Bruce ran his hand through his long hair, pushing it back from his face as he got up from the cold, hard floor. His muscles ached from the exertion, but he knew he couldn't afford to rest any longer. He needed to keep moving, to find a safe place to hide and gather his thoughts.
He moved deeper into the plant, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast, empty space. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old machinery, a sharp contrast to the crisp, cold air outside. The dim light cast long shadows on the walls, creating an eerie, almost ghostly atmosphere.
As he ventured further, he came across the assembly line of Coca Cola bottles. The conveyor belts, long since abandoned, were covered in a thick layer of dust. The bottles, some still filled with the dark liquid, stood in neat rows, their labels faded and peeling. The machinery, once bustling with activity, now stood silent and still, a relic of a bygone era.
The assembly line stretched out before him, a testament to the plant's former glory. The metal frames of the conveyor belts were rusted and worn, their once shiny surfaces now dull and corroded. The gears and pulleys, now frozen in place, were covered in cobwebs, adding to the sense of abandonment.
Bruce walked along the line, his fingers trailing lightly over the dusty bottles. He could almost hear the hum of the machinery, the clinking of the bottles as they moved along the line, the chatter of the workers as they went about their tasks. It was a stark reminder of how much had changed, of how far he had fallen.
He paused for a moment, taking in the scene. The plant, once a symbol of industry and progress, was now a forgotten relic, much like himself. He felt a pang of sadness, a reminder of the life he had lost, the dreams that had been shattered.
But there was no time for regret. He had to keep moving, had to find a way to escape the relentless pursuit of the U.S. military. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and continued on, his eyes scanning the plant for any sign of a way out.
Bruce noticed a metal staircase that led up to a platform. He started to walk towards it, his footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. He was halfway there when the windows of the plant shattered, the sound of breaking glass reverberating through the building. Metal canisters crashed through the windows, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. They burst open upon impact, releasing thick clouds of smoke that quickly began to fill the room.
Panic surged through Bruce as the smoke spread, obscuring his vision and making it hard to breathe. He coughed, his eyes watering as he turned and ran towards the staircase. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the danger he was in. He could feel the Hulk stirring within him, the anger and fear threatening to bubble over.
He reached the staircase and began to climb, his legs burning with the effort. The metal steps were cold and slick under his boots, each one a challenge as he fought to keep his balance. The smoke was thickening, making it hard to see, and he could hear the distant shouts of the soldiers as they closed in.
"Move in! Secure the area!" one voice commanded.
"Don't let him get away!" another shouted.
Bruce's breath came in ragged gasps as he climbed, his muscles aching with the effort. He could feel the desperation mounting, the sense of running out of time. He had to keep moving, had to find a way out before it was too late.
He reached the platform and paused for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The smoke was thick up here, too, swirling around him in dense clouds. He could barely see the machinery and conveyor belts below, the once familiar scene now a hazy blur.
With a deep breath, Bruce steeled himself and continued on, his eyes scanning the platform for any sign of an escape route. He knew he couldn't stay here long, but he needed to find a way out before the soldiers caught up to him.
The door to the plant was kicked open with a resounding crash, and a dozen U.S. soldiers rushed in. They wore the standard Operational Camouflage Pattern (OCP) uniforms, their gear blending seamlessly with the environment. The uniforms were a mix of greens, browns, and tans, designed to provide effective concealment in various terrains. Each soldier was equipped with a tactical vest, loaded with ammunition and gear, and a helmet with night vision goggles mounted on top. Their faces were set in grim determination, their movements precise and coordinated.
"Fan out! Search every corner!" one of the soldiers barked, his voice authoritative and commanding.
Bruce's heart raced as he watched them spread out, their boots crunching on the debris-strewn floor. He knew he had to move quickly. The smoke was beginning to clear, and it wouldn't be long before they spotted him.
As the smoke cleared, Bruce noticed a door and made his way to it slowly. Meanwhile, another soldier walked into the plant. He was well-built and looked to be in his late 80s, with grayish-black hair and a thick mustache. This was Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross, also known as General Ross. He wore a dark green military uniform adorned with various medals and insignias, a testament to his long and distinguished career. His face was stern and weathered, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Ross looked up at the platform and narrowed his eyes. "I want five men up there right now. He is still in here," he commanded, his voice deep and authoritative. The soldiers snapped to attention, their movements quick and efficient as they followed his orders.
Bruce's pulse quickened. He had to keep moving. He turned and ran towards the door, his heart pounding in his chest. The sense of danger and desperation was overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay focused. He couldn't afford to lose control now. He reached the door and twisted the knob, relief flooding through him as it opened. He slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
Bruce looked around the massive room and realized he was in an office. The room was dimly lit, with a single flickering fluorescent light casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust. Filing cabinets lined one wall, their drawers slightly ajar, papers spilling out haphazardly. A large wooden desk sat in the center of the room, covered in stacks of yellowed documents and a few scattered pens. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the outside world
Bruce walked over to the desk and got down, hiding underneath it. His breath came in shallow gasps as he tried to calm himself, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears. He could hear the voices of the soldiers outside the door, their footsteps growing closer.
The door was kicked open with a loud crash, and five soldiers entered the office, their weapons drawn. They moved with precision, their eyes scanning the room for any sign of movement. Bruce held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to their footsteps approaching.
"Check every corner," one of the soldiers commanded, his voice low and serious. "He has to be in here somewhere."
Bruce's pulse quickened as he watched their boots move closer to the desk. He knew he was running out of time. The sense of danger and desperation was overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay still, hoping they wouldn't find him.