A bitch was coming for her brand.
That wasn’t very eloquent -- no matter how true it was. It was a decidedly crass way of turning an internalized fear into a concrete statement. She had never been crass growing up. No, Ripley Ryan was bubblegum and fuchsia; she was pop rocks and pep to mask a sociopathic nature and years of trauma and abuse. Sociopath. Ha. It was easy to slap a diagnosis on things, wasn’t it? She wasn’t a sociopath. Ripley was a goddamn survivor.
Once upon a time, she’d been a writer. Not a good one, per se. Not good, not bad: the Ripley Ryan story. It was one of mediocrity. Good enough to get the job done but not stand out. Pretty enough to get the first date -- and maybe a trip back to her place after -- but never any further. Jesus, it was depressing. It had called for an entire personality and aesthetics reset. All that work and she still wasn’t content. That ever shifting part of her -- the part she so painstakingly worked to conceal with copious amounts of blush and lipstick in the wrong shade -- hissed that she never would. Some people were malcontented, and that was true for the storm of the woman who hid under the guise of a sunny sky.
Minn-erva may have augmented Ripley, but she didn’t make her. Ripley made herself. The Infinity Stone may have charged her, but she powered herself. Ripley was undeniable now, she liked to think. She was reality bound to flesh. That had to count for something, right?
In this instance, however, it was Ripley who was the usurper. She was the one infringing on the brand. There was a line of people who hated Carol Danvers and already a prominent blonde had staked her claim. Had Ripley more been cognizant and there existed less of a maelstrom beneath her skin, she would have moved on. She’d cut her losses because Carol won. She had punched a hole in Ripley’s chest and killed her -- and for what? To stop her reign of terror, sure. Whatever. Ripley was lucky to be alive, or whatever state she currently existed in. Ripley was pretty sure she was fully resurrected/reborn/whatever you wanted to call it. Her heart still beat a miserable staccato and her lungs cried for air. The only difference was the Reality Stone nestled in the hollow of her chest.
It was with an unearned confidence that she made her way down the graying halls of Ravencroft. The place unnerved her; the entire building just radiated bad vibes. It made her think of the Raft, and that sure as hell wasn’t a place that Ripley wanted to revisit. Been there, done with that shit. The glasses on her face were an unnecessary weight she had gotten used to living without despite spending the majority of her life in them. They were as much for show as the pink dress she had squeezed into. Under the surface, just out of view, her uniform laid concealed by a glamour. There had to be some points she could get for subtly and not strolling in with her cape out in its full glory.
“-- ‘sup, doc?” The swinging door heralded her entrance into the office space. Make new friends, they said. Get to know your team. There were three -- count ‘em -- separate Thunderbolt rosters but the supposed Dark Thunderbolts were packing heat.
There was a wolves smile as Ripley took in the other blonde, pointed incisors bared. “Sorry it so long to get here. Traffic is terrible today.” That was a joke; she had flown. “And I’m sorry to drop in uninvited, but I figured if we’re gonna be teamies then we should get to know each other. So, tell me,” a pause for dramatic effect. “What’s your favorite color?”
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
2087
germansingergirl
