fakebrit
Travel food felt like leather and cardboard between his teeth. He didn't bother to check what it was specifically. He just needed to eat, keep his poor new body going, as he trekked across a seeming wasteland, dusty and broken homes lining his path.
He was told to protect the humans, guide them. He would if only he could find them.
William Kaplan was raised well. He was taught right from wrong, through the eyes of his God and Norse myths. So it was not the Kaplans fault that when William discovered his powers, he chose to use them as he did.
Churchill said they stood side by side and it was true. But when they stood side by side, laughing at their shared enemies, they still held knives to each other's backs and smile-less eyes whispered "I don't trust you."
Feet off the coffee table. Put your elbows down. Don't yawn in public. Don't chew with your mouth open. The incessant nagging infuriated him. blah blah blah bullshit I don't know not in the writing mood.
Shit. It's gone straight through. Pierced through leathery skin, slid beneath ribs. He's a goner. And he's only just begun. He should blamed his team, but he can't. It's his fault. Him and his stupid wish.
And wouldn't it be glorious if he could be a bat? But no, he sits in his room, and all he has to know where the door is, where his dresser is, and where the pictures of his family are is memory.
He carried a chewed up bucket with him as he slogged through the tidepools, but he didn't pick anything up. Instead, he took something from the bucket and sprinkled it over the hiding anemones, and they bloomed.
Stuck again. The silence presses down on his skull and he's desperate to fill it with the clicking of fingernails on faux-wooden desks, but the teacher's glare stops him.
And he continues to suffocate.
He can't really argue. He'd love to visit. Love to have access to equipment he hasn't seen in years and love to talk.
But he is a monster. And he'll never forget that. No matter what Stark says.