( closed prompts )

[carmesi]

Who: Wanda and others
What: Eclipse, magical madness, quest
Where: Solvunn and Horizon
When: A bit after the eclipse, mid-March.
Warnings: Will include in top levels if necessary.

Comments

WHACK-A-MOLE · TIER 1 · LINK

[carmesi]

[looking at her, one would not necessarily expect wanda to get involved with such trivial matters such as helping out in farms; however, anyone who does know wanda knows the country she grew up in—a country so broken it was deemed best to no longer consider it a country—and the necessity in the day-to-day things, of those left to fend for themselves, of those who lost everything with the on-going war. wanda and pietro were known for helping around: rallying supplies, joining protests, making sure those more vulnerable wouldn't be without.

it harkens to this want to serve, to give back, to her people and her country. and even though solvunn is decidedly not neither her people nor her country, it has given her a home in her time here, a place to be. when edgar, a farmer in the secondary settlement, asks for assistance in getting rid of a pesky pack of moles, it feels natural to offer to help.

thankfully, she is not by herself in all this: link, zelda's friend, also offers to help. the only real frustrating aspect of this, so far, is that it's the middle of the night, dark as can be, but for the faint shine of the moon. wanda stares upward at it, remembering the eclipse that took place not too long ago.

—she turns to link once she hears his approach.]

Hey. [the greeting is easy enough; she knows link, he's a good guy.] Have you ever done something like this before?

[hylife]

[ Link raises his arm in an equally easy salute to Wanda as he approaches. Any trustworthy friend of Zelda's is an unconditional friend of his. He's always known the Princess to be a good judge of character, and now more than ever - he's a functional amnesiac, after all - he relies on her wisdom wherever he can. ]

Not moles, exactly. I hope they're easier to catch than cuccos. They don't fly too well, so it's a pain when they get stuck on rooftops.

[ It's dark, but fortunately not as dark as it had been during the rather unsettling Eclipse. The frightened ramblings of the most superstitious of the villagers still burn in his ears, and he's made sure his bow and his sword are well-prepared for the night despite the rather mundane nature of their task.

There are monsters out there. They're always there. ]

What do you think might scare the creatures out of their holes? A blast?

[ He strokes his chin thoughtfully. Just, you know, spitballing ideas. Always going straight for the most destructive effectual option, Link is. ]

[carmesi]

[cuccos, creatures that fly. wanda can only imagine what he means, but refrains from asking, nodding her head instead in mild-agreement. personally, wanda has not had much experience in farmland—her life was always in the city, where chaos was abrupt and a peaceful night's rest was hard to attain, growing up.

still, how hard can this be? link seems equipped enough.]

Perhaps.

[a blast, it doesn't sound too crazy of an idea, to her.]

But I don't think we should ruin the crops while we're at it.

[it would be detrimental to what they want to achieve here, wouldn't it? besides, she's got her magic; targeting them shouldn't be entirely difficult. she moves down the path, towards the farm that has a lamp burning over the entrance; as discussed, they would know where to go because of it.]

I can use my magic to help rush them out of their holes. Where should we keep them?

[no such thing was mentioned about what is to be the fate of the moles: to be killed, locked away? wanda will hear link's opinion on the matter.]

[hylife]

Oh, yeah. Good point...

[ He tries not to sound too disappointed. Link probably wouldn't have thought to preserve the crops first and foremost were he left to his own devices. Perhaps it's lucky for the farmer that Wanda is here. If she flushes them, then Link can very easily handle things from there in a much more precise manner.

He perks up, ever so slightly, when she asks that to do with them. Come to think of it...! ]

I'll take care of it. How do you think they would taste?

[ which... sort of answers the question ]

[carmesi]

[wanda has to stop, turning on her heel to look at link. is he being serious? would he actually—? there is this look on his face that speaks of general contentment with the idea, and wanda can't help but scoff, something between amusement and surprise.]

I don't know. I've never had mole. [and something tells her that there might be a reason why people don't eat moles...] I think the concern is more if it is safe rather than what they would taste like.

[link, don't make her go mom on you.

she purses her lips and continues walking down the path.]

Maybe we should just capture them for now. See what we do about them after.

[hylife]

[ The puzzled lift of his brows and tilt of his head when she objects certainly suggests that Link is 100% serious about this golden opportunity for killing, cooking, and eating. ]

Why wouldn't it be safe?

[ Spoken like someone truly blessed by the Goddess. He's never had to suffer the consequences of a bad meal out there in the wilds of Hyrule - only of no meals. Wanda strikes him as someone who is wiser and more worldly than Link is, however (and he willingly admits this is a low bar to clear). He trusts her judgment.

Still, he'd rather get this job done as quickly as possible. There's a lingering bad feeling in his gut about this night, an uneasiness which makes him want to rush right in.

After thinking for a moment, his fist strikes his palm like he's come up with a thought. ]

If you can flush them all out at the same time, I could use my lightning stun them long enough us to gather most of them. We can ask the farmer for a sack to carry them. I think the villagers could make use of the hides and the bones, at least.

[ Monster bits have all sorts of uses in Hyrule... it makes sense to him that someone would want them, even if not for meat. ]

[carmesi]

Just — maybe their meat has a lot of bacteria, or it can make you very sick? I'm not a scientist.

[link... wanda is starting to question your survivability skills, but she's also quickly dismissing this part of their conversation because she is not well-versed in it—just figures that there is something to be said about questionable meat.

instead, she is glad that link offers other ideas for the moles: their hides and bones could be of use by the villagers.]

I can do that. [she stops at the fencing, lifting her hand and pointing it towards the single lamp that barely illuminates the area; with her magic, she duplicates it a couple of times, sending the lamps to float about strategic places where they could benefit from.] But do I need to be concerned about this lightning of yours?

[will she get stunned, too?]

closed · peter parker

[carmesi]

[emotion runs rampant in wanda. she can sense that she is not herself, with this push and surge of chaotic magic mixing with her own chaos magic, driving forward what had been previously unlocked by her grief. this is coupled now with other reasons that would have her pull back towards that feeling, such as with steve rogers—another loved one—gone. it may have been a small variable, but it's enough to break at the chains that kept this unstable, almost tunnel-vision drive, at bay. the blame, the shame, the way she feels like she has no choice—has never had it.

do or die—it's you or them—it's us versus them, wandechka.

she holds on to a string of thought that mirrors her own—sorrowful, weary, lonely—when she enters the horizon and follows it, her magic enveloping the small apartment she has found once following this trail; though she could drown it all in the red of her chaos magic and create her own reality as she sees fit, wanda is curious, her own feelings finding anchor in this fledgling nest of emotion.

the world within peter's horizon is alight with the usual colors and sounds of comfort, like it's been lived in by more than himself; jackets on chairs, a warm kettle on the stove, a tv remote left on the couch as if left there from the night prior. whoever any of them dream up in their horizon is the mindless shell of the person they are thinking of, so they shouldn't have a voice; there shouldn't be any reason for these carapaces of loved ones to act out of their own volition.]

Peter!

[—a familiar voice calls out from somewhere in the apartment, a voice that perhaps should no longer be. wanda is... familiar, she thinks, with the name. her eyes close, somewhere within the orbit of this horizon, a frown on her face, tilting her head in thought. her lips move, the next words not coming from her (not quite), an echo in the apartment.]

You'll be late for school!

eyes emoji oh no

[piqure]

[ it felt like home.

that was the first feeling peter had consciously picked up, blinking owlishly, standing in the center of his room, still in his pjs and a loose shirt emblazoned with stark’s logo. without a memory of ever being anywhere else, without a memory of settling in and dipping into his horizon at all. hazy ambience of new york dulled by closed windows. his school bag lies on his bed, papers loose and spilling out, precariously tossed as they had been.

he starts when the voice breaks the silent haze, the sort of silence that was just beginning to get his ears ringing. that sort of creeping thing that just borders on the cusp of unsettling, like an itch you can’t quite scratch somewhere right in the back of your mind.

and at first, when her voice breaks that silence, sharply shatters it into noises and smells he expects, peter isn’t sure why his chest feels so hollow he can barely breathe. why his pulse is suddenly in his throat and the chill scraped along his spine.

but his body leaps into familiar motions instead of dwelling on that quite yet, just for the moment, as it slips into habit instead, a hurried routine he still remembers too well to shake free of it — ] Oh crap — ugh —

Coming?? [ he checks his wristwatch — spider suit a mere flick of nanotech away — and almost reaches for his bag before he stops himself. brows knit, and he looks down, unsure why he stopped himself nearly as much as why he needed a bag in the first place. wasn't he — out of school?

he sidesteps the sideboard in the hallway, and makes his way into the kitchen, a routine he’s done countless of early days running late. light filters through soft curtains, washing everything in warm tones, and the smell of aunt may’s coffee fills his nose first and he rounds the corner and sees a very familiar woman standing at the counter and that’s when his mind catches up and sputters.

it makes him stumble, caught off-guard and hip shoved into a chair, scraping it along the hardwood. heartbeat hummingbird quick in suddenly brittle ribs. ] — Aunt May?

[ grip is white-knuckled, fingers curled on the back of their kitchen chair. the hollow feeling is back, settling and staying and intrinsically he looks at her and all he seems to think about is how he doesn’t think she should be here. he looks to her and all he remembers is loss, lungs suddenly tight, subconscious recollection of concrete dust and smoke. so engrossed he is, in the scene before him, that he doesn’t even catch anyone else being here at all. his steps forward are unsure. ] What are you — doing here?

🔪

[carmesi]

[aunt may? the boy asks, and it is indeed her — turning to her nephew with a look of what's wrong with you, doofus? as if her being there is the most obvious thing. something pulses within the magic, and wanda's concentration becomes more focused, following that thread. aunt may— aunt may— but it's like it's barred behind walls upon walls upon walls. she can't put her finger on it, not quite.]

I know, I know. [comes the frivolous words, hands up in the air in a tight wave as 'aunt may' dives back into the kitchen, packing up a red, square lunch box and trying to make all components fit, enough for the lock to click into place.] I usually send you off with some money, but your first day of fifth grade only comes around once.

[it's a memory she's latched on to, of peter when he was much, much younger; aunt may was younger, too, perhaps entrusted on this role of looking after her nephew by herself. it's all hazy bits and pieces, of more recent memories fusing with older ones, a testament that peter's horizon is not necessarily... his, currently.

wanda's hand spins slowly as her magic coils, trying to hang on to that feeling.

aunt may stops her frantic rushing to look at peter, a soft small and a sigh on her features as she pushes her glasses to the top of her head, messing her bangs a bit, as she approaches peter to fix his hair.]

Come on. We said there wouldn't be any tears.

[whatever this memory, it is treating peter like he isn't the young adult that he is in the present.]

🥲

[piqure]

[ somethings wrong.

it's an incongruous rattling of senses — his own, prickling in some numb attempt at self defense that only gets duller the longer he looks at her, like a spell charmed into place. that crawling across his skin goes deeply ignored, no longer tugging and pulling at him, no longer telling him turn around or wake up or not real or she's gone.

maybe if he stopped to listen, he'd realize it all so. but he doesn't. the loneliness doesn't fade though, that emptiness echoing in cavernous breaths.

he steps forward, watches her fuss with the achingly-familiar lunchbox and when she turns to look at him, pushes her glasses up over her head and comes to him, he doesn't even realize he's crying until she says so. ] That's —

— that's okay, Aunt May. I like your lunches better anyway. [ words are croaked out, barely above a whisper, half-memories parroted back, eyes on the overstuffed box. had he cried then? he must've. is then now? he feels small, even if he's eye level to her now. is he small? he can't breathe. there's red, some brief wisp there and gone again, in his periphery and he closes his eyes when her hand runs through his hair and it feels warm and real and he is frozen in his spot and all he can taste is metal and salt. ] I'm sorry —

[ why is he sorry? he can't remember, but he feels its not enough. he misses her — dimly acknowledges that that's what that hollow feeling is. he misses her but why, if she's right here?

his fingers find her hand, and hold it tight. ] — I don't want to leave you. [ something bad will happen if he does. why does he know that? he wants to hug her, but finds himself afraid.

concrete dust and smoke, rough and bitter in burning lungs. ]

cw: mention of no way home spoilers, strangling, war zone depictions

[carmesi]

[there it is.

wanda finds it, that thread she's been trying to tag along with towards the wisp of memories, all in an attempt to try and burrow herself in feelings she's familiar with, like an insatiable hunger derived from a need to feed the emotions that make her magic pulse with power.

the boy speaks, throat tight as the words barely squeeze out. i'm sorry — i don't want to leave you. wanda feels warmth in her hand, a tight hold. she ignores it, tries to, but she finds herself drowning in something that is not her own; like a dam that breaks and floods it all, she finds herself whirling as she rushes through the memories she's just about barely uncovered.

for a moment, wanda can't breathe, feels hands at her throat. your weakness, peter — this morality — it's choking you — can you feel it? blurry vision and choked breaths. a flurry of movements as the spots in her eyes make it hard to see, while her senses try to bring her back to the present. no, no— may, run please—]

No!

[she inches too close to something that is too painful, too similar to a pain she keeps guarded, because otherwise it just knocks her down over and over and over again, worrying over what ifs, where tears fall without her permission. wanda tries to stop time with her magic, but it has all sunken to a point where she is not entirely in control, where wanda needs to recover her footing amidst these waves.

there's an explosion —

followed by the noise of falling rubble, the whistling of more bombs in the air. aunt may is reeled away from peter, a lasting smile on her expression before the reality of the queens apartment is torn asunder. it's cold, winter cold, and dark now, the skies filled with smoke and ash.

should peter rise from whatever familiar rubble he finds himself in, his spider-man suit on, he will see in front of him a bed, two children hiding under it, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.]

[piqure]

[ it happens in mere moments and yet feels like eternity, like this is where he's always been, raw and recent recollection ripped from the forefront of his psyche. no longer in his kitchen, with the red lunchbox and the smell of coffee and the morning light. his hand on aunt may's is slipping away and instead its dr osborn's wrists he's clawing at as his airways constrict and lock and he can't keep his vision from swimming.

he begs her to run, the crash of the building around them drowning out so much - concrete slabs and rebar and steel - falling and falling and may is gone from his vision and there's panic and fear ringing so bright — ] May — May ! — [ his voice breaks in his yell, the sort that rasps from a constricted throat and finishes in a fit of coughs.

the rubble closes in, knocks into him as he raises his arms over his head to keep the worst of it off, softened by the durability of his suit and he rises away from it on his hands and knees and he sounds so small — ] — no, nono —

[ the words, senseless as they are, wither in his throat when his eyes lock on the two children, hidden and barely safe under the bed. his head reels, hurts behind his eyes and he needs to find his aunt but oh my god there's kids and he's not thinking twice, crouching by the bed with hands outstretched in front of him, placating and covered in the smoke-grey fallout. ] Hey — hey it's okay. It's alright. Come on — [ edges closer, arm leaning against a fallen wall as he reaches out the other towards them. ] — please, I'll get you out of here, okay?

[ he takes his eyes off of them, for a short moment, roving around the chaos he recognizes and doesn't. his senses are frazzled now, burning with awareness, nostrils flaring and a quiet sort of anger rising like bile in his throat. no green goblin in sight. no aunt may. he needs to find her, but he needs to get these kids to safety too. hurry, hurry.

(where was he? there weren't any kids before. it wasn't so cold before. before when?) ]

closed · bucky barnes

[carmesi]

[visitors are the norm in the horizon—a domain that they all share. wanda herself has been guilty of being a tourist in the made-up world of others, traversing across their amalgam of a home without invitation. it's the small cabin and the looming mountains that belonged to sokovia that tend to turn any visitors away, though; what is there to see, in a place such as this? old, boring, abandoned. it's exactly how she wants it.

it's different today.

someone steps inside the cabin, calls for her name. wanda levitates above the cold stones, somewhere below the cabin, and opens her eyes. she waits, but doesn't move, hearing the creaking of the floorboards above her, the heavier fall that comes with descending stairs. it's intrusion, likely born of curiosity, and wanda finds herself unwilling to entertain it.

the lights of the candles that lines the stairs flicker once, twice, then they go out with what sounds like a gasp of air, leaving the entirety of bucky's path to drown in darkness. ah, it's bucky; she only makes the connection when her magic starts dressing up reality for the man. the darkness gives way, should bucky walk further down the stairs, a door opening on its own to reveal a familiar setting: home.

there's applause coming from somewhere above, where the ceiling can't be seen, dissolving instead into an uncomfortably silent void (it's so loud in how silent it is, the hum of static within it). but bucky gets no time to think too hard about it.]

There you are!

[it's wanda—but it also isn't, looking younger than bucky would have last seen her, approaching him from across the room. if she resembles a sister, it's only because wanda's been able to draw from the memories in him. she holds onto his hand, dragging him closer, to where an obvious spotlight sits, warmer the longer he stands in the center of the room along with his 'sister'.]

You said you'd be early today. What kept you?

[freightcars]

( He doesn't know what he's doing. That's a statement generally applicable to everything in his life but fighting, and it's applicable to his domain as well. He'd talked with Sam about it a little. Ultimately decided on spending his time hovering around Sam's while he thought about how to build his own, and he's yet to identify a clear direction.

So he's doing what he's done to adapt to all other areas of life since he woke up — observing others and mimicking behaviors. He's taken to strolling through them, looking for inspiration. For anything that resonates true.

The idea of floating through Wanda's seemed like a great one at the time. They've got a few things in common, and he spent a fair amount of time in her neck of the world. His time on the run was... mostly peaceful, maybe she'd have some inspiration from over there floating around.

That is... not what he finds.

He descends the stairs tentatively, carefully, practically a feline prowl. He barely makes it midway before an uncomfortably familiar sensation begins to spread through him. He has just enough time to feel a pang of dread before the creeping fingers in his brain shift, change, rearrange.

He takes his final step, and walks into another life.

Can't place the source of whatever discomfort he'd just felt — maybe it's because he always feels that way a little, walking into his house without knowing his father's mood. It fades out at the sight of his sister, though, and settles back into something more wry. )

Nothing new. ( He answers a little too loudly, a little too telegraphed — and confuses himself a little with it. Boisterous isn't his default state. It feels appropriate right now, though. ) Just some business with a skinny kid and a shiner.

( AKA Steve got in a fight. Again. Which means Bucky got in a fight. Again. )

[carmesi]

Was that Rogers again? Always getting into trouble.

[wanda's eyes look away into the horizon, as if reading a cue card, provided only by the expected response that would be drawn forth from bucky's thoughts and memories—anything to make this interaction feel real.

she raises a hand, pointer finger up, in sudden realization, and heads into the background, bringing back with her a box—clearly the mail—with a huge stamp that simply read 'JAMES B. BARNES JR.' and no address.]

This came for you today! It looks real important. [an exaggerated tone. the box itself is no bigger than a 12-inch ruler, five inches tall. she rattles it some next to her head.] I'm curious to see what it is.

[freightcars]

( From the completely empty audience seats, canned laughter — that Rogers. The running joke of Bucky's life, because Steve's trouble is his trouble practically every single time. Bucky sighs, head hanging down through the laughter, shaking it at the floor.

He waits patiently and expectantly as Wanda disappears, and furrows his brow when she returns with a box in hand. That confusion is real, unscripted, more than a little uncomfortable. )

Great. ( He says dryly. ) Love getting surprise packages in the mail. It's almost never a bomb.

( Cue laugh track.

Back home, he had to put a restriction on his mail. The sheer number of death threats and uncomfortable fan mail sent to James Barnes was staggering in volume, and not exactly great for his mental health. Most of it addressed to his old home in Brooklyn from 1938, conveniently forwarded by the US Post to his new place until he put a stop to it.

More than once he got an official contact about a package withheld for something less than pleasant.

He accepts the package with no small amount of trepidation. Strangely enough, it takes no effort to open. No packing tape, no seal, just a simple matter of unfolding the flaps to reveal the contents. )

[carmesi]

Oh.

[it's a knife.

wanda's smile grows, out of place, and the audience draws in with a concerned ohh and still into silence as its brought up to be seen, the glint of the spotlight catching onto the blade.]

Must be a knife day to be getting that in the mail.

[she puts her hands on her waist, thoughtful, as if wondering what the point of it is at all.]

You can add it to your collection.

[freightcars]

( He gets the feeling he's meant to perk up, like this is meant to be a light moment. Funny, or happy, or excited — something. Deeper down, though, churns a subtler gut feeling of discomfort.

Not sure why he doesn't like it. Just that he doesn't like it.

Instead, he pushes through a tight smile. )

You know, I think that finally puts me in double digits.

( Was his hair shorter a minute ago? It's fuzzy, he can't remember. Feels the distinct impulse not to think too hard about it. )

closed · stephen strange

[carmesi]

[the grounds of stephen strange's horizon stands as a beacon of calm and quiet, of peacefulness that can be achieved merely by standing there. only, there is a difference, now; there is a feeling of dread that encompasses the area, swiftly taking over, as clouds swarm over the himalayan skyline and slanted rooftops.

a storm is brewing.

further into the horizon, doctor strange will feel that there is an uninvited guest. all doors are open, allowing for dried leaves to fly in. thunder rumbles ahead, akin to drums signaling the arrival of someone, echoing with every step stephen takes, into the foyer (empty), past the library (untouched), and up the upper floor. roots hug the walls tightly, as if wanting to squeeze them broken; scarlet travels like static, carved on the walls. the skylight hangs, overlooking nothing as the sky darkens even more, the light from the skylight dims, until it's just shadows in its place; shadows that contrast one wanda maximoff.

when she does turn to face him, darkness encroaches the entirety of the place, making it difficult to see a few feet in front of oneself. wanda disappears into the shadows, but when she speaks it is clear that she does not mean to hide entirely.]

Doctor Strange.

[sorser]

[This is the last thing he needs right now.

He is already feeling uprooted with the unreliability of his own magic. Testy when he used to be more patient, helpless when his abilities slip away from him altogether, anxious and frustrated when they spike in full force, and everything backfires. Attempting to cast, groping for an anchor point to guide his magic again — when in reality, he can grasp nothing. It is like trying to hold onto something unseen, and it has made him agitated. Skewed the world in an unflattering light, centered it on himself again.

And now? Now, he feels her presence like a dread thing, and up the stairs he’s walked in trying to pin her down. Shoo her out, would it be so easy. But the way the whole Sanctum darkens until there is nothing but her, cast in impossible, barely-there silhouette despite the void encroaching all around, tells him that he will not be seeing this unwanted guest out as quickly as he’d like.

She’s not— something’s off. Dimly, some small fragment of awareness that knows the same applies to him, informs of this fact. She is as wavering and unsteady as his magic, as the state of his hands, now.

Still, turns to face her. The skylight jitters and becomes static. Despite everything, Stephen still sounds annoyed.]

Wanda. I don’t have whatever it is you’re here for.

[In normal circumstances, untouched by the Singularity’s influence, he should offer kinder words. More questioning ones. Not now.]

[carmesi]

[that is the thing, isn't it? doctor strange never really has anything that she would ever need, but he decidedly approached her first, wanted to ask from her: help him fix what's wrong with the singularity, work together, save the world. it is not her responsibility. what has the world given her, if nothing but pain and suffering—more and more every time.

she steps away from where she disappeared to, within the darkness, and walks slowly around doctor strange, keeping herself close to the walls.]

You can answer something for me. [—he's always been patient enough with her, but she wonders (just as she wonders about everyone else).] What do you really think of me?

[her voice ricochets from different directions, her position hard to pinpoint. but the motivation behind her question—she needs to know if she is being considered a toll, a means to an end, or just a liability, the way men like general ross saw her, the way she doesn't doubt tony stark thought of her at some point. perhaps everyone just sees her that way?

a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.]

[sorser]

[He scoffs, an echoing noise. That's a portent of its own, indicative of Stephen's own state, lacking patience and unwilling to blunt his words. Even if she is dousing his domain in darkness, circling around him like some dread shadow.]

You care about my opinion? Flattering.

[Stephen raises his hands in an attempt to summon up his own magic; Eldritch spellwork is light-based at its core, and should work to ward off all this darkness, but his gestures are unsteady. His magic does not come to him, only small sparks fizzling out at his fingertips.

Frustration billows, gnaws at his stomach.]

Where should I start? I think your magic reflects you more than it should. Impulsive, emotional, something bursting at the seams, waiting to be released.

[He drops his hands, hard eyes trying to track her movements.]

And in just the wrong circumstances? Dangerous. Is that what you're trying to prove to me now?

[carmesi]

[part of her was hoping that it wouldn't come down to this reflective honesty of the worst kind. doctor strange had always been careful around her, but he had generally been kind, treated her with respect despite her wrongdoings and mistakes. it is all the things she would expect to hear from the government officials that tried putting a leash on her—ross, hayward. it's what she would expect to hear from tony stark.

wanda stops, stands back, hurt by his words more than she wants to admit.]

I thought you were different.

[when her words escape her lips, they sound wet, like she's living up to that 'emotional' label doctor strange has so easily placed upon her. perhaps, upon the realization that her powers weren't altogether there, her mood erratic, she had come here with the expectation of receiving his help.

he was a doctor after all, right?]

As if you're so levelheaded at all times?

[strings of scarlet have pulled from the threads of doctor strange's consciousness in the horizon; overlapping over barely-there memories, carefully creating a narrative. it displays as if from a projector, onto the skylight, sheer in color. spells gone wrong in kamar-taj, the green of the time stone circling his arms, portals that barely swirled to life.]

—what makes you less dangerous? You care for the world, but do you care for the actual people in it?

[sorser]

[That she might have wanted to ask for help, more than come here with accusation in her heart, does not so much as occur to him — later, it will, and he will regret not being able to see what a more empathic heart could pry from this darkness, clear as a bell. But for now, he raises his eyes to the splay of memories playing in vivid light before them; the skylight twists and turns slowly, projecting them in a disjointed slideshow of old experiences that she has no right to access.

His desperation at Kamar-Taj, waiting hours to be let in at the door. His failing magic, sparks where there should be gaping portals instead. The Time Stone’s green-hued energy, encircled around his wrist. The dread form of something looming above him, a face hewn out of a Dark Dimension.]

Oh, and you just know me so well, don’t you?

[He bites back. He can feel her magic coiling around his mind, pulling out these images and putting them on display. They become all the more erratic, emblematic of his state.]

You made up your mind the moment you saw me in this world. I could extend all the care I wanted, and I’d be given a handful of distrust for my efforts, wouldn’t I?

[His memories play sharply. An operating table, with a woman in yellow laying atop it, unconscious. The lines of New York City skyscrapers, folding into themselves. The vast landscape of a dead alien planet, and Stephen plucking a green star from the sky, revealing it as a stone, offering it away. The glinting water of a pool in the wretched summer heat.

He brings his hands up, tries again. Tries to dispel whatever she’s doing to him, and his magic is summoned in an uncontrollable burst of amber light, bright and illuminating the darkness, if only temporarily.]

Don’t dismiss my want to help people just because you’ve failed more than you’ve succeeded.