Tony hated. He hated almost as much as he felt hurt, and he hurt on so many levels. The binders and notebooks, some of them spiral bound and some old scientific journals, all the cheap kinds you could grab by the handful at any grocery store. Yet that fucking mother killing son of a bitch had gone back for these bits of paper multiple times. His bug out bag didn't have money or guns or tools. It had a few high protein bars, a dozen pencils and these notebooks. There were more notebooks recovered from the flat, but these ones, the ones in the bag... They looked more cared for.
Reverent.
Anything that could hold that much draw- Tony wanted to see. Wanted to see what made the wind-up murder doll more than him. Wanted to see what scraps of a man Steve found worth- this. All of this.
What made Steve show his dark side. After all this time.
"FRIDAY? I want blackout protocols. Oh, and spin up, let's go with Johnny Cash, seems fitting for the old murder doll's mindmap." There was a slight pause, and then the choice of first song showed that while FRIDAY was still a new AI, she was still learning how to be sassy.
"I hurt myself today" Johnny began to croon out of the speakers as Tony flipped open the most ragged, and visually oldest, of the notebooks.
How appropriate that song would be, for what was to follow, would haunt Tony, as the tone set by the song combined with the first entries to suck Tony into the disjointed words and the mind they reflected.
It is you. In the film reels. . . . But that laughing jackacheerfulperson is not me. I could only hurt you. The you that you were and the you that you are both could never take the me that was under that mask, even then. How it feels to know I can never wear the him you knew again. I remember, madness. Anger. Rage. Grief.
Those emotions. I could feel them when I watched the reel.
I remember looking at you as you saved my body and being so angry that the only reason worth living, was now going to die ugly and monstrous just like the rest of us sad sacks. Piece by piece they will kill you that could be and are and I can't lie to you in any way that will do anything but hasten it. I can't- you let me beat you. You let me take your breath. You let me collapse your lung. You let me beat you did it all in that stupid outdated armor.
If I ever told you about the pit, if I ever told you about the fire, if I ever told you about the laughter or the tears or the way I came to enjoy being useful even if it was in making someone else cry- the you you were would die in that pit. The you you were would crawl over glass to pull the fire from your veins, the you you are would look at that little girl and never stop seeing her blood as red as her hair and her tears that followed it.
I can't take your laughter.
You think it's dead, but you still have it.
I can't tell you any of these things.
Because none of the things I remember can be real for you. None of the things I did, I lived, can touch you.
I can't let them. God in heaven, I remember God now. I remember God and I remember Love and I remember Grief and I remember being a person and I can't be a person if I let any of this be real.
Steve. I remembered so many things, visiting that museum today. Want to know what the worst memory was?
It was how to eat for sustenance, today. And I felt disgusted by how inefficient it is.
I can remember cooking for you. I can remember sharing meals at an automat. But the idea of it makes me angry and disgusted. Because injections and the feeding port are more easily maintained. The slurry is always the correct mixture.
I can remember all these things I lost. And it is regaining the ability to eat that leaves me the most frustrated.
"What the fucky, Bucky? Jesus, seriously? You're right. This shit would kill Cap. That takes a special kind of fucked up." Tony stared at the words, spaced almost like slam poetry across the page, weird spaces and indents, ideas trailing and bunched by turns. "It's like the Joker wrote poetry. This is going to wind up making my head hurt. And you know what, Fuckaroo, I think I will enjoy the hell out of some cold Pizza while I read the next passage. Just in honor of your disgust. Inefficiency is more important than making some girl bleed and cry. Bet it was Natasha." Tony snarked, angry at her as well.
She chose. And fuck her too. The spy that screwed him over twice. He might even enjoy learning how the person that made her bleed and cry was somehow worth all of this.
Sure, there were other super soldiers, but they all chose Wakanda over coming home. Chose this murder-bot avoiding any sort of repercussion over, possibly fixing it. Over neutralizing the danger it presents? Crazy ideas like that. Tony dug into the fridge, the box of pizza and a large glass of orange juice to add tequila and some other spirits to. He ate a few spiteful bites and drank a few sips of his tequila sunrise and then skimmed the next entry.
Barfing Out Hurt (Prologue/?)
Reverent.
Anything that could hold that much draw- Tony wanted to see. Wanted to see what made the wind-up murder doll more than him. Wanted to see what scraps of a man Steve found worth- this. All of this.
What made Steve show his dark side. After all this time.
"FRIDAY? I want blackout protocols. Oh, and spin up, let's go with Johnny Cash, seems fitting for the old murder doll's mindmap." There was a slight pause, and then the choice of first song showed that while FRIDAY was still a new AI, she was still learning how to be sassy.
"I hurt myself today" Johnny began to croon out of the speakers as Tony flipped open the most ragged, and visually oldest, of the notebooks.
How appropriate that song would be, for what was to follow, would haunt Tony, as the tone set by the song combined with the first entries to suck Tony into the disjointed words and the mind they reflected.
It is you. In the film reels.
. . . But that
laughing jackacheerfulperson is not me.I could only hurt you. The you that you were and the you that you are both could never take the me that was under that mask, even then.
How it feels to know I can never wear the him you knew again.I remember, madness. Anger. Rage. Grief.
Those emotions. I could feel them when I watched the reel.
I remember looking at you as you saved my body and being so angry that the only reason worth living, was now going to die ugly and monstrous just like the rest of us sad sacks. Piece by piece they will kill you that could be and are and I can't lie to you in any way that will do anything but hasten it. I can't- you let me beat you. You let me take your breath. You let me collapse your lung. You let me beat you did it all in that stupid outdated armor.
If I ever told you about the pit, if I ever told you about the fire, if I ever told you about the laughter or the tears or the way I came to enjoy being useful even if it was in making someone else cry- the you you were would die in that pit. The you you were would crawl over glass to pull the fire from your veins, the you you are would look at that little girl and never stop seeing her blood as red as her hair and her tears that followed it.
I can't take your laughter.
You think it's dead, but you still have it.
I can't tell you any of these things.
Because none of the things I remember can be real for you. None of the things I did, I lived, can touch you.
I can't let them. God in heaven, I remember God now. I remember God and I remember Love and I remember Grief and I remember being a person and I can't be a person if I let any of this be real.
Steve. I remembered so many things, visiting that museum today. Want to know what the worst memory was?
It was how to eat for sustenance, today. And I felt disgusted by how inefficient it is.
I can remember cooking for you. I can remember sharing meals at an automat. But the idea of it makes me angry and disgusted. Because injections and the feeding port are more easily maintained. The slurry is always the correct mixture.
I can remember all these things I lost. And it is regaining the ability to eat that leaves me the most frustrated.
"What the fucky, Bucky? Jesus, seriously? You're right. This shit would kill Cap. That takes a special kind of fucked up." Tony stared at the words, spaced almost like slam poetry across the page, weird spaces and indents, ideas trailing and bunched by turns. "It's like the Joker wrote poetry. This is going to wind up making my head hurt. And you know what, Fuckaroo, I think I will enjoy the hell out of some cold Pizza while I read the next passage. Just in honor of your disgust. Inefficiency is more important than making some girl bleed and cry. Bet it was Natasha." Tony snarked, angry at her as well.
She chose. And fuck her too. The spy that screwed him over twice. He might even enjoy learning how the person that made her bleed and cry was somehow worth all of this.
Sure, there were other super soldiers, but they all chose Wakanda over coming home. Chose this murder-bot avoiding any sort of repercussion over, possibly fixing it. Over neutralizing the danger it presents? Crazy ideas like that. Tony dug into the fridge, the box of pizza and a large glass of orange juice to add tequila and some other spirits to. He ate a few spiteful bites and drank a few sips of his tequila sunrise and then skimmed the next entry.