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The feeling of being watched intensified as he neared the open-air market. Of course, if he felt more comfortable sliding through the teeming crowds, so would a practiced pursuer. He slipped around market stalls, behind groups of children running barefoot down the dirt paths to scramble his own footprints. He used the brightly-colored blankets hanging over a line as cover so he could stop and listen for someone breathing just a little too quickly, or steps just a little too close as he sucked humid, spice-laden air into his lungs, trying to slow his racing heart. But there was nothing out of place.
After several more moments, he moved smoothly out from the shade to mingle in a group of young workers walking past. He kept his posture easy and his steps light, but his down-cast eyes swept the streets for threats, while he shifted the backpack on his shoulder in case he had to make a run for it. The Other Guy rumbled in the back of his mind, which only confirmed his paranoia.
He was about to bolt, his instincts urging him to get away, anywhere, and now. He saw his route through the crowd, time slowing as he mentally prepared himself to weave and dodge through crowds and alleys. But, just as the tension in his muscles reached a breaking point, there was a hot gust ruffling his curls and the echo of a thrum in the air. As suddenly as it began the feeling of danger passed, and Bruce let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Time resumed its course as the air settled around him once more.
Bruce strolled through the market streets, down dirt alleys, and past shanties to his own small abode. Within fifteen minutes, he was outside of city limits and on his way gone.
*****
The horses were settled in the stables, brushed, fed and watered. The days were long this far south, and there was still some daylight left, despite the late hour. Bruce was sore and tired, but it felt good to be tired after a long day of work, his belly was full, and his soul was satiated. He climbed the small hill that overlooked the copse of thick trees that bordered the meadow and sprawled in the thick clover grass. The foreman had lent him a beat-up paperback and he pulled it out of his pocket as he turned so his back was to the sun, determined to use the last of the light.
Ten pages in, he realized he could not remember anything that he had just read. He sighed and shifted his gaze above the rim of the book, staring off into the distance. The sun’s last rays stretched down the hill, casting everything but the tops of the trees in shadow. A metallic glint of silver, bright as a spotlight, reflected into Bruce’s eyes and he froze.
The Other Guy was still, sleeping deeply in his subconscious. The birds sang as if nothing was amiss, and everything was peace in the little meadow.
Bruce rose and stretched the ache from his muscles. The sun was down, and it was time to leave, again.
****
He felt it again, in Zimbabwe, in Thailand and Cambodia. The sensation of impeding danger, intense paranoia, followed by a sudden peace: it was astounding, yet unsettling enough that he ran anyway. His suspicion wasn’t anything new, and neither was the running. The peace, however, had him worried he was finally going mad after all. Because, he reasoned, he may have episodes of disassociation, multiple personalities and anger issues, but he’s never felt crazy before.
****
Then there was the time when he had run out of money, no job, no way to leave town because the next village was too far to walk. He had been reduced to scavenging for food, though he hoped to avoid panhandling if he could because it brought unwanted attention from the authorities. So he wandered the town, eyes open for opportunity.
The night was still and clear, and the dirt road smooth under the thin soles of his sandals. There was no moon, but the stars were bright enough to see by. Bruce’s steps faltered as he passed under the shadow of a large tree; hunger was making him faint, so he leaned heavily against the trunk to wait for the spell to pass. His eyes slipped shut as he concentrated on breathing through his abdomen, and the rough bark scratched his cheek when he turned his face in towards the tree. After a moment, a warm breeze blew past him, and it revived him enough to push away from the tree and resume his walk.
Perhaps it was the short break, but he felt much better than a moment before, despite the sickening hunger gnawing him from inside. The stars seemed a little brighter--or his eyes were a little clearer--to see the path before him.
A quiet rustle caught his attention, and he looked down to see a 1,000 rupee note trapped under his foot.
****
And the time he woke up from a half-remembered nightmare, pulse racing and a scream building in the back of his throat. Emerald eyes snapped open to see a single candle burning brightly beside his pallet on the floor, casting a gentle circle of light. The light flickered and danced when he exhaled, blurred until the tears spilled over his cheeks. Slowly, his nightmares melted into an uneasy stillness as he stared into the flame.
It wasn’t until the clear light of morning broke over the horizon that he allowed himself to wonder where that candle had come from.
****
“We need antibiotics,” Bruce said. “And morphine. We’ll be out by tomorrow at this rate.”
“And sutures and everything else. Easier said than done in a warzone,” the doctor replied as he disconnected the satellite phone. “No pilot will fly while they have those guns out--what kind of energy source are they using for those anyway? No sane pilot at least, and all the crazy ones are dead.”
Suddenly, the tent felt too small, the air too close. Bruce pushed himself out of the tent and into the open. He felt panic rising from the base of his belly up his spine, threatening to crush him. So much fear, so much pain that wasn’t his own, but he was still weak, powerless to stop it.
“Stop it, Bruce,” he muttered to himself. “Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself and think.”
He wondered what it would take. Could he summon the Hulk and get past the guns and back? Would Hulk even know what to do once he was let out?
No, no, no. That wasn’t the answer. No matter what control he thought he had, there was never any guarantee. It wasn’t worth the risk.
He wished he was like Steve, who could probably just run right through the artillery and back without a scratch; or Tony, who would fly loops around the shells while blaring Ozzy Osbourne the whole time; maybe Thor, who could ride the lightning and hide in the rain clouds; or even Natasha, charming both sides with a bat of the eyelashes and a knife in the kidneys; or Clint, who would hijack the nearest plane and say fuck-all to the odds.
But he was just Bruce. Bruce, who knew nothing in this world except for how to run and hide like a coward.
So he wandered to his own small corner of the camp, in the back of an auxiliary hospital tent. He took his well-worn pack and dumped out the meager contents—toothbrush, a change of clothes, his few possessions—so he could cram as much medicine and supplies as he could into it. He wasn’t Captain America, or Iron Man, or a thunder god, but maybe he could make it behind the front lines and maybe he could make it back. It would take longer than a day—perhaps much longer—but he would try and save those he could.
As he made his way to the outskirts of the camp, that weird sense of peace enveloped him. Yes, he thought, this was the right decision. After all, he had done far more directly suicidal things in the past and survived just fine.
Bruce turned to take one last look just as someone in the distance yelled. In the sky, parachutes bloomed like lotus blossoms, gently floating their precious cargo to the ground.
So, Bruce thought, there was at least one crazy son-of-a-bitch pilot left in this part of the world.
****
In the middle of an empty, dusty road, on a corner of a map that even Bruce would have trouble pinpointing, clarity finally came. That feeling of peace, of sudden relief that brought him to tears sometimes, was called safe.
The sudden realization brought him to a halt. He squinted up into the sun as he considered his position. He looked down the road ahead, then turned to look at the road behind. They looked identical: long stretches of brown bordered by scraggly trees that disappeared into the distance.
Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out the talisman he had fashioned over the last few weeks. He held it in his open palm and stared at the crude obsidian arrowhead. Slowly, deliberately, he laid it down in the dirt and turned it so it pointed down the road, into the horizon, towards home.