Bruce didn't offer a smile. "I've been working on something," he said, his voice even lower now. "In secret."
Tony's brow furrowed. Bruce's secrecy was a rare and usually alarming thing. "Secret? Bruce, the only thing you should be keeping secret is your incredibly unhealthy obsession with gamma radiation. Seriously, dude, get a hobby. Yoga, maybe?"
Bruce ignored the jab, his eyes fixed on Tony's. "I've engineered something. A… a contingency. I wanted you to have this."
Tony eyed the box with suspicion, then met Bruce's gaze. There was a profound weariness in those eyes, a confession of a burden too heavy to bear alone. Hesitantly, Tony reached out and took the box. It was surprisingly heavy, its surface cool and smooth beneath his fingers. He thumbed the clasp, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.
He opened it.
Inside, nestled in custom-molded foam, lay a row of bullets. But these were no ordinary bullets. They were substantial, heavy slugs of metal, gleaming with a dull, almost sickly green luminescence. They looked… potent. Malevolent.
"What in the…?" Tony's voice trailed off as he picked one up. It felt dense, vibrating with a barely perceptible energy. The faint green tint wasn't paint; it was inherent to the metal itself.
Bruce's voice was a low, resonant rumble, devoid of its usual tremor now, replaced by a grim certainty. "Gamma-based alloy. Custom-engineered. Designed specifically to pierce the Hulk's skin. And cause… irreparable damage."
Tony stared at Bruce, then back at the bullet. The implications slammed into him like a physical blow. Irreparable damage. Kill or cripple. The words echoed in the sudden silence that fell between them, a terrifying counterpoint to the workshop's hum.
"You… you made these?" Tony's voice was rough, disbelieving. "For the Hulk?"
Bruce nodded, his gaze unwavering. "For me, Tony. For the Hulk. If… if I lose control. If I become too dangerous. If I can't stop myself."
The unspoken truth hung between them, thick and suffocating. Bruce Banner, the man who lived in constant terror of his own shadow, of the beast lurking beneath his skin, believed he would eventually succumb. He didn't just fear it; he expected it. And in his fear, he had forged his own weapon of self-destruction.
"Bruce…" Tony began, his mind reeling. This was insane. This was a level of self-loathing, of preemptive despair, that he couldn't even begin to fathom. "This is… this is insane. You can't do this. You can't ask me to do this."
"I don't trust anyone else with them, Tony," Bruce interrupted, his voice steady, but the words held a desperate plea. "No one else understands. No one else could possibly make the choice. But I trust you. If… if the worst ever happens, I need you to be the one to make that choice. To… end it."
Tony shook his head, a desperate laugh escaping his lips. "End it? Bruce, are you hearing yourself? We're talking about putting a bullet in your head! Your Hulk head, your Banner head, it's all you! This is… this is too much. I can't."
Bruce's gaze remained locked on Tony, an ocean of pain and resignation in their depths. "I don't think I'll be able to stop myself, Tony. Not this time. I've fought it for so long, but the rage… it's getting stronger. I can feel it. I need this. We need this."
Tony's hands tightened around the box. He made another attempt at levity, a shield against the encroaching dread. "So, what? You want me to keep these in my sock drawer? Next to my spare Arc Reactor parts?" His voice cracked on the last word. His usual witty retort, the sarcastic deflection, felt hollow, inadequate. His hands lingered on the box, his fingers tracing the cool metal, betraying the churning unease beneath his flippant facade. He was shaken, profoundly so. This plea for an executioner from his closest friend, was unnerving him in a way nothing else ever had.
The weight of the box felt immense, a tangible representation of a choice he never wanted to make. He didn't want this responsibility. He didn't want to be the arbiter of his friend's existence. He was a builder, an innovator, a savior of sorts. He was not an executioner. Especially not of Bruce Banner.
The silence in the workshop deepened, the hum of Stark's tech the only sound left to fill the void. The air, once alive with the crackle of energy, now felt heavy, suffocating. Bruce's shadow, cast by the flickering holograms, stretched across the polished floor, elongated and distorted, almost monstrous. It was the shadow of the Hulk, or perhaps the shadow of Bruce's own despair.
Bruce's voice, when he spoke again, was a mere whisper. "I just… I wanted you to know," he murmured, his gaze falling to the floor. "And to have them. If… if it comes to that."
He turned then, his movements slow, deliberate, as if dragging himself away from a place of great pain. He didn't look back. The door chimed again, a soft, final punctuation mark on their conversation.
Tony was left standing alone in the vast workshop, the small metal box resting on his workbench. The bullets, with their ghastly green tint, seemed to glow with malevolent anticipation. He stared at them, his mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Fear for Bruce, fear for himself, fear for the world that might descend into chaos if the Hulk truly went unchecked.
For once, Tony Stark had no quip. No witty retort. No clever deflection. He was stripped bare, exposed to the raw, unadulterated weight of Bruce's confession and the terrible burden he had just inherited. All he had was the sinking knowledge, cold and heavy in his gut, that he may, one day, be forced to choose between the man he considered a friend and the safety of humanity. And the thought of that choice, of holding that power, that terrible agency, made him feel more powerless than he ever had before. The future, once a canvas for his boundless innovation, now held a single, terrifying black spot. And it was in the shape of a bullet.