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the_mechanic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
revenance_rpg2013-07-11 09:45 pm
the_mechanic) wrote in revenance_rpg2013-07-11 09:45 pm
It's not a cry that you hear at night
Characters: Tony Stark, Agent Carolina, Agent Washington
Content: Tony has nightmares and only half wakes up. And decides that pummeling some Nightmares in the face is the best course of action.
Location: Twilight Town... somewhere.
Time: O'Dark Thirty.
Warnings: Tony. Carolina. Wash. (Violence, language, angst, etc.)
The dreams start the same as they always do. Which means they're different every time. Painfully. Worse. Like his subconscious is learning that it hasn't effectively broken him yet and applies just the right tweaks to the lighting, the mood, the soundtrack. Blood runs brighter, screams become wails, the quiet thud of his heartbeat amplified so the pain when it stops is that much more pronounced. Not only is there suddenly the realization of death, there's the ear-piercing silence screaming he's alone and he failed and it's all his fault.
He falls through the wormhole, back to earth, only to crash through the roof of the Malibu mansion, through the floor, through his lab, his suits have turned on each other. There are faces, but he can't make them out. A flash of red, white, and blue, a comet of green, lightning crackling around him. He's sure he's screaming but he can't hear anything over the deafening silence of his heart.
Pepper is at the bottom of the ocean, her strawberry-blonde hair curls around her face in the most macabre embrace. There's blood dripping from her lips, her eyes, and they're under water, it doesn't make sense, but it's horrifying and this time he hears himself scream, then choke as he's sure he's inhaling water, it burns so bright.
He gasps for air, clutching a car-battery to his chest, coughing out water, and they're all dead around him. Everyone. Their names are burnt behind his eyelids, and he's screaming again. There's blood on his hands, on his tongue, and he's breathing smoke and ash, his throat is clenching on air that isn't coming, that can't pass to his lungs, and all he can smell is rubble and burning flesh. Everything is dark, so dark, and there's a hole in his chest and he's so cold.
He wakes with a scream, he's certain he's screaming, but he can't really be sure over the sound of a demon pounding on the inside of his ribcage, trying to escape. If his heartbeat cracked his ribs, he wouldn't even be surprised. He claws at his chest until he's certain he's not hallucinating the glow of the arc-reactor, exactly where it should be.
He's not okay. There's no one to tell him he's okay. Even the suit didn't come to his rescue. He glances around. He's under a table in the garage, curled in on himself, wrapped in old blankets and reeking of old motor oil and grease. He hits his head on the table in his haste to stand and curses profusely. With a snarl he snaps his hands out, palms open, and the gloves come to him, fitting themselves to his hands, where they belong.
He's out of the garage in a daze, time passing irregularly. One moment he's outside the garage, the next he's blocks away, no concept of time, no idea how he got there. And there are Nightmares. The physical kind. He snarls at them, because there are no words for how sick he is of nightmares. His lashes out at them, trying to punch one before he remembers the repulsors in his gloves. He's firing carelessly, but his aim is destructive and true.
But they're multiplying, the nightmares, even though he doesn't have a single good dream to feed on, it's like they're drawn to the chaos he's clearly inhabiting. His own Dream Eaters are trying to assist, but just as much trying to dodge his wild attacks, as he doesn't seem to recognize friend from foe. Property damage is just bonus points. Adrenaline is fueling his movements but keeping the cloud over his consciousness.
He's not okay.
{It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.}
Content: Tony has nightmares and only half wakes up. And decides that pummeling some Nightmares in the face is the best course of action.
Location: Twilight Town... somewhere.
Time: O'Dark Thirty.
Warnings: Tony. Carolina. Wash. (Violence, language, angst, etc.)
The dreams start the same as they always do. Which means they're different every time. Painfully. Worse. Like his subconscious is learning that it hasn't effectively broken him yet and applies just the right tweaks to the lighting, the mood, the soundtrack. Blood runs brighter, screams become wails, the quiet thud of his heartbeat amplified so the pain when it stops is that much more pronounced. Not only is there suddenly the realization of death, there's the ear-piercing silence screaming he's alone and he failed and it's all his fault.
He falls through the wormhole, back to earth, only to crash through the roof of the Malibu mansion, through the floor, through his lab, his suits have turned on each other. There are faces, but he can't make them out. A flash of red, white, and blue, a comet of green, lightning crackling around him. He's sure he's screaming but he can't hear anything over the deafening silence of his heart.
Pepper is at the bottom of the ocean, her strawberry-blonde hair curls around her face in the most macabre embrace. There's blood dripping from her lips, her eyes, and they're under water, it doesn't make sense, but it's horrifying and this time he hears himself scream, then choke as he's sure he's inhaling water, it burns so bright.
He gasps for air, clutching a car-battery to his chest, coughing out water, and they're all dead around him. Everyone. Their names are burnt behind his eyelids, and he's screaming again. There's blood on his hands, on his tongue, and he's breathing smoke and ash, his throat is clenching on air that isn't coming, that can't pass to his lungs, and all he can smell is rubble and burning flesh. Everything is dark, so dark, and there's a hole in his chest and he's so cold.
He wakes with a scream, he's certain he's screaming, but he can't really be sure over the sound of a demon pounding on the inside of his ribcage, trying to escape. If his heartbeat cracked his ribs, he wouldn't even be surprised. He claws at his chest until he's certain he's not hallucinating the glow of the arc-reactor, exactly where it should be.
He's not okay. There's no one to tell him he's okay. Even the suit didn't come to his rescue. He glances around. He's under a table in the garage, curled in on himself, wrapped in old blankets and reeking of old motor oil and grease. He hits his head on the table in his haste to stand and curses profusely. With a snarl he snaps his hands out, palms open, and the gloves come to him, fitting themselves to his hands, where they belong.
He's out of the garage in a daze, time passing irregularly. One moment he's outside the garage, the next he's blocks away, no concept of time, no idea how he got there. And there are Nightmares. The physical kind. He snarls at them, because there are no words for how sick he is of nightmares. His lashes out at them, trying to punch one before he remembers the repulsors in his gloves. He's firing carelessly, but his aim is destructive and true.
But they're multiplying, the nightmares, even though he doesn't have a single good dream to feed on, it's like they're drawn to the chaos he's clearly inhabiting. His own Dream Eaters are trying to assist, but just as much trying to dodge his wild attacks, as he doesn't seem to recognize friend from foe. Property damage is just bonus points. Adrenaline is fueling his movements but keeping the cloud over his consciousness.
He's not okay.
{It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.}