|Sharon Carter's lucky number is 13 (luckythirteen) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-10-04 21:38:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, sharon carter|
Who: Sharon Carter and some NPC Bullshit
Where: Some Bullshit Highway in Canada.
What: SOME BULLSHIT
When: Oh now or some bullshit like that
Warnings: BULLSHIT - And then death - And then hiking?
Maybe it was Dumbledore, or Harry Potter, or someone equally as crazy that said names weren't all that powerful a thing - or maybe they were only if you let them be. Hell, Sharon had seen the Neverending Story a million times and still didn't know what freaking name that weird looking kid gave to the Childlike Empress. But she had the one name she needed. And it turned out names were a very powerful thing, it grounded her almost. Grounded her in a reality that was constantly changing around her. They worked hard to keep her clueless, harder than she knew how to work to keep herself sane. There were things she couldn't fight, things she shouldn't fight, and things she had to fight. Some days she woke up in dark rooms and didn't see or hear from another person for what felt like days. They starved her, but she wouldn't die. They drove her to the edge only to bring her back again, those were the days she woke up warm and safe.
Some days she woke up in a world where the hotel wasn't real, and she was still back where she came from, fighting her friends, killing her partner - living a lie. Some days she woke up and she was at SHIELD, in charge and running ops, like nothing had changed. But nothing was ever quite right. And those little nuances - those moments where she'd realize none of it was real - whatever "it" was. Those were when she had to keep her cool. When she had to remember that someone had told her to survive. It wasn't easy when she could barely remember who it had been.
She knew there were days she woke up and remembered everything. Because those were the days she wrote out to the world. The days she wrote to herself. Leaving breadcrumbs that she found, every now and again. Jerking her out of whatever fantasy world they'd put her in. Piecing together the whys and wheres. At the bottom of every page, every single page she wrote to herself, kill the doctor. Kill the doctor. Kill the doctor.
Some days it was laughable, others it was terrifying. Some days she formulated plans for how she'd do it. The days she remembered why she needed to.
And today was one of those days.
They were out. She didn't think they'd ever gone out before. At least not on a mission. No, he was taking her out. Just the two of them. It was disgusting. But she hadn't had an episode lately, and he was testing her out. She sat in the passenger seat of his car, seatbelt snug, and listened to him talk while she repeated badge numbers, birthdays, anniversaries, names, dates, over and over in her mind. She didn't let him settle there. It was hard, and her teeth dug into the inside of her cheek as her foot pressed down on the pin she'd stuck in her shoe. Something, anything. That voice, that god damn voice - they'd needed it once to get Bucky free. But maybe Bucky was free. Or dead. Wasn't someone dead? Steve? No. She repeated to herself. It didn't matter who was dead.
He'd wanted a weapon. A controllable one. They always did. Bucky. Natasha. Someone was always willing to take a person and try and make them better. Even Steve to a certain extent. But it depended on who was doing the making she supposed. She didn't know what all they'd done to her. Her limbs were in tact, and she wasn't any taller - but she knew they'd done something. She could feel it sometimes. And right now it coursed through her, Spidey sense, she was smirking to herself on the inside as she watched Doctor Faustus steer and drive. The sign she saw said 15 miles to the next town. She could get 15 miles. She didn't have a weapon, but they'd wanted one out of her. The Doctor had wanted one strong enough that was loyal to him and him alone. He didn't care much about HYDRA, he cared about her. And she was anxious to see the look on his face when she killed him. Or both of them. She wasn't sure how it was going to play out yet.
She watched as cars drove past. None of them were quite big enough... But if she went too big she wasn't going to make it 15 miles. At least, she didn't think so. She wanted to ask what he'd done to her so she'd know for sure. But the more he spoke and tried to keep her under, the more urgently she needed it to be done. It didn't matter in the end. He'd be gone. He wasn't as strong as she was, that's why he was afraid of her. Why he was well armed. Why he was ready to strike if she moved to do the same. Which is why she didn't try to disarm him. Or threaten him.
No. She turned the wheel, and moved to pull the parking brake when there was a very large truck was coming down the two lane highway towards them. Of course, he corrected - barely - she'd given him just enough time to do that because while he had been doing that she turned his gun on him and before he had an opportunity to say - or do - anything there was a shot that rang out through the confines of the car and directly into his head.
Now that crash had been glorious, but she hobbled away from it into the woods of Quebec completely unsure of how she'd managed it - and the only thing reminding her of how or why was the journal she had tucked closely to her.