Who: Ellen Brandt and Thunderbird What: Exploring the Fair When: Any day Where: The Fair. Weren't you listening? Warnings: None so far. Status: In Progress
Ellen wandered the fair, ambling along at a snail's pace. The crowd was so thick that not much more was possible, and it wasn't like she had anywhere to be anyhow. Excited high-pitched voices competed with the sound of rides, music and sound effects from game booths. The scent of fried foods filled the air, though occasionally she caught a whiff of farm animals from the barns. The sun shone brightly, creating sharp-edged shadows, and there was no visible evidence of the dome she knew was present.
She glanced at the knuckles of her free hand.
She'd tried to leave Madison Valley the morning after her bar crawl. That's when she'd encountered an invisible barrier. She'd tried to punch her way through it. Experimentally, at first. Then angrily. Then in a fury that left her exhausted--but still consumed by rage she couldn't explain--and her fists broken and bloody until they glowed like magma as they regenerated.
Her other hand gripped the neck of an open bottle of whiskey cunningly enveloped in a brown paper bag. She stopped walking to take a drink, then stepped into the shade of a barbecued pork vendor's shack to fumble with her phone. She scrolled through the network--a network for displaced persons like her, apparently--and studied the bookmarked messages she'd found earlier.
The vast majority of the people posting meant nothing to her. But: Bruce Banner was here. As was Steve Rogers, Captain America. Natasha Romanov. Even fucking Loki, who'd started the goddamn Battle of New York where the Avengers became overnight celebrities.
And Pepper Potts-Stark. Ellen stared at her icon photo. Stark had married her. After he'd killed Ellen.