s (atrophy) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-01-07 09:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, *narrative, steve rogers, tony stark |
Narrative/quicklog: Steve R (and eventually Tony S)
Who: Steve Rogers (and then Tony Stark)
What: looking for Bucky
Where: Marvel, the abandoned Oscorp facility
When: immediately after this
Warnings/Rating: mentions of death, gore, etc.
The facility was a graveyard, haunted by the sodium-burn of ghosts never put to rest. Steve's bike hummed outside, single bulb flooding the front of the building as he kicked in the doors (they'd been locked, the scene tacked down by police, with a notice of no trespassing placed so it would rip open if disturbed (which it already had been)) with a grunt. It didn't stop him, red and white blaring EVIDENCE in bold, stripped-down letters, Bauhaus geometry co-opted and reappropriated. Inside, it was the same, the stench of rot stronger, putrefaction well under way, veins emptied to useless tubing, but it wasn't worse than anything Steve had seen before, and he moved to that basement door at a run. He slammed into it with his shoulder and skittered onto the caging. He jumped over the railing like before, metal bones scuffing under boots, and his teeth clacking hard together, all neural explosions of pain, when he landed on the fissured cement with a chemical splash, splotches of green burning through his jeans where they spackled around his boots. The corpses on the floor were being eaten by whatever the green acid was underfoot—a soup of chemicals and fatty tissue—, a surprisingly slow endeavor, hissing, but Steve didn't care. It nibbled on the compact rubber of his bike boots as his eyes swept the space with a soldier's care—bright blues made for strategy, all spirit, and filled with a desperate, volatile mixture of hope and anger. His broken heart was gaping open. There was no one here. No one alive. The headstones of the dead, snapped wires, twisted metal frames, were anything but peaceful and the place felt uneasy. But Steve knew they didn't come back. They didn't. The dead stayed dead. Even Bucky. He was stupid, so stupid to believe Stark. But—there were so many other impossibilities, he himself had been kept alive for nearly 70 years… he'd hoped that maybe… He'd… No. That beacon of splintered hope, so worn from overuse, soft at the edges from being pulled out of the shoebox of his memory again and again, went brittle and finally—finally—it cracked clean through. Steve dropped to his knees in the caustic mess. He didn't bother to stop the hot spillover of tears, rage and sadness bound by the same tug of gravity. He made himself look at the exposed bones of the bodies around him and remember they were men. He'd bury them. He couldn't bury Bucky, but he could at least do it for them. He stood to start dragging them together, the taste of salt thick on his tongue. |