aboveangrybees: <user name="citadel_icons" site="insanejournal.com"> (B001)
Steve Rogers ([personal profile] aboveangrybees) wrote in [community profile] thearena2015-07-06 05:39 pm

They Haunt Me [Open Log]

Who| Steve Rogers & You! Steve & Tony Stark.
What| Past few weeks have been hard on Steve: sickness, nightmares, starving. You know, your average arena.
Where| Castle, Avengers Safe Room, Nearby Forest, & Network post for the Mirror Mirror Event Week 4
When| Week 4 - 6
Warnings/Notes| Warning: Explicit mentions of past torture, disability, nightmares, sickness. Bracket or prose welcome! Reminder: Steve is in his Pre-Serum form, so he's basically 5'4 and 90lbs.

A: Week 4-5 (Closed to anyone at the Avengers Camp) (Warning: nightmare contains explicit mentions of torture)

Steve knows what waits for him when he closes his eyes, what lurks around the corners of his mind, and because of it he's done his best to sleep shallow, never falling too deep into what hides there. His mind alert enough to keep himself ready to wake up when the images begin to haunt him, but a body as weak and frail as his can only survive so long on such sporadic sleep. And the more he grows comfortable with Bucky, with Sam, with Clint, the more his body demands sleep, begs for the rest it needs to survive because they won't let anything kill him while he dips into oblivion. But he keeps refusing, keeps fighting it.

Eventually, his body no longer gives him any say.

That's when the nightmares take over.

The hushed cell, bare of anything but him, not a door or a window or a bed, just a box to hold him. And it's quiet, so quiet that his voice feels muted when he tries to call out, where his mind is so loud it chips away at his shell, cracks forming along his brow, his cheeks, shattering his ears, leaving the world even more muted than before. The silence is so oppressive he can't hear himself breathe- he gasps ans wheezes for air but it makes no sound, nothing and he doesn't even know if he's breathing at all. Air, he needs air, the room has no air. He tries to claw his way out, eventually finding a tear, something cracked and fractured like his shell, and he rips at it, pulls at it, and it gives like paper, freeing him to tumble into a hall, where he can finally hear his breathing again.

The hall is long, treacherous – he knows what lurks behind the doors, the creatures that pace the length – and void of color, but he remembers color, he sees it when he looks at his hands- “N-no. No,” the hands he's staring at are now colorless, drained and lifeless like the floor and walls, he feels like the tints and shades and hues have been ripped from his eyes, leaving him lost in a world of black and white. He runs now, runs until shoves open a door, one he knew without thinking what it would be, knew it would be a room of mirrors, one he can look into and see-

See the reflection of his pre-serum self looking up at him. But that's not right, he's not that anymore, not since the serum. But then he's being grabbed, shoved, he can't fight back, they scruff him like a stray cat, but- When did his limbs get strapped down- Doesn't matter. The light above him is too bright, there are hands on him, needles in him. He feels his body giving in even though his mind keeps fighting it, furious at his own body's weakness.

“The body is regressing as hoped, but the skeletal structure isn't keeping up, the skin will rip itself open on it at this rate.”

“We need to encourage the bones to shrink along with the skin and organs.”

No, he doesn't like the sound of that, he- he's standing now, hands bound by something behind him, no- Wait! The chokes off sounds of pain escape him as his arms are wrenched up, dislocating his shoulders with the unnatural movement and his own body weight. For the way he's then lifted by his wrists and- but then he's on the table again, more like a ragdoll, they barely give him more than a cursory effort to strap him down this time, not fearing him with all his joins dislocated. He's silent, trying to control his breathing, not knowing what or why they are doing what they are, but if they expect him to scream, he wont. (In reality he's whining, wheezing, curling into himself, his heart ready to hammer out of his body)

“We'll need to stimulate regrowth, the progress will be more manageable if done all at once.”

“Can the subject withstand it?”

“It's more than capable of surviving.”

Steve feels like he can't breathe again, even with the sound of his gasping echoing in his ears, but he's not gasping, his breathing is controlled. Then why can he hear it? (In reality, he's gasping and choking back the sounds of panic.) There's no stopping the cry of pain in either reality when the first bone is broken, but as they move to break every bone in his body, the cries turn into screams, how he tries to flinch, pull away but they just twist his limbs and send shocks of agony through him.

“Now for the back.”

Now Steve looks up at the scientists, the doctors, and sees familiar faces. Tony and Sam are carelessly grabbing as his arms, Thor and Natasha grab for his legs- But no- no, that's wrong! It's wrong! He looks up at the scientist that spoke, the one right above his head- Bucky. The man accepts a wicked looking device from a woman- No.

Peggy, his Peggy, not the one from this world but his own, he can see the difference, he knows the difference, she's looking at Bucky, seeming to not even acknowledge Steve. “Careful not to injure the spinal column, they still want to make an example of it.”

“Bucky, Peggy, please don't,” they are his friends, the woman he loves, the man he would die for without a second thought, why were any of them doing this? It was wrong, it had to be. “Please God, stop this. Bucky, you know me, don-”

“Of course, I know you,” for the first time Bucky looks down at him, his voice as cold and devoid of any emotion as his expression, looking more akin to the Winter Soldier than Steve can remember. And Steve knows now, he knows Bucky got caught by the Capitol, turned against him.

He failed to save him. Any of them. They all suffered this same fate.

With a quick gesture, the rest flip him over like his comfort is worthless to them, “Please, Sam, Tony, Nat-” but he's silenced when someone leans down by his ear, hushing him softly.

“You're my mission and this is me finishing it.”

The final resounding crack of his back being broken snaps him out of the nightmare as he screams, fighting against anything or anyone who's touching him, lashing out like his life and safety depend on it.


B: Week 5-6 (Open)

Sickness comes on gradually, starting with dark patches of skin then making Steve's already exhausted and aching body slow down even further. His breathing becomes more struggled and labored on the best of days and his inhaler only has so many uses before it's out and he's up a creek, so he does his best to survive without it, leaving it for the worst of circumstances.

On the days his mind will allow him the luxury of the tenuous trust he's gain in the others, Steve just doesn't leave his nest of blankets and sleeping bags if he can help it, giving his body the rest it needs in the relative safety of the group. The days his mind doesn't allow that? Well, Steve wanders away, giving himself space while still rarely leaving the castle, looking for anything of use, looking for a place he feels safe enough to rest.

He finds himself frequenting the empty library, moving slowly as he trails his fingers along the bare shelves and often staring up at the strained glass windows where light struggles through. Color has been lost on him for a few weeks now, but he tries to remember what it looked like, how it felt. But in the later week, Steve is more on edge when found here, knife out, sometimes carving symbols into the wood of a shelf or desk.

Depending on the noise made when he's approached, Steve will either look up to eye them warily or his bad hearing will have him oblivious.


C: Week 6 (Open)

Despite the sickness and exhaustive sleep that wracks Steve's body, he finds the need for food too great to waste away in his nest of blanket. Sure, the others have gone out to look for food themselves, but both he and his companions are slowly starving as they reach the last of their food stores and he can't rely solely on them to pull him through this. No, if he's going to survive and win, he has to do it on his own to some degree, so Steve takes it upon himself to venture out of the castle and into the forest.

His primary focus is finding sustenance growing in the wild, but he's also on the hunt for abandoned camps or bags, anything someone who's died has left behind. Scavenging off the dead is far from his favorite thing, but watching the- his- his friend's starve is worse.

He uses his small, light weight form to move quietly through the brush, wand in one hand and knife in his pocket. Frequently, he pauses, his eyes darting all around him to make up for his hearing, a sense he is straining to make up for his poor eyesight in return. Really, he's the worst person to go out for this, but dumb and selfless is his calling.

(ooc: happy to have Steve get in some trouble, jump in to save anyone from a wolf or the likes, or even work in the gingerbread house event for week 6 into this prompt!)

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