Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
The air here was completely different from New York; there was none of the order and oppression brought by the cold steel jungle. Instead, there was a sticky, humid, bustling chaos full of life's rhythm and disorderly vitality. Deep within the favelas, built into the hills, stacked layer upon layer, seemingly ready to collapse at any moment yet stubbornly persistent, sunlight was fragmented by narrow alleys and dense power lines.
In a cramped space that could barely be called a "room," the light was dim, and only an old fan creaked, futilely stirring the stuffy, hot air. Bruce Banner—or rather, the thin man struggling to maintain the identity of "Bruce Banner"—sat at a wobbly wooden table.
He wore a faded, even worn short-sleeved shirt, and fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead, whether from the heat or the pressure from the "other him" constantly trying to break free within his body. His eyes were tired, carrying the sensitivity and fragility of someone long in a state of high alert, but deep down, the rational light of a top physicist still burned.
Scattered on the table were some loose parts, a battered multimeter, and a few dog-eared physics journals. He was repairing a radio, his fingers steady and nimble, trying to temporarily forget the roaring turmoil within him and anchor his human rationality through this mechanical work that demanded extreme focus.
This was his chosen hiding place: chaotic, disorderly, with a high Liquidity of people, enough to conceal anyone who didn't want to be found. He worked an unskilled packaging job at a small soda factory here, earning a meager wage, like a wounded Beast licking his wounds while vigilant against any disturbance from the outside World.
General Ross's shadow hung over him like the Sword of Damocles. The Hulk within him was another blade tearing him apart from the inside. His life was a difficult search for a moment of respite, and perhaps… a chance at healing that might never be realized, caught in such internal and external predicaments.
"Static… Latest news… The 'Hero Association' from North America is once again in the spotlight today. Its founder, Mr. Wilson Fisk, and Mr. Tony Stark of Stark Industries are engaged in a fierce debate on the topic of 'hero professionalization'…"
The radio in his hand suddenly crackled intermittently, mixed with strong electrical interference. Banner's fingers paused, and his brow furrowed slightly. He adjusted the knob, trying to catch a clearer signal.
"…Mr. Fisk emphasized that systematized management and resource support can more effectively respond to the increasing number of extraordinary threats and protect the rights of practitioners… While Mr. Stark insisted that the spirit of a hero should not be tainted by money and systems…"
"Hero Association?" Banner murmured to himself, the term completely unfamiliar to him. He had been away from mainstream U.S. society for too long, long enough to miss many new developments. But the words "extraordinary threats" and "systematized management" were like stones thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples in his heart.
The massive green entity within him also seemed to stir slightly, catching these words implying "conflict" and "power," and a familiar, heart-pounding warmth began to subtly swirl in his lower abdomen. Banner took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, using his well-honed breathing control techniques to forcibly suppress the agitation.
Danger. He instinctively felt that this "Association" meant trouble, meant exposure, meant a direction completely opposite to the "seclusion" he sought. He should immediately turn off the radio and bury himself back in his parts and journals, isolating himself from all external disturbances.
But… "More effectively respond to threats"? "Resource support"?
These words, like specters, lingered at the edges of his rational thoughts.
A few days later, during the drowsy lunch break at the soda factory, Banner, as if possessed, walked into a smoky, dilapidated internet cafe in the favela. He used the few spare coins he had saved to rent a machine in the furthest corner. The flickering light from the screen illuminated his cautious, slightly uneasy face.
He clumsily (he hadn't touched such "modern" facilities in a long time) opened the browser and typed "Hero Association" into the search bar.
Instantly, a flood of information popped up.
The official website was designed to be concise and professional, full of technological flair. There were APP download links, a task list (though most were low-level, like "find lost pets," "stop street gang fights"), a hero ranking (he saw Sandman at the top, marked "S-Rank"), and a seemingly very complete system for point redemption and welfare benefits.
He clicked on some news links. He saw blurry video clips of Sandman controlling sandstorms, easily subduing a giant monster; he saw the incredibly efficient cleanup scenes by the Association's Logistics Department; he saw Kingpin standing on a podium, facing the camera, articulating the concepts of "order" and "professionalization" in his deep, powerful voice.
Banner's gaze finally settled on the introduction page for the Association's "Physical and Mental Health Center." It mentioned providing "professional psychological counseling and stress relief services" for heroes on missions, as well as "advanced medical technology support."
His heart pounded uncontrollably.
Psychological counseling… stress relief… These eight words, like a faint but incredibly clear light, pierced through the long-shadowed areas of his inner World.
The Hulk within him, in a sense, wasn't he the product of his extreme stress and unreleased anger? If… if there was a way to effectively manage that emotion, if there was a place that could provide professional help, instead of the Military just wanting to study him as a weapon or specimen… an absurd, almost impossible thought, like a seedling sprouting in the darkness, quietly emerged.
But he immediately stifled the idea.
"No, Bruce, what are you thinking?" He whispered to himself, his voice tinged with bitterness, "That's an organization, an organization exposed to the public and the Military (he was almost certain General Ross was watching them too). How could they accept a… a monster? They would just hand you over to General Ross, or worse, try to use you."
Reason warned him; the instincts forged by years of being on the run screamed danger.
He closed the webpage, cleared his browsing history, and quickly left the internet cafe as if fleeing something. Back in his small, stuffy room, he picked up his soldering iron and parts again, trying to numb himself with work.
However, some things, once seen, cannot be unseen.
In the days that followed, the term "Hero Association," like a seed planted in his mind, began to take root inadvertently. When he felt anger surge due to a minor setback and had to desperately suppress it; when he woke from nightmares, drenched in cold sweat, confirming he was still "Bruce Banner"; when he looked at his increasingly haggard face in the mirror, feeling a bleak future… the image of that organization with its complete logistics, professional psychological support, and perhaps even unknown technology to deal with "supernatural" problems, would quietly surface.
It represented a possibility. A possibility different from the Military's pursuit, different from lonely escape, and different from his own blind groping… another possibility.
A possibility that might allow him to truly "control" rather than "suppress," a possibility that might allow him to find a way to coexist peacefully with the green giant within him, or even… a cure.
This idea was so tempting, yet so dangerous.
He still went to work at the soda factory every day, still repaired those broken radios, and still walked with his head down through the favela's alleys, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
But beneath that seemingly calm exterior, the turmoil within could no longer be quelled.
He began to consciously gather snippets of information about the Hero Association, from international news playing in bars, from discarded old newspapers. He learned that they fought alongside (or, rather, in coordinated chaos with) the Avengers in New York Harbor, that they had a tense relationship with S.H.I.E.L.D., and that they had rejected General Ross's technical demands.
Each new piece of information made the image of that organization in his mind more complex, and more… real.
One night, he again woke from a chaotic nightmare about General Ross and the Hulk, sitting on the edge of his bed, gasping for breath, his thin tank top soaked with sweat. Outside the window, Rio's neon lights flickered erratically, illuminating his pale, pained face.
He raised his trembling hands and looked at them. These hands could perform the most precise physics calculations, yet could also, in the next moment, tear steel apart, causing unimaginable destruction.
Despair, like a cold tide, threatened to engulf him.
Just then, that thought resurfaced with incredible clarity, carrying a desperate madness:
Maybe… maybe they are different?
Maybe Kingpin, who dared to face Stark, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the Military simultaneously… that man who built such a peculiar organization… maybe he would have a different perspective?
This thought sent a shiver through him, not just of fear, but also a faint… almost forbidden hope.
He walked to the window, looking down at the vast, chaotic, yet vibrant favela beneath him, then gazed north, in the direction of New York.
Within him, the Hulk also seemed to sense the surging emotions in his heart, emitting a low, indistinct growl.
Bruce Banner, one of the smartest and most unfortunate scientists in the World, in his humble hiding place at the World's end, for the first time began to seriously consider a question that had previously been impossible:
Contact them?
The thought itself made him feel that the fragile balance he had painstakingly maintained for so long might be completely shattered.
Regardless of whether the outcome was good or bad, his life's trajectory seemed to have reached a critical crossroads because of that "Hero Association" far away in New York.