. To see his sister Jazz dead on the floor, thick red gushing from her neck, the scent of blood in the air. And there was blood, it just wasn't her's.

Daniel always prided himself on having a vivid imagination. It was a great way to escape after an especially hard training session with his brother. But he would have never imagined this.

In the small, laughably suburban kitchen of the Fenton household was a sight to behold. In the air were two mangled bodies, unidentifiable if not for the league's emblem still visible on one of them. And on the wall was a splatter, a rather big one. It wasn't blood. It was too dark to be. But whatever it was was very unlucky.

In the center of the kitchen was Jazz. Her arms were outstretched, burning sigils rotating at the end of each palm. Her eyes glowed a bright icy blue.

Upon noticing him everything stopped. She looked fearful. Tears threatening to come forth.

"Wait I can explain, just don't tell mom or dad! Please!"

Daniel, still a bit shocked but not as much, simply walked into the kitchen towards the cupboard. Taking out a clean towel he unsheathed he sword and began to clean it.

He looked over his shoulder towards Jazz. She didn't look as scared but her eyes still held some fear. So he spoke, making sure the still bloody sword was in veiw.

"I won't tell if you don't." He flashed a grin his tiny fangs peaking out.

Jazz sighed as in the weight of the world was lifted off of her. She looked at him and smiled.

"Mom and Dad aren't going to be back for a while. Wanna help me clean up?"

[mrs-gauche]

So I have seen several people now playing with the idea that Rook might've actually died at the ritual site and that whatever happened there with their blood and their connection to the Fade/Solas/the Dread Wolf pride demon was something similar to what we know of demon/spirit possession that can bring people back to life...... which would be absolutely insane to me, given what that could imply for the story and also how Solas feels about free will and abominations and... you know, all of that. 😂

BUT (and this is probably the most tinfoily I'm gonna get at this point lol)....

Between THIS and *checks notes*...

The short story "The Wake" implying that Lucanis died some time after The Wigmaker Job, him being called "The Demon" and all the pride demon imagery in his design/tarot card, having people suspect that he was brought back to life by a pride demon.

The devs saying "Manfred the skeleton is not romanceable, but we're not saying NO skeleton romance".

Harding suddenly having magical abilities.

There being something eerie about a lot of the companion tarot cards, mostly because of the glowy eyes that we often associate with possession.

....so I'm just gonna put the tinfoil hat back on and conclude that all this clearly has to mean that.. uh...

Everyone is dead...?

And they're all abominations now, which means that somehow all of them have a connection to some powerful spirit/demon that brought them back to life to join Rook on this final mission to save the world. 😂

Or something like that, Idk, the heat is clearly getting to me. lmaoo 💀

[abnomi]

i locked in too hard and fought tooth and nail with ibis paint to make this but by god i did it 🛌 THE FILE GOT CORRUPTED LIKE 5 TIMES. i think turbo is real and he is out to get me.

these are a collection of experiments i did to figure out how i want to draw The Freak! i certainly learned a lot. i love drawing characters in 50 different ways with no consistency its so fun moohahaha. expect more turbo art in the future (but probably less artistically chaotic as this turned out 👶 oopsays)

There's alternate versions under the cut + have a bonus doodle :-]<

good grief

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompts in Memes 7

[arthursfuckinghat]

Do you ever pause after doing a Big Important Mission where you think "yeah no more, Arthur needs a break" and trot on off to Strawberry or something

[paperrkites]

Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation

Mission Impossible: Fallout

Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part One

the parallels 😭

[onlypartiallyarts]

beach babe

(click for higher quality)

[lazycranberrydoodles]

COME ON GUYS DON'T LET DIANXIA DOWN

[bidonicart]

Heat wave at Mother Base

[muninnhuginn]

The Anya-Twilight interaction in the middle of this chapter is pretty interesting.

The Anya side of this interaction seems clear enough in that she's trying to obfuscate when asked about her exposure to classical language. The fact we don't see her face as she claims she doesn't remember makes me think she very possibly *does*, but doesn't want to talk about it. And, of course, as I've seen pointed out already, her face when she's first asked is very reminiscent of how she looks in the recent 'Ania' short chapter. She has thoughts/feelings about her past and they've clearly affected her, but they're not for the audience to see yet.

However, the Twilight side of this? I'm a bit stunned at how obviously he does not want to be asking this question of Anya. We know he's considered there's some reason in her past for her knowledge of classical language. We know he's a chronic overthinker. Even last chapter, he was thinking of this, but didn't ask. Anya getting second place though basically removes any plausible deniability. If he doesn't ask now, he's neglecting his duty. But still, he has to work up to it, almost leaves the room before he decides to broach the topic, and when he does, he *mumbles* it. Twilight doesn't really *act* with Anya when it's just them. His mumbling is not an act; it's reluctance.

His reluctance to ask the question of Anya is, in some ways, more egregious than how easily he drops the topic once Anya claims she doesn't remember. Not pushing her further and bringing the topic up later is a valid tactic (and likely one we may see), but we can see that he knows there's more to it. Unlike the audience, he can see her face, after all. And for now, he's indicated he won't push further despite that knowledge. By choosing to back off and patting Anya instead, he's (in a very low-key way admittedly) prioritising Anya over the mission.

It's just so neat how this one interaction showcases so much about the both of them. It hammers in Anya's trauma about her past, without spelling it out in words, but at the same time, it shows how Twilight's approach to fatherhood vs his mission are coming increasingly into conflict. We've had something similar on a larger scale with the recent Yuri-mole arc, with his role as Yor's spouse vs the mission, but it's still playing out on a smaller scale in scenes like this. And it's fascinating how the mission isn't always the clear-cut winner anymore. Sure, early on, we had Twilight sabotaging the Eden entry interview, but that was a moment of passion inspired by his whole "not wanting children to cry" deal. In other words, fuelled by some of his own trauma. In the recent chapters though, he's had time to think and justify before he acts. But the pendulum is still swinging towards his family when given the chance.

[riversflowbelow]

[scrollsofhumanlife]

Ana L. Papalotzi

Born February 28 1960

Van Nuys, California

[vaxxman]

I know Fritz is a popular headcanon first name for Medic, but I need you all to know the objectively funnier headcanon is that his name is Friedrich which is what Fritz is short for and Medic just lets everyone on the team call him Fritz so they don't butcher the pronunciation.

[hurrakka]

how do u think sasha would help leon out during his spiral in vendetta?

Probably not gonna be too grand of an answer but, just by simply being there.

Sasha is living proof that Leon's neverending battles aren't in vain. There may be no end to these BOWs but as long as Leon is still alive, he can still save lives much like how he saved Sasha's. He reminds Leon of that speech back in his country that he has to continue living and if living is fighting then so be it.

[salmonwaterbottle]

Another thing about IWTV that I don’t think everyone understands is that at its core it is showing that there are no perfect victims in real life (which is sadly some even the mainstream doesn’t fully understand).

Lestat was a victim of Magnus that is a fact but he also mistreated Louis, Claudia, and Armand one to the point of breaking his body which took months to heal and mocking another for their assault.

Armand is a victim of pedophillia, trafficking, and colonization but he also played a large part in Claudia’s death and even planned to have Louis die as well. He also kept Daniel in an apartment for 5-6 days to mentally and semi-physically torture him.

Claudia was a victim of Bruce but she also is happily shown to kill people taking pleasure in hunting humans.

Louis was a victim to both Lestat and Armand to some degree but he also treated them terribly. He engaged with a fight with Lestat and manically laughed as he told him how he was going to kill him. He mocked Armand for been groomed as a child when engaged in a verbal fight. He disregarded Claudia in favor of getting his dick wet several times.

All these people are victims in one way or another but they are also TERRIBLE people which the point. The story is about people who, willing or not, have forgone their humanity and act as such. They all do terrible things to each other and others for one reason or another and that’s why this show is so good. My favorite character is Louis and I personally love when we get to see him snap because he can be vindictive and cruel but it shows him as a person and we get to watch Louis himself sit in the fact that he wasn’t always the good guy. To try and justify these people’s actions as right or moral all the time is honestly a disservice to these characters.

It doesn’t make you evil to like complex immoral characters. Just relax and watch the show…