The wrenching and crashing rattled Tony's head around in his helmet and re-tore the ragged skin of his chest too thin and pink in its early healing stages to suffer the abuse. He stopped trying to blink, letting his heavy eyes droop and his limbs go limp, welcoming the rush of silence that followed and comforted by the quiet and stillness. Death wasn't so bad. If his mind would just shut off now, he felt he would be buoyed in a warm womb, sticky and dark and empty.
Unless Wanda was dead, too, though, Tony's newfound affection for the afterlife was completely shattered. This was more life, and it was sticky because his blood was trapped in cooling rivers under his armor and dark and quiet because this bullshit wasn't disorienting enough. How long had he been out? Did they move? Where were the ugly animal-people? Slowly, he turned his head side to side, I don't know, the spikes he had driven into the crocodile's skull smoothing back into form-fitted plates as he lifted a heavy hand to his chest. In the pink glow of Wanda's power, he could see the feather caught under the ridge of his breastplate and gently plucked it free to twist curiously in the light. Just a feather, hollow and delicate, no great secrets of purity or morality in its barbs. He let it fall carelessly to the dark floor to curl his fingers instead under the ridge and pull, as though peeling his skin back, gathering the armor that turned fluid and soft in his hand to expose the bloody maw of his chest, the RT smeared and canted unevenly and the wound ragged and thick with tacky gore. They had to get out of there. If whatever it was was calling to Wanda, she needed to start calling back.