ArchivedLogs:Not Food

Not Food
Warning: Gore.
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Tony Stark, Hulk	2015-11-05 "It's happening." (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Harlem
On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands. "-- state of the art imaging technology. I'm sure there was no doubt that the children here were already in the best of hands but now --" Standing in front of the recently-veiled equipment that has just been donated, in crisp suit, hands spread wide, "Now their physicians can say they are, too." There's a flutter of cameras, but then, there always is. Tony leaves Happy to deal with shepherding the reporters away from /him/ as he makes his way away, past the press to slip through a back door further into the ward, the door thudding closed behind him once he's out in the much emptier hall. "I hate hospitals. Why would anyone come to hospitals?" Waiting in the hallway looking just a little awkward in his new and perfectly tailored charcoal suit, Bruce hands Tony an insulated mug. "Well, some people /work/ here," he offers, mildly, "and others need medical attention." His wavy black hair is perfectly coifed for once, but the full Windsor knot on his purple paisley tie looks just a little too tight. "And then some people magnanimously donate equipment and must show up to bask in the gratitude of their beneficiaries." The security guard at the end of the hallway leans into his transceiver, frowns, and heads for the elevator at a brisk walk. He is intercepted before he gets there, however, by a small knot of panicked-looking nurses and technicians coming in from the adjacent ward. "We have to evacuate this ward," an older dark-skinned MA tells the guard in low, urgent tones, glancing over her shoulder all the while. Somewhere in the direction from whence they had come, there's a muffled shriek. "Work. In a terrible place like this, that sounds -- that sounds fake but okay." Tony takes the mug from Bruce, lifting it for a swig without pause to check its contents. He ambles further down the hallway, tipping the mug towards Bruce with a lift of his eyebrows. "That's the way to do it. In, out. Showered in praise. None of this -- none of this bull with lazing around in sickbeds wasting away." He sips at the mug again, frowning very slightly at the knot of people outside the elevator. 'Evacuate.' He just mouths this word to Bruce. "I'm sure all the patients are just wasting away because it has never occurred to them they ought to consider philanthropy instead." Bruce almost manages not to smile. The coffee he had handed Tony is perhaps surprisingly decent, given their surroundings. His shoulders tense visibly well before the word 'evacuate' comes out, and before the scream. "Ah, I'm not sure what's happening, but maybe we should...leave?" An extremely anxious quaver creeps into his voice. The distant shrieking doesn't stop, but draws out into a stream of pleading and incoherent cries of agony. The people who had fled from that direction scatter now, two of them heading out into the pediatric ward, three to the emergency staircase, and two more trying the elevator. The security guard is mumbling into his transceiver again and, evidently receiving no satisfactory response, heads reluctantly in the direction of the screaming. Ten seconds later he is *running* back out, eyes huge with horror. "Zombies!" he cries, "they're coming this way!" He passes right by two technicians waiting by the elevator, shoves his way between Bruce and Tony, and keeps running. His warning (not to mention his running) has started a simmering panic in this ward, and it seems certain the hallways are about to be flooded with terrified people. "Leaving is exactly what I was doing. Trying to do. As soon as the shrieking hordes out there," Tony gestures with his cup back over his shoulder, "have been dispatched, leaving is -- is number one on --" The /actual/ shrieking draws his words to a halt. His fingers tighten around the cup. One hand reflexively moves to the opposite, touching lightly to a small watch-like band around his wrist. "Ah -- Jarvis. When did we -- order. New. Zombies." Perhaps the tiny earbud in his ear has given him a reply. The frown creasing his brow suggests it is not satisfactory. "This way. This way --" He's glancing back over his shoulder again. "This way is -- the pediatric ward." "Zombies?" Bruce echoes, his voice tight and small now. "Should we call 911? Is--is there some kind of task force that deals with this?" His breathing grows more rapid at the reminder that there are dozen of sick children in this sector of the building. "Someone should blockade that door, I--" His pupils dilate visibly behind his glasses. "Oh, no. Oh no no no. Tony, if the other guy...shows up..." He's whispering now, low and urgent. "Tell him you're my friend. Don't make him mad. Preferably just stay out of his way." The screaming from the next ward over does finally stop, but in the pediatric ward behind Tony and Bruce the chaos has only begun. Shouting the word "zombie" in a crowded hospital sends people running, shouting, and jostling each other to reach the exit or to barricade themselves inside the rooms. The reporters who had been covering the Stark donation cannot seem to choose between elation and terror, lingering in the hallway to the chagrin of those who desperately want away from the incoming zombies and Happy, who is methodically elbowing his way through the choked hallway, struggling against the current to reach his charge. From around the corner, where the shrieking had lately given way to eerie quiet, comes a slouching figure wearing a bloodied jade green hospital gown. The man had been in his late forties, reasonably fit, with vacant blue eyes and a suntanned white gone a peculiar ashen shade that anyone who weathered the previous zombie outbreak will immediately recognize. The zombie moves with a stiff but fairly regular gait, inexorably toward Tony and Bruce. A few steps behind it comes another, then another, and two more after that. "Sure. You," Tony tells Bruce, "You should definitely call 911. Good plan. Solid plan. Focus very steadily on that plan. There's only so much room for monster in this hall really and I think we're --" His brows are hiking up-up-up! as the first of the dead start to shamble around the corner. "-- about to meet our quota, /Happy/? My, ah, my briefcase. Sooner would be better than later -- thank you. And you're going to want to not let any -- ah, any/thing/ through those doors -- veeery shortly." "Oh. Oh, that's--" Bruce stares at the zombie when it appears. "Right. Focusing." He fumbles his phone from his suit jacket and dials with trembling fingers as he begins to back away. Then, after a few seconds. "Ah...it's not going through I suspect I wasn't the first person who had that idea. Suitcase?" He darts a quick sidelong glance at Tony, then back at Happy and the reporters. "You are not seriously think about--" He breaks off, cringing. "It's happening." This last actually comes out rather calmly, considering the circumstances. He turns back again. "Get out of the hallway and go help secure those doors!" he bellows at the straggling rubberneckers, his voice dropping half and octave over the course of the sentence. "Go!" Suddenly, he staggers as if he had been struck, and, reeling, pushes Tony behind him. His eyes have turned green and his suit has begun looking rather tight across the shoulders. The zombies press forward, the first one now only a few steps away from Bruce but still moving at the same ponderous pace. It lets out a breathy, strained rattling noise, perhaps an expression of whatever passes for excitement in the living dead. Whether in obedience of Bruce's command or fear of the zombies' approach, the reporters break rank and flee. Happy, abruptly freed, jogs a few more steps forward, then slides the sleek silver suitcase across the linoleum floor to Tony with the grace and precision of a master bowler. "Doctor Banner, you should probably come with me," he calls. Tony takes a couple stumbling steps backward when Bruce pushes him, twisting around to hurry towards the door. When Happy slides him the suitcase, /he/ sets down the coffee mug, tucking it with odd care neatly against the wall. He closes his hands against the handles of the case, small lights activating on the bands on his wrists. "I'm," he answers Bruce, "seriously thinking about not getting flattened to a pancake in a minute. And making sure nobody /alive/ here does either. -- Doctor Banner," he tells Happy, "is, ah, making his own exit. So should you. Now. Go." The suitcase, meanwhile, is opening up. Turning itself inside out. In segmented piece by segmented piece, red and gold armor starts to clasp itself around Tony's limbs, unfolding to build into place. Bruce starts to say something, but a paroxysm of pain turns his words into a throaty...snarl? He tries to back away from the approaching zombie, but stumbles and doubles over. The bulging muscles of his back physically split his clothes open even as his skin begins turning a rich, leafy green. The expansion of his body overtakes his agonized hunching, and continues until he takes up more than half of the hospital hallway. The Hulk throws his head back and roars, the remnants of suit and dress shirt hanging in tatters from his immense frame. His underwear, made of some highly elastic performance fabric, survived the transformation. As did his tie, looking comically small hanging from his thick green neck. He casts his gaze around, eyes narrowing at the incoming zombies, perplexed. Happy doesn't need to be told twice, and quickly removes himself whither the reporters had gone. The zombies, meanwhile, continue toward Bruce, and do not seem the least deterred by the abrupt change in their target. The one in front stretches out one gorey hand to grasp, in not particularly coordinated fashion, at the big green man. Then it lunges, mouth opening wide (jagged teeth stained red, scraps of flesh caught here and there on recently broken edges) to bite down on Hulk's forearm. The second and third zombies are only a couple of steps behind, and also stretch out their hands as if in eager anticipation of seizing their meal. When Tony turns back around it isn't his own face but a blank gold one, small glowing slits of eyes, that stares back down the hallway. There's a visible /bracing/, feet planting, arms lifting, at the roar that reverberates down the hallway. "I don't think that scares them." His footsteps clang, now, louder and heavier as he strides forward; a bright white bolt shoots from one of the gauntlets, searing towards the head of the creature biting down on Hulk's arm. Hulk does not make any visible attempt to evade the zombies' grasp. "HULK NOT SCARY!" he insists, reaching out with his other hand to /turn/ the zombie's bloodied arm as though he might discover the source of the injury. Thus distracted, he does not seem to initially realize why the zombie's teeth have fastened onto his arm. Then, with a loud snort, he recoils. "WHY YOU BITE HULK?!" he demands, his deep voice booming in the enclosed space. "HULK IS NOT A FOOD!" His face twists into a mask of fury as he shoves the zombie back. The bright flash of light startles him and he turns sharply to face Tony, his growl low and menacing. The zombie makes no answer to Hulk's question, but even if it had meant to, the hole that Tony burns into its skull silences it for good. When Hulk pushes, it flops back away from him, limbs flailing forward, head lolling sideways, the aroma of burnt flesh pouring off of it in a viscous wave. It crashes into zombie number two and knocks it to the ground, but zombie number three has by now gotten close enough to chomp at Hulk's arm. Number four, groaning loudly, is shambling past to make grabby hands at Tony, while number five is jostling three to get a piece of Hulk as well. "They bite you because they think you're food! They want to kill you. Pretty much their M.O.," Tony responds, shifting his rear foot back to plant it firmly at Hulk's growl. "Hey, I'm on /your/ side here, big guy! And there's a whole floor full of kids behind us who are Not Food, too." The gauntlet swings to the side, emitting another bright flash towards towards the fourth zombie's head. "HULK IS NOT FOOD!" Hulk reiterates--even more loudly than before, his voice rattling the covers on the light fixtures overhead. When zombie number three bites his arm, he roars again and swings the whole arm in a bid to smash his attacker into the wall. "KIDS ARE NOT FOOD! HULK NOT LET YOU EAT THEM!" He winds back an arm to punch zombie number five in the face. The fourth takes the blinding blast directly to the center of its forehead. Smoke rises from the blackened wound, but the creature keeps coming. It grasps at Tony's alloy armor with blood-slicked hands and chomps half-blind in the general direction of his shoulder. Zombie number two has picked itself up and is also coming after Tony now. Latched greedily onto the Hulk's arm, zombie number three is lifted bodily into the air and slammed into the wall. The enormous force of impact cracks the back of its skull open, while the Hulk's arm wedges into its open mouth, dislocating the jaw and almost tearing it off wholesale. The zombie staggers as if drunk, stagnant blood oozing from its ruined face, but it continues flailing at the Hulk with its body and hands, trying to bite though it can no longer do so. The fifth and last zombie takes the Hulk's fist directly to its face, reducing its nose to a pulpy mess of blood and bone fragments. Its neck snaps audibly from the sheer force of the impact and it falls quite ungracefully, landing flat on its back. And then rising again, bloody teeth gnashing. The chomping teeth clunk harmlessly against the armor. The glowing eyes that turn on the bloody zombie look just as implacable as they had a moment ago. "Really? That can't even taste good." Tony's other hand comes up, pressed squarely against the side of the biter's head as the gauntlet fires again. His arm shakes hard to dislodge the body that grasps onto it. He strides forward, one solid fist crunching towards Zombie Two's face. Followed by a bright blast towards its eyes. The Hulk stares down at the zombie mashing its loose-hanging jaw against his arm and clawing at his chest. "STOP! YOU MAKE HULK ANGRY!" he bellows, grabbing hold of it bodily, meaning to use it as a bludgeon to knock the last zombie down, as well. Zombie number four twitches a few times and fouls the air with the smell of greasy, burnt hair as it collapses into a heap. Zombie four reels back at the punch, facial bones crushed and poking haphazardly through its bloody cheek. It whips back around to bite at Tony's gauntlet even as the blast fires, searing through the back of its soft palate and dropping it to the floor with smoke rising from its blackened mouth. The jawless zombie could hardly avoid Hulk's grasp even if it had the presence of mind to try (which it certainly does not). Its wounds cast a neat arc of blood drops across the wall, then ruins the entire effect when its body collides floppily with zombie five's, splitting open its already much-abused head to splatter blood and gray matter everywhere. Number five merely gets knocked down yet again, the last un-survivor of its pack. Even deep in the bowels of the building, the sound of multiple sets of sirens converging outside is unmistakable. One arm points down towards the floor. One neat blast shoots straight for the eyes of tenacious Number 5. "This," those glowing eyes are focusing on Hulk, now, "might be a good time to think about leaving. Hall should be safe. But the cops? Not going to be your friend, either." The Hulk stands in the midst of the carnage, the tension slowly bleeding from his gigantic shoulders. He flinches again when Tony blasts the last zombie, but seems to understand this time that the light helped rather than hurt him. At the sound of the siren, however, his face twists with fear and rage again. "BAD MEN WITH LOUD THINGS!" he declares, slamming one gorey fist into the wall where it had already suffered the impact of zombie head earlier. "NOT FRIEND!" He lopes toward a window at the end of the hall and casually puts his fist through the plate glass as though brushing aside cobwebs. Hopping up onto the glass-strew sill, he looks back over his shoulder. "IRON MAN--FRIEND? SHOULD ALSO LEAVE, BAD MEN COMING." "Yep. Coming. I don't know what the news is talking about. You seem like a perfectly reasonable --" Tony's hand waves towards the Hulk. All of the Hulk. "-- to me." One of Tony's gauntlet's shakes, flicking droplets of blood from where Zombie had gotten onto it. He clomps his way over to the side of the hallway -- retrieving his coffee from where it had stood. /Then/ joining Hulk at the window. "Iron Man. Catchy. I like that. Maybe I'll keep it."