#@defectivexfragmented

[brimstoneandstardust]

Covet

  The man in his arms squirmed, or spasmed really. There was no fight left in him. Matt heard the tell-tale rattle of death in his throat as he continued to drain him. It was not a painless experience but Matt didn’t believe the other deserved such a merciful end. Not when he had tracked him down, having not just assaulted one woman tonight but nearly capturing another to repeat the crime. The woman had fled in terror, and Murdock could hardly blame her.

  The man in his arms was cold already. Such was the case when a body is drained of blood. He let the corpse fall in a heap and stood there panting, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “The Devil of Hell’s” Kitchen, as the locals had dubbed him inclined his head towards the body. His eyes sightless, milky. The irises that might have brown once were now a pale icy blue.  But that didn’t mean that he didn’t see the figure at his feet. The blind demon had other senses to tell him all he needed. The body in front of his was a void, almost as cold as the ground beneath them. But the rest of the city around him was still humming with life. Life he was trying to protect...in his own way.

Demons had agendas. Most did anyway. Most that wandered Earth were around to tempt and cause chaos either for a greater wicked scheme or purely for the love of mischief.  Murdock was...of the wayward sort. He found his pleasures in striking terror in other wicked things. Humans who maliciously harmed the innocent. It might have been considered almost righteous...if Matt was not deriving both vengeance and enjoyment from the violence he visited on these viscous humans. He fed on them after all, like the vampire tales of old. A creature crawled up from the underworld to feast on the living. Matt found no enjoyment in the violence...but he did find satisfaction in the destruction of greater evils.

The man spat upon the ground near the body. The blood had left him somewhat sick. The thug had clearly been tainted with something, and though it would never affect Matt the same as it would a mortal it still left a bad taste. Left him deficient in what he needed for the night. 

He turned in the dark, looking back through the dark alley towards the streets. It was not so late yet that they were deserted. There was a temptation here...if he wanted blood he could certainly have his fill and then some. Gorge himself on the unwitting mortals. They wouldn’t be able to stop him.

But the demon resisted. He never took more than he needed. He had restraint. Another virtue where it should not be? Or was he just punishing himself? Was there a difference?

Matt didn’t know; had never known. It didn’t seem to matter much in the end.

The small red horns that had appeared at his hair line receded back into his skin, the eyes became a little bit more natural but still blind. To anyone who might have caught a glimpse of him he appeared to be a very normal looking man with dark brown hair, roughly in his mid to late thirties. A handsome face with some slight stubble. Shaving was difficult when you couldn’t see your reflection after all. He wore a plain grey suit that gave him the appearance of a business man getting home late from the job. 

Leaving his left overs behind, Murdock made his way back out onto the main street, his white and red tipped cane tapping along in front of him. Passing through the crowd, he heard every heartbeat. If he looked in their direction that was what he could see. Warm beating hearts under a layer of red dipped human shaped shadows. The humans had no idea. How could they? They had long been blind to devil walking among them. Or perhaps they were just used to it by now. The differences becoming too slight to detect at times.

Matt’s stomach gave a woeful clench and he shivered despite the lack of cold. He was running lean these last few days. Taking too little blood. The creep in the alley had been in first in nearly a week. If he didn’t have more soon, he risked frenzy. And that would be bad all around. He had no desire to harm the innocent. 

Then, as he rounded a corner past a local restaurant...his senses caught something. He paused a moment, turning his head towards the source. Human for sure--male. Alone. This one had a strange smell to him...something that lit up Matt’s senses light switchboard. It was complex and he couldn’t name it exactly. But he wanted it. Oh how he wanted it.

Murdock turned slowly and began to follow the other at a steady pace, his senses slowly drinking in more details. He could tell that the man must be some sort of fighter. The smell of old blood mingled with the rest, and could even hear the way that his bones moved within his form. How some moved a bit different--indicating old breaks and fractures. Interesting. A soldier maybe? A street fighter? Could be a number of things.

The heartbeat had a steady lulling rhythm that the devil felt hypnotically pulled to, finding himself moving closer and closer. The other hadn’t noticed him yet to his surprise. He needed his attention. Needed to draw him off the beaten path. Get him alone. 

Murdock smirked to himself, realizing his best course of action. He allowed himself to walk right into another passerby who shouted in surprise and annoyance and pushed him aside with a curse. Instead of catching himself as easily as Murdock knew he could, he allowed himself to cry out and fall to the ground with a crash, his cane skittering away and striking his intended target on the back of the feet.

He groaned, pretending to be somewhat stunned by the fall, waiting to see if the other would take the bait. 

@defectivexfragmented

[brimstoneandstardust]

Night Watch

   Another drizzly, chilly night on watch. Relatively quiet, all things considered. It was already some time past 1 am, and foot traffic had died down considerably on the streets. Even the cabs becoming less frequent. 

   Daredevil had no particular target that evening, staying perched on a roof top of an office building next to a small catholic church, complete with it’s own adjacent school and playground. Even a very tiny cemetery, just behind said playground. He could hear the swings creaking softly in the wind as they swayed back and forth, empty and lonely. Heard the faintest ruffle of fabric petals on gravestone markers. The scurry of night animals moving along the little patches of green in the otherwise concrete jungle they were in.

  There had been some gang activity in this area recently, which was what had drawn Matt here that evening. But tonight it seemed like his usual targets had decided to stay in and avoid the rain. Murdock sighed in the quiet, his breath making a small cloud in front of his masked face. 

  He heard foot steps then, low voices. His head whipped in the direction of the sound, shifting from his perch. They were a few yards away, on the other side of the street. A couple of women, walking close together, chatting idly as their boots clicked on the sidewalk. Leaving the tavern three buildings down most likely. Matt was about to turn away when he became aware of someone else close by. Someone that was not on the street, but lurking somewhere higher. He heard a door open and close a short distance away, and very quiet footsteps moving somewhere above the street. Matt’s brow furrowed under his mask.

There was another sound--almost whisper quiet. If Matt didn’t have the powers he had, he never would have heard it, not even if he were standing much closer. But given his enhanced hearing, he was quick to identify the unusual sound. Arrows, shifting in a quiver. The very faint click of a specialized bow being shifted in place, ready for use. The smell of Clint Barton’s soap, almost lost among the misty air.

Matt Murdock grinned and shifted, slinking like a cat along the adjoining roof tops until his hearing honed in on that particular heartbeat he’d become fixated on in the last two weeks. Hawkeye of the Avengers was on the roof just below him, no doubt doing the same thing Matt had been doing all evening. On stake out, looking for some low level thugs that had connections to much bigger fish.

“Nice night for a stake out.” He called quietly, prepared to leap back incase he startled Clint too much and got an arrow shot in his direction. “No aliens to fight tonight?” Matt added, unable to help the smile that spread across his face.

@defectivexfragmented

[brimstoneandstardust]

Devil in the Details

  The bouncer at the door had been no trouble at all. Remy had been brought his A game tonight; carefully groomed appearance--more clean shaven and fresh faced than the thief usually was, his auburn hair pulled back into a short ponytail at his nape that just dusted his shoulders. The suit was couture, a deep plum color with a black tie and slick black dress shoes. He needed to look the part tonight; the “Charm” running high.

 He turned more than a few heads as he entered the crowded ball room, taking a glass of champagne from the waiter as he moved through it. Poor suckers; they couldn’t help themselves. The mutant was attractive enough on is own and drew enough looks with those stunning black and ruby eyes--the only thing about him that gave away that he was indeed mutant--but his other abilities only enhanced his edge. Gambit’s empathetic “charm” ability often acted on two levels--one allowing him to easily read the emotions and moods of others, giving him a tell no different from a poker game and allowing him to adjust accordingly. The second to entice and enthrall. If he wasn’t in careful control of both factors, he could easily overwhelm himself and those around him. Luckily, the master thief had a pretty damn good handle on his gifts. And he would need every ounce of them tonight. He was after a big fish...the “King” fish, as it were.

It wasn’t ideal mind you, throwing your lot in with the King Pin. But there were worse things in the world, and right now Gambit needed to make himself invaluable to the only thing scarier than what he was running from. He knew he had one shot at this. And he was going to make it count.

As he made his way across the crowded ball room, both his eyes and his senses picked up on the man he’d been looking for. He stilled a moment, ignoring a lovely pair of women who came along to chat him up as he stared the man down. He was...not what Remy was expecting. He looked so...

The Cajun chewed his lip as he struggled for the right words. He handsome for sure, and younger than he had expected. But there was an air to him that sent shivers down LeBeau’s spine. An irresistible yet palpable sense of danger that made him both want to bolt away and run towards him. 

“You really know how to pick ‘im, don’t you?” he sighed to himself, finishing his drink and then smiling sweetly at the fawning women. “My apologies,  Mesdemoiselles, I have pressing business to attend.”  He said quickly but sweetly, giving them a nod before sauntering up to lone man at the far edge of the room. Remy noted his glasses, caught a quick glimpse of the eyes behind them and adjusted accordingly. Another surprise. My tonight was exciting indeed.  “Pardon,” he said, his creole accent coming through more strongly as he greeted the stranger and waited for his acknowledgement before continuing. “I do hope I’m not interrupting, monsieur, but I couldn’t help but notice you. I understand you’re the man to see when one is new in the city?” Remy continued. “My name is Remy LeBeau, you’ll want to remember that name, for sure. You might know me better as Gambit.” He flicked his wrist and an Ace of Hearts playing card appeared in his hand. He carefully pressed it into the man’s hand, allowing him to feel the warmth of the kinetic energy that filled it before it dissipated harmlessly into ash. A controlled charge. “You and I are going to be fast friends, I can tell.” Remy grinned.

[brimstoneandstardust]

 Blue eyes sharpen in the cold, protected behind a visor he wouldn’t normally need. Anything to ease the snow blindness. His limbs were stiff and cold, even through the insulated layer of his stealth suit; this one with a chemelian skin adaptation; appearing as white among the elements as the snow and ice.

 Steve hated the cold, but he paid it no mind. Not even the nagging anxiety that creeped up in the back of his mind like an old phantom, reminding him of how he had died. He had no time for any of that.

His eyes were set on one prize; one purpose right now.

Get. Clint. Back.

Hawkeye had gone dark 3 months ago. At first, despite his personal upset that his boyfriend would just VANISH without so much as a word of warning or a clue; he considered that Clint might have been sent undercover on a mission. It wouldn’t be the first time Fury had seperated them on solo missions, keeping the other members of the team out of the loop entirely. Steve hated it. This was not how things were supposed to work. He was a soldier; not a spy and not an agent. But Clint was.

The idea had been dashed quickly enough however with a little probing from both Nat and Tony. And then panic had set in. They’d been on the move ever since. 

3 months later...Steve found himself where he did now, moving like a silent shadow through snow and ice towards the hidden opening along the mountain pass. Inside was one of HYDRA’s most highly secure facilities; the ones used for testing and training, rather than merely research or holding. 

The grey doors were hard to make out along the rock they were concealed in; the ice and snow making it that much harder to define the doorway. The Captain’s eyes flickered along the overhanging rocks and the few icy pines that collected around it. He knew he was being watched. If they could see him of course. Which if Sam was doing his job from above right now; the people inside were experiencing a series of massive system failures.

They were about to experience much worse. 

“Got eyes on it, Nat?” he asked into the ear piece connected to his helmet.

“I see it.” Widow’s answer came.

Steve was less than 200 hundred feet from the opening. “Blow the door.”

There was the faintest whistling sound, followed by a small metallic thunk. Steve stood exactly where he was, poised to move forward as the explosion erupted, sending rock and metal and clots of ice and snow flying in all directions. Captain America moved like a god damn battering ram through debris, flinging anything that came at him away with a swipe of his shield. 

Shots were fired the moment he was in the threshold, but that didn’t stop him either. The bullets pinged off the vibrainum shield and Steve twisted into a spin, hurling his weapon in a deadly arc. It spun like a boomerang, cutting down several snipers without breaking it’s path while the super solider took on the ground troops with his bare hands. 

In minutes he had cleared the room, spotting one unfortunate lacky trying to creep away unnoticed. Steve took him out at the knees with the shield, likely breaking both his legs. He moved in on the man, grabbing him by the front of his uniform and quickly snatching the gun he was reaching for, discarding it. 

“You have something of mine, son. And I’m in no mood to ask nicely. Better start talking. Where is Hawkeye?”

[brimstoneandstardust]

   He loved the feel of the bag under his fist. The kinetic force that rippled down from his shoulder and back, through the tight arm muscles that connected with the heavy saw dust filled leather bag. It was the heaviest they had available, something usually only the heavy weight boxers got a shot at even then, it could be difficult for them to work at for an extended period.

  Not Rogers though. He’d asked for his to be tailored, just a little, to be a bit more challenging. To compensate for what the serum had given him; super human strength. When he’d gotten it just right, there was a sense of calm that filled his mind. Suddenly he wasn’t so run down or lost in his thoughts. He wasn’t Captain America, leader of the Avengers, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Taking on international threats and often times intergalactic ones. He wasn’t ‘the man out of time”. He wasn’t a fossil. A man displaced in the world, ripped from his own and brought back to be a weapon again. He hadn’t asked to be brought back...

 Pounding the bag, the weight heavy and solid enough to give his knuckles, his arms a satisfying burn, to make him work up a sweat; he was none of those things. He was just Steve Rogers. Scrappy kid from Brooklyn. 

He hit the bag harder and harder, pounding into it with a sort of blind violence, panting and gritting his teeth. Left, right, left, right, jab, jab, cross cut, upper cut. Again, again, harder, faster...

If Steve was in his body he was out of his head. He needed to be out of his head. But all the thoughts were nagging him, creeping up, too many responsibilities, too many burdens...

The loud smack of the bag in the empty gym was beginning to echo, Steve’s breath coming harsher and then, letting out a cry of frustration, Steve socked the bag so hard that the suspension chain snapped sharply and with a puff of saw dust the bag went flying across the floor landing with a huge “THUD”

“Dammit!” Steve barked, breathing hard and raking a hand through his sweat damp blonde hair. It was only then that he became aware of the sound of someone else in the gym with him.

Steve turned, startled. “Oh!” He spotted a man with dark glasses standing near the door, as if he had just stepped inside. The blonde, still panting, flushed as though embarrassed though he didn’t know why. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. I was just, um...”  He looked woefully back at the battered fallen bag and winced faintly. “Needed to get some energy out. I’ll take care of it.”

He moved towards the bag but paused then, looking back. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here after hours.”

@defectivexfragmented

[brimstoneandstardust]

Steve had no concept of how long he'd been kept in the bunker. There were no windows, and the room he was kept in had only one small light, which swung on a thin cord from the center of the room.

Time passed in increments of pain and isolation, followed intermittently by boughts of extreme violence. When they were not sending squads into the room to battle with the Captain until either they or he was on the ground, Steve was put into the chair.

It hadn't taken him long to realize it was the same machine that Barnes had been subjected to for years. That thought alone made his skin crawl and his blood run cold. But they didn't use it on him the way that they had on Bucky. They were never trying to wipe Steve's memory.

They were, however, trying to break the super soldier down. Tear him apart at the seams and see if they could remake him into what HYDRA had always intended.

It seemed impossible at first. Steve held strong against the torments. The constant beatings, the hours spent in the chair with the electric pulse shooting through his skull in irregular intervals. Enough to draw snarls and moans of pain, until his body gave in and plunged him into unconsciousness.

Steve would lay in cold darkness after that, discarded until the next round. He would wake each time; the serum working overtime to help heal the constant damage.

He laid there now, body still vaguely twitching from the latest round in the chair. His eyes bore dark circles from lack of sleep and lack of food. His skin showing still healing pink lines from where bones had been broken and had healed themselves, and stab wounds that had done the same. HYDRA could inflict as much damage as they liked short of killing the man; knowing within days or hours he would be fit to fight again.

Steve was slipping in and out wakefulness. He tried to focus himself; think of how he would prepare himself for the next barrage when it came. But the thoughts were hard to hold onto at the moment. He was so exhausted, and growing more and more desperate.

Where were the Avengers? Where were Sam and Bucky? Were they still looking for him? Surely...

His thoughts circled and stuck on Bucky, whimpering when he thought about how he might never see his love's face again. Remembering that Bucky had endured this pain for years and no one had come for him. Maybe Steve deserved the same...

He curled in on himself, groaning at the cold and aches. He nearly let himself be pulled under again when he heard a strange commotion from beyond the reinforced door.

At first he thought he was about to be attacked again and tried to get to his feet, but found he hadn't the energy and his steps were staggered. He was barely upright when the door came open. As expected HYDRA agents flooded the room, but this was not their usual approach. They attacked Steve with an electric prod; making the man scream as he tried to pull it from their hands and snap it in half. Normally this fight could have gone on for a time, but Steve was too battered and it had been too short a time since his last go in the chair. Falling to his knees with a cry, he felt himself dragged from the room and ushered hurriedly down the hall.

Something was off though. There were alarms, red lights flashing. Armed guards rushing past them as Steve was brought into the room with the chair again. He tried to resist, straining against the multiple hands that held him down. But he was forced into the seat anyway and quickly locked in.

He began to pant and panic as the machine started up, the sinister whirr of it causing him to shiver and sweat. He heard the robotic arms moving the panels that went against his head into place. The Captain thrashed with all his remaining strength; strainging hard enough to cause the reinforced shackles to groan and creak, beginning to warp. But not enough...

Steve heard what sounded like a small explosion and gun fire, just as the first shock ripped through him.

[brimstoneandstardust]

 He woke up on his back, dizzy and fighting for a full breath. It took several blinks for him to be able to focus...or get enough focus to see where he was. In a room--a sterile, white hospital room. What was he doing here? Where were the other Avengers? Where was Bucky? 

Barnes hadn’t been with him on the mission, but Steve could not help but wonder and worry. 

He sat up and felt...strange. Everything ached like he had been worked over and then some. The only ache it felt comparable too was the time he had jumped out of a building and landed on the pavement many many stories below. His arms shook like rubber bands, and he fell back again, completely exhausted.

He closed his eyes and nearly went under again, when he became more aware of himself. Aware of how little space he was taking up in the bed. That his knees brushed together and felt.. knobby. Thin.

Steve opened his eyes again and looked down at himself, lifting the covers with a gasp. He had shrunk. Shriveled...or something. None of the words that came to mind were particularly pleasant. For a very disorienting moment, he thought he was somehow looking at someone else’s body. But after a few shaky breathes he realized...no. This was him. This was the body he had lived in all his life until he got the serum. When he was a 93 pound, sickly asthmatic who routinely got beat up behind shops and allies...all cause he had the nerve to speak up for himself and others. 

Steve exhaled shakily, trying to remember what happened and determine whether or not this was some dream or hallucination. There was a whooshing sound, and the door to his room opened, a nurse stepping in.

“Oh! You’re awake!” she said, seeming surprised, looking him over in...was it disappointment? Disbelief? Steve was suddenly very self-conscious, pulling the blanket a little higher over him. 

“Mr. Wilson was sitting with you, but he just stepped outside to make a call. Do you want me to get him before the doctor comes in?”

“Where’s Bucky?” 

[brimstoneandstardust]

Continued from here

   Steve was right on the verge of bodily forcing Clint down on the bed and prying his arm free when the archer at last seemed to relent. Steve’s eyes roamed worriedly from the wound to his face as Clint spoke, seeming so defeated and dejected. “Clint...”

 He was confused. At least until Hawkeye’s fingers fell away, and blood began to bubble in earnest. Steve’s eyes went from the deep bleeding wound to the other mark on his skin and for just a breath he froze in shock. 

 The matching mark on his own arm seemed to burn and thrum, recognizing it’s mate. But Steve didn’t understand...it didn’t make sense.

 He was jolted from his momentary confusion as Clint began to sway, begging him not to tell anyone. Steve snapped to attention then, reaching to brace the man and ease him back onto the bed against the pillows. “Easy there, soldier...just breathe for me, okay? It’s all going to be fine.” he assured him, grabbing more gauze and cloths from the bag, as well as an elastic band which he used to make a tourniquet. With the bleeding stemmed for the moment, Steve did his best wash away the blood. It looked like Clint had possibly nicked a vein, which would account for the heavy bleeding. Though it was not so profuse that Steve feared he’d hit an artery. That was a small blessing at least.

The Captain worried his lip for a moment and then looked at Hawkeye again. “You need a stitch or two. I can do it, but its not going to be as clean as it would be if a doctor did it. Are you sure you don’t want me to get Bruce?” he asked, already knowing the answer. 

Clint looked so pale and seemed to be shivering now between the cold, the damp and the blood he’d lost. Steve sighed, “I’ve got you.” he assured, digging in the bag again. It wasn’t a huge surprise that he found what he needed among the piles of supplies; it seemed Clint was really no stranger at all to doing his own sort of field medicine. That knowledge gave Steve a pang of sadness and loneliness for the man, wondering why he wasn’t more willing to reach out for help. It couldn’t just be about pride. His eyes slid to the mark again as he disinfected and cleaned up the area, taking the sterile needle and near invisible thread and making three short stitches that pulled the wound closed. Blood oozed but only a little and slowed as it began to clot as Steve removed the band and rubbed the spot gently to get it circulating again.

“There. You’ll be alright now.” he nodded, assuring himself as well as Barton. He lingered by his side, cleaning his hands. “You need to get out of those wet clothes; they aren’t doing you any favors. I’m going to help you, okay?” He stated, rather than asked. He moved to remove Carton’s boots first, giving him little time to protest, before then also helping him struggle out of his sopping and blood stained shirt. To offer the man a small bit of modesty back, Steve grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the bed and draped it around his shoulders, being sure to tuck it around the wounded and marked arm. “You can trust me, Clint. It’ll stay between us.” 

The warmth he felt from his own mark increased, but Steve felt his chest pinch as well. “I dont’ understand though...why are you hiding it?”