#visionweek

Day 4 of Vision Week: Music

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ HUMANITY

Vision week|Day 2

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Vision is always in a journey seeking humanity!! but isn’t feeling sadness, fear, happiness and love what make us humans???

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀“You’re a Human in ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ a Synthetic body”

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(This is Wanda’s response to vision)I’ll add the comic panel later! 🙃

We all know Vision  is a great character,but doesn’t get enough love. This week is for people who want more Vision content. 

We want Vision being the main focus so we’re gonna stay away from ships for this week.

Each day will have at least two prompts and you can choose which you want to do. (You can totally combine them as well)

When

November 5th 2018 - November 11th 2018 

What Do We Accept 

fanart

fanfiction

aesthetics

edits

gif sets

meta

all universe Visions

content you create

Promptlist

Monday (Nov 5th):   Discovery, Reflection

Tuesday (Nov 6th):  Humanity, Malfunction

Wednesday (Nov 7th):  Nature, Fear

Thursday (Nov 8th):  Music, Connection  

Friday (Nov 9th):  Internet, Evolve

Saturday (Nov 10th):  Interface, Family

Sunday (Nov 11th):  Friends, Death, Heart

The prompts are here for inspiration, if you have any other ideas, we’ll accept them too. 

For fanfictions, submit them here.

For any questions ask away!

Vision Week Day Three, Nature, Fear

Summary: Vision wakes up to discover he is not as dead as he should be. 

AO3 link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/16570853

Written for @visionweek, Day 7 (Death, Friends, Heart)

Death was uncomfortable. An understatement, he presumes, though he can’t seem to come up with a better description at the moment. How he knows this is a bit of a quandary given a sweep of available information suggests such a process is a one time thing, life finite and immutable once taken.  Despite this there are flickering images in his mind, faces coming in and out of focus like an old television in need of aluminum foil ears and a swift smack to the side. From what he can gather through the interference is that he died twice, both uncomfortable yet in different ways, at least he seems to have a niggling inclination that they were different. The first seemed oddly peaceful, his attention solely directed at the tear-stained cheeks of the woman taking his life - her name, her face, her voice, her essence lost somewhere that he cannot locate, but she seemed reluctant to steal his last breath. The second, in contrast, was greedy, violent, the sneer on the face sends a jolt deep into his brain, terror suddenly and unequivocally recognizable.

His eyes open, desperate to confirm there isn’t a hand on his forehead or fingers fracturing his skull with brute force. Air rushes from between his lips as he finds himself laying on a table in an industrially fashioned room, fluorescent lights humming in boredom above his head, causing him to blink.  Four times he tries to keep his eyes open, figure out his surroundings, but it is so bright, the fifth blink elongates as he holds his eyelids just a bit tighter to stop the flow of the overwhelming amount of information to process.

With the environment nullified from perception (minus the softness of the mattress beneath him and the way the air conditioning sends invisible twisters dancing along his bare skin), he seeks to assess his functioning.

First he tests his toes, curling and then uncurling them four times, noting the way the fibers of the blanket tickle his skin, a pleasing sensation. Next he bends his knees, right and then left, alternating them before testing out his coordination to move them as one. The blanket lifts as he raises his knees and he discovers an unpleasant pocket of frigid air, an experience he swiftly reverses by straightening his legs and collapsing the blanket to its resting state. His hands and arms he tests a bit differently, using them to run along his torso, seeking out any sign of damage or concern, their journey slowing down when he reaches a fault line on his chest that seems out of place. Methodically he runs the pad of his finger up and down the scar, noting the smoothness of the new skin as compared to the slightly ridged texture of the rest of his body. A slither descends along his spine, initiating from the same place in his brain as the jolt, an all encompassing feeling shrouding him. It takes .86 seconds to recognize his fear.

Luckily, it seems his amygdala is functioning quite well. Technically his visual cortex is too, as is his spinal cord, neural networks, limbic system, occipital lobes, auditory cortex (or so he assumes the gentle click click echoing in his head is from the machine next to his bed and not a product of a hallucination - though if it is a hallucination it confirms his temporal and parietal lobes are at least communicating, albeit incongruously to reality).  Which leaves his frontal lobe. Given he has been astutely reasoning through his bodily functioning and physical location, his ability to systematically analyze is still in tact. Memories and emotions (besides fear) are a bit less discernible, each reach into his mind  reveals a kaleidoscope of colors and faces, rotating at such a breakneck pace he cannot parse out any details.

“Vision?”

A word with numerous meanings, some more direct concerning the ability to physically see objects, others more abstract, prophetic even. But this is said as if it is a name which is not one of the options in Merriam Webster.

“Vision, are you awake?”

As far as he is aware, he was the only one in this room, thus, thanks to his neurons sending waves across his frontal lobe, he can deduce that he might be this Vision. So he opens his eyes and finds a woman staring at him, her black hair tied into a ponytail and forehead developing deeper creases the longer he remains silent. “Am I Vision?”

The woman nods, a hand coming to cover her mouth as her eyes develop a harrowed sheen, “Do you rem-” a pause, a wave of her hand, a turn of her head, a sharp intake of breath, and the deflation of her body are all things he takes to indicate a negative emotional reaction to his question. She resets herself, haltingly lowering to sit onto the wheeled stool next to his bed, the squeaking of the plastic on the floor grating as she moves closer. “I’m Helen Cho.”

“It is nice to meet you.”

Lines branch from her eyes as she flashes him a smile, it is one he perceives as disingenuous. He is not sure if that is concerning given it has no impact on his own perceptions or functioning currently. “How are you doing?”

Her question is slow, professionally calm though he can sense a small vibration at the end of the last word, a break from the cool and collected persona she has on display for him. The answer is one he was attempting to ascertain before she came in, so he decides to finish his assessment before answering, believing truth needs to be based on an adequate amount of quantifiable data. All other parts of his body confirmed to be working appropriately, he runs a diagnostic of his heart and finds its lively beat falls in the exceptional range of health. “My heart is functioning well.”

“Good.” A flutter on his wrist draws his eyes down. “I’m sorry.” Immediately she removes her hand from his arm and he is unconcerned with her action, more curious about the dull gray of his flesh blending in with the vibranium imbedded in his arms. “Vision?”

He lifts his arm, eyes squinting as he catalogues the observation, uncertain why he feels a hollowness in his chest, a flare of despair in his overactive amygdala that screams run. “I-,” a vertiginous array of images surface in his mind, convoluted, harrowing, and indistinguishable, but there is a feeling of loss, of longing, that there should be something...more, yet it fades, falling away in granules no larger than sand that dissipate into non-existence once they are spread too far. It leaves him feeling slightly perturbed. “I feel...odd.”

A tear carves a lazy path down her cheek, Helen wiping it away as her lips fight between a stern line and a slight smile. “Your frontal lobe sustained incredible damage. We tried to fix it as best we could but we don’t know what will be affected or how permanent it may be.”

The feel of tearing in his forehead is strictly psychosomatic, yet it is just real enough for him to bring his fingers to his head, feel the indent in his skin. “I may never remember what happened?”

“Possibly, though we are going to do everything we can to help you.” Each word is weighed down more than the one before, as if the continuation of the thought adds another sandbag to her body, until she can barely breathe enough to say the rest. It is alarming, the way she wilts, yet he cannot figure out why nor if he is supposed to respond in a certain way. Based on the offer of help he believes some sort of gratitude is acceptable.

“Thank you.”  Vision considers what she has shared, and all the things that fell through the cracks in her words, the little truths that aren’t being uttered, all reference to the life he has seemingly forgotten left strategically out of reach. There is only so much he can do to resolve whatever issues are occurring. But it all seems infinitesimal to him, given the peculiarity of his situation. Life is supposed to be finite, death the last stop before oblivion occurs. His body seems to have forgotten that fact, yet his mind did not, a mostly empty canvas on which he can paint the rest of his new existence. Perhaps this is as it should be, when one cheats death. “My heart is beating.”

”Impresively well.”

“And my brain is operating appropriately.”

She nods, “For the most part, yes.”

A concession he accepts but does not acknowledge, not certain if memory is necessary for living. “I suppose that is acceptable for now.”

A genuine smile creates more lines on her tired face. “I think after everything, that’s pretty good. I mean,” she gestures at him, hands waving up and down at his torso, “You’re alive!”

Written for Vision Week, Day 2!

--

"It is a privilege to be among them."

Humans.

That was what Vision had told the final Ultron before he destroyed it.

He stood by his statement. In fact, he believed it even more so.

It was a privilege to listen to Captain Rogers' rousing speeches. It was easy for Vision to see why so many had eagerly followed him.

It was a privilege to be included in Sam's jokes. Laughter was such a wonderful sound, and Vision found himself laughing along, even when he didn't actually know what was funny.

It was a privilege to spar with Natasha Romanoff, the graceful, deadly Black Widow. To have her, after a recent match, offer Vision a rare compliment of his own skill.

It was a privilege to see the joy on Wanda Maximoff's face as she dragged Vision off to show him the latest new ability she had mastered. She deserved happiness, after everything she had suffered.

It was a privilege to be among them. That they were kind enough to include Vision. To treat him as almost human, even though he was not human.

At least, Vision didn't think he was.

What made someone human?

Vision wasn't sure, and he wasn't sure it mattered.

He was artificial.

Different.

Other.

Vision wasn't human. --

Sometimes when Tony and Pepper were particularly busy, Vision kindly continued to perform some of his old 'Jarvis' tasks. Sorting through forms. Reading Emails.

One day, while filling out some online form or other on Tony's behalf, Vision came across a question that gave him trouble.

'Are you human?'

It was followed by a picture of a code that needed to be entered into a small box.

Jarvis had done this countless times, but now, as Vision- now that he was more- it seemed like a much more loaded question. Surely there was more to proving someone was human than typing a little code into a box?

Vision stared at the screen for a long while, unsure. Then, he typed the code and pressed 'Enter'. He was certain that, somehow, the machine would catch him out. That it would know.

It didn't.

The next screen thanked him for completing the form.

Even though he knew that, really, this meant nothing, Vision couldn't help but smile.

It was a privilege to be among them.

To be one of them?

Title: The Rights of Man (Vision Week, Day 2)

Rating: G

Word count: 892

Summary: Vision exercises his rights as a citizen. Post Avengers 4.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536440

 A/N: Written for Vision Week on Tumblr for the prompt “humanity” for Tuesday, November 6. Also inspired by it being Election Day in the United States. To any registered and/or eligible voters reading this on Tuesday, November 6, 2018, please vote if you haven’t already and you can!

Written for Vision Week, day 1:  Discovery, Reflection

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553381

Everything happened too quickly. A flash of light, a beating heart, a mind finally awake. He felt suffocated, naked and restless inside the box he was in. His mind worked so fast that in less than a second he understood what he should do. The box was broken desperately; Seeking freedom, seeking space, seeking air, seeking something he could not understand, no matter how strong he tried. 

So free, he was able to find out where he was. It was an enormous laboratory, with several machines and devices he could not identify. Smoke and sparks poured out from under him, where the box was destroyed. Around him were people, all staring at him. He did not understand what was happening at that moment, but the silence and the glances were as suffocating as the box. He sought out this feeling, but just found something red. He was surprised to notice that this red moved so close to him. It's your hands. Something in his head told him. He did not know how or why, but those red and big hands belonged to him. This is wrong. He could not stop repeating in his mind. It does not belong to me. IT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. More choked than before, he searched for a way out. Until he saw him. 

He looked at the blonde in front of him and remembered the pain he felt. He remembered the light that touched every part of his face that touched his eyes and mind. For some reason, some part of his consciousness said that this person brought the suffocating light to him. So he attacked. He did not know what he was doing, he did not know how he got off the ground and went to the middle of the room. This suffocation must stop. He could only pound the man in front of him in despair, desperate to understand who he was and what was happening. But the man knew who he was and what was happening, so in a flash, he was thrown away. And he flew out of control, feeling as desperate as before. He would crash into a transparent wall ... until he stopped. 

Someone was staring at him through the transparent wall. Someone beaming. All he wanted was to keep looking at this person, at these blue eyes and this yellow jewel. Everything was peaceful now. And then, like a baby learning to smile, he understood. He's me and I'm him. It was a reflection in a window. He was Ultron, he was Jarvis. He came to help the Avengers defeat Ultron, to save mankind. Humans. Beings so full of light. Which for thousands of years have evolved. They have learned to love and raise families, they learned the power of technology and use it to their advantage. Not everyone. But that did not matter, because many were good. He will protect humans at any cost, live by their side until the end. Following their customs and rules. Staring at the reflection, he noticed his nakedness. Still surprised by his new body, he decided to cover it to suit his protégés better. With one last look in the reflection of his new eyes and the jewel that gleamed strongly in his forehead, he decided to face the humans in the laboratory. 

He knew who they all were. Tony Stark, the crazy genius and philanthropist. Steve Rogers, the soldier of another age. Clint Barton, the best archer in the world. Bruce Banner, the mad scientist who mistakenly became a Hulk. Pietro Maximoff, the man as fast as the sound. Wanda Maximoff. Glancing at her, he remembered. The woman who visited his mind before everything, before the box. She was a peace before the suffocation. Putting his feet on the ground to finally talk to everyone, he started with the form that made the most sense: