#rebuildstarter

Plus it gave him a chance to look around, get a sense of how the city was feeling. It was harder and harder to trust his own instincts, even though time had proven that was the only thing worth trusting. The decorations were elaborate and the smell of food was everywhere, and for the most part, people seemed thrilled just to be invited to an event like this. Maybe it was just a chance to relax, to let loose and not think about the danger they were all in -- though the armed militia around the perimeter was a staunch reminder. They were meant to make people feel safe, keep the demons out, but for some reason, it made Steve feel almost trapped. Which was crazy, right?

Tonight, she’d traded in the bow for a clutch bag, and her costume for one of her favorite dresses, and she figured -- she’d earned one night off. Just one, and then she’d go back to being Super-Kate, Hawkeye extraordinaire. “Best way to celebrate the fourth, hands down. You dancing? I’m totally dancing. After I hit up that shrimp buffet, because futz,” she breathed.

Unluckily, Felicia was still out hours past curfew. Rather than grapple onto a rooftop as she would if she were not dressed in her civilian clothing, she jogged lightly into an alleyway. When she heard footsteps, confirming that someone else had taken refuge there, she looked over at them and offered a faint smile. Feigning slight panic as any logical New Yorker would, she whispered, “How do you think we can get away from the patrol? I can’t lie and say I’ve lost track of time… it’s four hours past curfew.”

eighteen years old now finally, the youngest wayne male knows he ought to look forward to something like this, he ought to bubble with brilliance, revel in the luminescence of social royalty and peasantry around him, but in truth, he finds this and everyone here exhausting; insipid conversations and awkward flirting, horrid dancing and he can hear a music being played from somewhere, frustratingly just a hair out of tune. his teeth click and lock together in an effort to keep himself from murdering someone just to relieve stress, so he ends up wandering away from all that, past tables and chairs and groupings of laughter and bedlam, the commotion coalescing into white noise rushing against his ears, and he finds himself trailing just past a carrier with drinks.

and he thinks, fuck it. the concept of getting drunk has never been overly appealing to someone like him, a war machine like him, a demon head boy like him, a robin like him, a weaponize half-clone, born in a bottle, bred for a worldwide kingdom he’ll never reach for now-- he’s never gleaned any interest in the concept of killing off brain-cells, each one burning with enough potential to conquer any enemy he stands against. but he’s getting dizzy already, and the headache is beginning to throb at the base of his skull, and he has 13,843 seconds still left on his time-clock, and maybe he’s seen his father pick up a glass of champagne one too many times not to try and emulate him ( because who wouldn’t want to be just like bruce wayne? )

he snatches the glass off the tray as the carrier moves past him, quick enough that she doesn’t even notice, and manages to bring it just a breath above his lips, before someone quick plucks it from his fingers, swiping it away from him before he can taste or react. perhaps his brain-cells are already dying, but his fury boils and he rounds on them in disgruntlement. “tt! hey!”

She did not understand how this party fit into Doom’s plans. What the point of it was. Truthfully, very few things the ‘present-dent’ did made sense to her. He had his armies, he had the entire city fooled, and yet he squandered his power on something like this -- without informing her as to any of it.

Perhaps he didn’t trust her. It was a wise decision. But he hadn’t chosen to kill her after she discovered his secrets -- what little there was to discover. He was a careful, fastidious man. Which meant nothing was done without a purpose, but she could fathom what purpose a party had.

Still, she came. She hovered around the edge, back against a wall, hiding in plain sight. The smell of food was tempting, but she kept herself very still, refusing to move. Her goal was to observe. Maybe if she watched long enough she would discover the meaning of something like this. 

He keeps himself mostly in the shadows, tries to remember what a casual posture felt like before, though he’s not sure he can make this new version of his body adapt it. He’s focused on just making his way past the Empire State Building--his head turned firmly towards his feet and the rest of his mind focused on appearing casual--when all of his concentration is broken by a collision with another person. “Oh, I’m sorry, please excuse me.” He says quickly, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. It’s impossible to say if they were trying to exit the party quickly, or if his own carelessness is to blame, but his gut is telling him it might be a combination of the two--it would have been the perfect stage for Doom to do something drastic. 

“Are you all right?” 

He’s able to find a fight without any difficulty, a group of demons snarling at each other over what he can only imagine is a veritable treasure in a metal dumpster. He could hit them from his position in the sky, but he’s itching to put his fist against something solid and breakable--to connect his body to the rest of himself somehow. So he lands with ease and the things immediately turn their heads towards him, start stalking his way. It’s perfect in a way that it really shouldn't be. 

He lands a punch on one and sends it down with an angry snarl, throws another over his shoulder. They have him circled and one lands a solid hook to his jaw, which he supposes would have done some real damage if he were anyone else. But he isn’t, and that one gets a blast directly to the face that leaves it a smoking mess. The others apparently don't want to have anything to do with that, and when they start to scatter he emits and even bigger pulse of energy that fries the rest of them. It feels good, he smiles for the first time in a while, but it’s short lived.  A cop rounds the corner and gets a load of him in all his shiny armored glory, narrows his eyes and barks out “Hey, you’re not supposed to be out here, it’s after curfew.” 

Rich rolls his eyes, hits him with a blast just strong enough to render him unconscious. Of course, that’s when footsteps announce he’s not alone any longer. “He’ll be fine,” He drawls, shrugs his shoulders. “Practically a love tap.” 

His job then, was to be seen here. To have an alibi, and  hopefully draw the attention of those who might be suspicious. But he would be lying if he didn’t admit that there was another reason. He thought perhaps he might see one of his children. Wanda. Lorna. Even Pietro, though he doubted the boy would want to show his face this publically. Once, he’d had a relationship with each of them, spent hours and days with them, and now... Now his life was simply the Brotherhood, as it had been for so long. Fulfilling work, important work, the most important -- but far different from tea with one’s child.