[Starter for Bruce Banner]

The cars wind their way under night sky in quiet glow set by moonlit clouds. After countless secluded gravel and dirt paths almost too much for rim wheels the bootleggers reach a remote outpost in the hardscrabble rags of West Virginia, where they've made the best moonshine since the Whiskey Rebellion.

The air is chilly and the burning of coalfires from mines a mountain range away make your throat itch and eyes smarts.

"This is it, Bruce," the driver says. "The Guthrie place. Now some of these folks look kinda funny, probably from kissin' cousins and all that, but don't you DARE say a rude word, you got it? These guys make the best of the best!"

Bruce Banner scratches at the three days of stubble on his chin. "My lips are sealed," he replies. Taking the fedora from his lap, he sets it atop his head, opens the car door, and steps out into the night, shrugging his shoulders to adjust his jacket at he closed the door and standing by the car, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

As Vinny the driver steps out of the car and walks along beside Bruce.

"The boss says ya used to be a chemist or somethin? We're gonna need ya ta test this batch when we get back to the warehouse. We never had trouble with the Guthries, but a batch we got from out of state was bad. -Real- bad. We can't take chances like that y'know? Bad for business."

Bruce sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the fetid air, walking a step behind Vinny who he assumes knows where they're going. "Chemist. Yes, something like that, "Bruce says quietly. "Real bad? Real bad how? Blindness and internal hemorrhaging? Sorry, like bleeding on the inside?"

"Right. They gone blind, bleedin' out, gone bonkers...you'd think they'd have this under control by now? That's why I only drink the imported stuff."

Bruce nodded again, his head turning this way and that, looking for anything that might pose a problem. His stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, his right bumping against the weight of the pistol his boss had insisted he carry. "Protection," he'd said. "And theatrics. Never know when you're gonna need to show some boob you're prepared to blip him off." Bruce had pocketed the gat, swallowing his reservations.

The pair step through the frozen mud and approach a ramshackle cabin. The porch is lit by an oil lantern on top of an old barrel. A man and a woman sit on a bench on the porch, bundled for the cold layer after layer of tattered clothing. A very long rifle...heck is that a musket from the War Between the States? stands propped next to him against the wall. The woman wears a headscarf so her face can't be seen.

Vinny clears his throat. "Pardon me! Is this the Guthrie residence?"

The man stands up, and through his thick backwoods accents you gather he's young, maybe still a teenager.

"You got that right. You folks believe in spirits, doncha?"

Vinny chuckles. "Spirits? Yeah, the cleaner the better!"

The young man leaves the musket in the lady's hands and steps down from the porch.

"You must be Vinny then. I'm Sam, and this is Paige."

The lady nods.

"Please to meet yaz," says Vinny. "And this here's Bruce."

"The rest of the kin is in the shack. They come down with somethin', so best not to go in. That's why we went back to the family business."

Bruce frowns. Have they been drinking their own 'shine? "What are their symptoms?" he asks politely. "I mean...er...what's the problem? Cold? Fever? I'm a...I used to...I worked in a hospital. Maybe I can help?"

Sam stands silent, only his icy breath showing any movement.

"We don't get doctors up here. Maybe you seen these things before. Don't rightly know."

Sam looks up at Vinny.

"We'll do this like my grandpa did it. The jugs are under the porch. Leave the envelope there. You can wait in the car if Bruce ain't done yet."

Paige stands and carries the musket barrel with her as she cautiously opens the porch door.

"If you please, Dr. Bruce?" Says Sam.

With a glance at Vinny and a nod that he hopes conveys the message of "Everything's going to be fine," Bruce takes his hands out of his pockets (carefully, so as not to upset the gun), wipes them on the outside of his threadbare but sturdy long coat, and steps inside.

"Ma'am," he adds politely to Paige, tipping the brim of his fedora as he passes her.

It's as much squalor as you've ever seen as the floorboard creaks when anyone moves. There's an old cast iron stove in the back and a some handmade wooden furniture.

There's barely room to move as there's seven more Guthries living in this shack, staring back at you with young but worn, hungry faces. As you pass one of them you wonder why he's wearing a cloak made of feathers until you see the pinions. He has WINGS.

"This here's Jake," Sam says. "His wings started growin' a couple years ago. He can't get out much for fear o'bein seen. Some night when it ain't cold out? He can fly he can see good too. Can catch anything that can git in the stew pot. Paige? You wanna show him?"

She hesitantly nods, and pulls off her head covering. She's a full-figured young lady with dirty blonde hair. When you see her face it looks like someone's ripped half the skin off to reveal a marble statue beneath.

"When Paige's skin peels off you never know what's gonna be underneath. Could be rock. Could be wood. Could be iron." He gestures towards the others, younger in age all the way to six.

"Have you ever seen anything like this, Dr. Bruce? We're trapped in this valley because of what we are. We can't show our faces at the corner store, they think we're the Devil's spawn! And what's gonna happen to my younger kin? They gonna end up like us too?"

"My God," whispers Bruce, his eyes widening. Louder, he says, "This is...this is incredible." He reaches out a hand towards young Jake, then pulls it back, remembering his manners. He takes them all in, his mind drifting to the grey-green beast living inside him. How long until his own monster comes forth once more? If it were to happen here, inside this tiny shack, with all these children present...he feels his heart rate begin to increase, and takes a deep breath, calming himself. Think of them, he commands himself.

"Were you all exposed to anything...odd?" asks Bruce. "Chemical waste? Anything unusual? Or did this just happen to you?" Banner wished he had his old laboratory. At this point, even a triage kit would be helpful. He needed blood samples, tissue.

"My Pa told us people in this here valley started gettin' sick and dyin' once Roxxon bought the old coal mines and stated diggin' again. Said they found glowin' rock. uranium. Miners started dyin' ten times as fast as th' black lung. So bad they brought their own men in metal suits to dig for 'em. They use 'em as company men too, wavin' guns and knockin' down houses. SENTINELS they call 'em. They done their damnedest to force everybody off the land, but Pa never budged an' I promised 'im we never would."

He buries his face in his hands, and his hard demeanor starts to break.

"Was he wrong, Dr. Bruce? The Indians said this land was cursed...now I'm startin' t'believe it! Have we grown up eatin' food in poison soil? Is that what done us in?"