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[dawnkiwi-blog]

Fortune of A Broken Man - Avengers fanfiction

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes-centric | #2 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: Barnes is transferred from Wakanda to NYC at the behest of Tony Stark. Tony then hires a personal friend and mentor, Lizbeth Burke, to unscramble Barnes' fried brain. Barely visible on the horizon, enemies stir.

Featuring: Bucky Barnes x Lizbeth Burke Steve Rogers Wanda Maximoff Erik Selvig Darcy Lewis

Genres: Horror/Drama

Word Count: 2,442 Chapters: 50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulagarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

Opening: Up In Arms

Bleak. The first feeling he was met with happened to be a crummy, filthy bleakness. The type of grating numbness that accompanies extreme agony.

A hell few know; only those with trauma and scars deeper than a ravine can sympathise, let alone empathise, with the sort of acute dissonance the man in the straps felt.

Who was he?

He didn't know. Glimpses of winter, crimson, and the fleeting sounds of groaning metal and screaming engines ghosted through his dazed mind. It disappeared faster than he could register having experienced it.

Something in the back of his mind pulled him forth into consciousness, and the man's eyes shot up, drinking in the agonising, blinding whiteness before him.

A voice somewhere- behind you -spoke swiftly, spitting out foreign sounding memories. He knew what they were saying but it didn't make any sense.

Neutralise.

Acid pumped through his veins. It carried a wildfire of panic; white hot fear and symbiotic rage. Reaching behind him, the man felt his knuckles connect with flesh. A crunch filled the air. That language he recognised fluently.

The fear told him that these people were the wrong people. The rage spoke volumes- his target (his mission?) had disappeared. He had been compromised. No, It. It had been compromised.

Neutralise.

His vis- its vision focused. A woman and a man. Two people directly in front of It, another behind, countless unseen. White lab coats.

Its handlers wear white lab coats, but these ones are nondescript; that haunting red star absent from their lapels.

Wrenching forward towards them only to have thick straps halt Its attack, the Lab Coats stumbled back and fell with fear into the wall behind them.

More words were yelled and It felt meaty hands clamp down on both shoulders.

It roared, and with a grunt swung sharply to the right, landing another crunching blow. A shriek echoed around the room, and the grip on It weakened for a moment.

It was all It needed.

Another hearty lurch forward and the straps snapped, allowing It to careen towards the Lab Coats. Sinewy arms locked around the woman, tightening across her neck before throwing her to the side with a sickening crunch.

She lay lifeless in on the floor.

Its heartbeat steadied as Its conditioning directed the next fatal blow. One sharp punch from the left arm and the man went down, too.

The yelling increased in volume and number.

Through Its hair, It spied the large man who must have been restraining It. Taking a step forward, Its left arm reached the man, with a glinting silver hand closing around his neck.

"Barcala!"*

Cold darkness washed across It.

"You fucking idiot," a small woman snapped brashly. Taking a weighted step towards the sallow-faced man with the intent to smack some sense into him, she was stopped by Nicholas Fury who stepped between them.

"Sit down," he ordered. "We've already lost two lab technicians, we don't need you taking the life of another."

She barked a laugh out, shaking her head. "Oh, and who's fault is that? I told you not to put untrained techs in that lab, and yet there you went, throwing them into his fucking chambers. This one is on you, Fury."

Restrained anger stared back at her from his good eye.

"What?!"

He pointed behind her at the door. "You need to calm down, Miss Burke. Take some time and come back when you can start working again."

She didn't bother to deign him with a response. Twisting around to leave, she made sure to slam the door behind her.

"Useless baboons," she muttered angrily, storming down the sleek white corridors. "Never trust anyone with the jobs you can do yourself."

Making her way towards the elevator, Miss Burke- Lizbeth Burke -felt the chip on her shoulder grow.

She had been hired some months prior by the ever enigmatic Tony. In the years past she had worked with him, acting as a live-in shrink and generally helping him organise his mind. Initially hired by Pepper to help counsel the trauma inflicted on Tony by the Ten Rings, she eventually ceased the therapy in favour of advising the billionaire Avenger on the psychology behind those who he sought to destroy.

After the events in New York, in which Loki had probably given most of the city's population some form of PTSD, Lizbeth had found herself in between a rock and a hard place. The offer of employment by SHIELD was an enticing one; given her deliciously accumulating debt, the pay had her hesitating to turn them down. But the end result meant she would have to become a live-in shrink for the higher ranking employees and likely the Avengers themselves.

That headache had her saying no and cutting the phone line from her shitty apartment.

Then, of course, Tony had made another grave mistake- albeit with good intentions- and suddenly NYC was pushing the ozone layer and a demented celestial freak threatening to wipe out humanity. That had been a fun time. The price of incalculable intelligence happened to be various forms of apocalypse and all the usual comic book jazz. Tony really needed a good hug and probably a Tempurpedic mattress.

The aftermath had been beyond biblical. In less than a week, all international flights had been grounded, and the UN disbanded, only to be replaced by a juiced-up version demanding the heads of the Avengers. Naturally, they had not obliged, and now with SHIELD technically disbanded, America had become a superpower in the sense of a merry band of severely traumatised superheroes. Nobody on a federal level could actually control them, and given the public favour the whole 'defenders of earth' thing had given them, they had been cautiously left alone by SHEILDs counterparts.

International relations were at an all-time low, but Wakanda had formed an intelligence deal with the United States, so they at least had that.

Her bills had gone sky high as well as her bank interest, though.

Now, two and half years since Loki had bullied Earth, Tony was at her door waving a pretty green cheque in her face and offering her accommodation in his egotistical popsicle of a tower. He had also paid her debts off.

Money can do awful things to a person.

She sighed, stepping into the elevator and jabbing the button for the lobby.

Ugly elevator music attempted to soothe her on the way down.

"JARVIS, can you tell Tony to put some better music in these things? I feel like I'm Gatsby or something."

"Of course, Miss Burke," the charming English AI replied.

"Please and thank you," she muttered, stepping out into the bustling lobby of Stark tower.

Once she was out on the street, she let the blissfully ignorant hubbub of Manhattan wash over her and inhaled the fumes and grime of the Big Apple.

She fished a cigarette out of her pocket and raised it to her lips, intent on some carcinogenic relief.

"You know that will give you cancer, right?"

She slumped, groaning at the handsome sight of Sam Wilson. "Why won't you people leave me alone?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "Sorry?"

Lizbeth shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. How are you doing, Mr Wilson?"

He joined her, standing in a small industrial alcove beside the building's entrance. "I'm alright, but you don't seem to be," he probed. "Something the matter?"

"You mean you haven't heard?" she said, eyeing him. His silence prompted her to continue. "Two techs down in less than five seconds, courtesy of the Winter Soldier."

He sucked in a breath, tensing.

"Yeah," she said lowly, finally lighting her smoke. "Fury's had me studying him the last week. I submitted a report and he took it upon himself to have his people," she spat, "Give him some TLC. Now they're cooling off in the morgue."

Sam stayed silent and tense. The man needed a good massage. They all did. In the silence that ensued she inhaled deeply, feeling a bitter burn coat the back of her throat. Exhaling, she blew the smoke into his face. He winced, snapping out of it.

"It's been a while since we had a session," she said, staring at him intently.

"Yeah, I just.. I've been doing good recently. Steve's been trying to immerse himself in current culture and it's given me something to focus on."

She nodded, flicking the ashes on the pavement. "You know I'm only a text away, Butterfly."

His lips pursed fondly. "How's.. your research going?"

Now that was a good question. Good and bad didn't fit the bill; that was too subjective. She could say her research was progressing at a rate faster than expected, at least by SHIELD's expectations, but then again- their expectations were of a different calibre to her personal criteria.

"Things are developing as expected," she said, "In that, what HYDRA has done to the man exceeds what most could survive. Barnes is a wreck. Frankly, I'm surprised he's lived this long. And yet at the same time, it's a miracle he hasn't done more damage than he already has. I, personally, don't believe he is a lost cause."

Sam watched her intently. "You know how I feel about him, about all of it. Do you think it's justified?"

Another paradoxical question. "I think you are justified in your personal feelings towards him."

Sam just sighed, running his hands through his hair. She stared at him, lost in thought.

Lizbeth rarely felt emotions; rather, she experienced them but struggled to correctly process them. It leads to blunt speech and a complete obliteration of social cues. Not that Lizbeth couldn't read the cues or atmosphere, she just didn't give a damn to adapt to them. If people wanted to speak to her, they knew what they were getting into.

She had formed a comradery with Sam Wilson. The man had a standard form of PTSD. His experience in watching his best friend get knocked from the sky like a baseball had birthed a quiet pain in him. After being recruited by the great and holy Captain America, the former soldier had felt his wounds reopen. And of course, when Barnes had nearly killed the man atop the Helicarrier, the PTSD he had slowly been recovering from had been reborn like a demonic Jesus.

Sometimes it felt funny being a personal shrink to superheroes. When she'd been a child, one of the only programs she could glimpse on the old tube TV was an animated version of the Justice League. None of the Avengers had a JL feel, but she supposed Wilson would be Hawkman, and Clint would be Green Arrow.

"Well," Sam said, "Will you join Steve and I for a drink on Saturday?" Hope evident in his voice.

Lizbeth shook her head resolutely. "You know I don't mingle with you pringles."

He sighed, pushing off from the wall. "I think you need to socialise more than we need counselling."

She barked a laugh, flicking the butt to the pavement and stamping it out. "Now that, Wilson, is what makes you a funny man."

"I'll see you around?"

She nodded, fluttering her fingers in a farewell. "See you, soldat."

Harsh iridescent light scrutinised the immobile warrior as only inanimate objects can.

Chewing on a toothpick, Lizbeth stared at the prone form of James Barnes.

"Well?" Fury said.

Her eyes did not stray from Barnes. Unfocused but deep in thought, she gave the toothpick a particularly hard crunch.

"Do you want to know my thoughts on Barnes or your attempt at being an armchair psychologist?"

There was a vague grunt of resignation; Fury had been dealing with her for long enough to know when picking a fight was viable. Which would be never.

She spun around, pinning him with her pitch black eyes. Panda bags made them seem almost cartoonishly large, and the harsh lighting turned her almost paste white. A ghoulish figure if Fury had ever seen one.

"I think," she started, chewing musingly, "That I can have Barnes up and walking around the tower in less than a week. I mean I could have him at the dinner table with the Captain," she said with a grin, "tonight. But for safety's sake, you know that thing you didn't do earlier, I'd play Saturday as a good bet."

To Fury's credit, he didn't even twitch at the slight.

"Walk me through your method," he said, moving to stand beside her and watch Barnes.

Since a well-placed needle- rather, a thrown syringe from a higher ranking tech- Barnes had been out cold. Only three hours had passed since 'the incident' as it was now being referred to.

"Don't think that's a good idea," she mused.

Fury sighed. "Miss Burke, I cannot give you clearance to do anything unless I know what  you're doing."

"I don't need clearance," she said, shaking her head, "But I'll humour you. But, my dear man, if you try to undermine me, I'll be out of this tower and knee deep in southern mud before you realise I even knew."

It wasn't an idle threat, they both knew.

"So," she started, "What I'll be doing is fairly simple. I've read the dossier compiled on him and consulted Natasha on the 'Russian Methods'. What needs to happen first is Barnes understanding where he is. His dissonance is deep; when he doesn't know where he is, it means his mindset will not revert to Barnes, and he will remain the Winter Soldier."

Lizbeth tapped a small silver disk on the pane below the one-way window. "The microphone installed here will allow me to communicate with him for the time being. I'll require Rogers present as he is the only person Barnes knows he can trust, and also the only man who has knowledge on who Barnes really is. Once I've established 'first contact' and familiarised Barnes with the situation, I'll begin reconstructing his memories with associative prompts, imagery and lights."

"Seeing as he can't escape this awful room," she said with a disgusted glare at Fury's reflection, "The restraints can be removed. I want them gone, and his bed made properly. No white sheets or pillow. A quilt is important, as warmth is the opposite to his previous resting areas. He will be served old school American cuisine. Home cooked. Rogers can do that."

Fury stared at her with an unreadable expression. "Whatever happens," he said, "Is on you."

Lizbeth shimmied her eyebrows at him. "I know that."

"I'll leave you be then," he said, walking towards the door.

"Send Rogers up," she replied, "I still haven't met him, you know."

A/N: *Barcala is latin for an idiot, or a fool.

This is the second story in a 16 part series. This sounds like a lot, but keep in mind; this is already finished.

The first story is titled 'A Beautiful Mind' and is focused on Tony. ABM is finished and will be published soon.

It is NOT necessary to read ABM to understand this story.

The sequel to this fic is also finished, and so far I've typed and edited (sorta) 450k words. Can you believe that shit? I'm fucking amped over it.

[dawnkiwi-blog]

A Beautiful Mind Chapter 2 - Tony Stark fanfiction

A Beautiful Mind - Avengers fanfiction | Iron Man / Tony Stark-centric | #1 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: 'Prodigious clarity conceived', Tony Stark is the most enlightened mind of this existence. Like an elastic band, his mind expands to encompass all knowledge he comes across. Bands snap.

Genres: Drama/Sci-fi

Word Count: 2,200 Chapters: 02/05 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness + suicide / familial abuse and trauma / mentions of sexual activity.

Sincerest apologies for this late update! I had this posted on ff.net some days ago but this has been a hectic time for me and I forgot to press ‘post’.. I should probably queue these things.. 

Chapter 2: Gods

It had been days now. Thousands of minutes in which he had hidden himself from the world and all interaction, with only the precious indulgence of the most artificial mind- his own creation, and thus the safest option, as Tony innately knew that only he and that which he could completely dictate could be trusted.

Days since Tony had found the courage to face them.

He had suspected when he ventured upstairs- to his own kitchen- that it wouldn't go well, but the need for food had won out. And inevitably he had been humiliated. Perhaps they didn't see it that way. In fact, for all Tony knew, neither Steve nor Vision had picked up on how 'out of it' he had been. But the days taken their toll and his sleep deprivation had culminated in one of those dreaded flashbacks.

At least this time it had not been of Afghanistan.

"JARV, can you copy this template and store it on my private server, please."

His lab was washed in a soft natural lighting, creating a calming atmosphere. Controlled chaos reigned in his most precious space; his modus operandi flowed in a maze of questionable ideas. Each time he was struck with another moment of euphoria, it had to be jotted down by hand and plastered up in a string-board flow chart that coated every surface and space available.

Tony worked like a madman, never entirely still. His hands shook and his eyes wavered. Almost wordlessly he spoke to himself, reciting formulas, theories, and mashing the very fringes of theoretical science together in a corroded version of logic.

"Of course, sir."

He snapped his fingers, twirling around to snatch up another hot cup of liquid energy. $60 a cup. Because he's Tony fucking Stark.

"Sir, the synthesized element is now complete."

Tony let out a shaky breath. "Bring her up, JARV."

His beloved AI did as requested and the newly synthesized component emerged like an infant Jesus, or Simba. The steaming mist rose up, slowly evaporating into the air ducts. The theatrics of it all did nothing but exacerbate his irregular heart beat and warm his hands with nervous perspiration.

"Perfect," he murmured, gingerly plucking it from its perch. His latest attempt at recreating one of the many Chitauri 'elements'. Once he'd come to terms with whatever materials the Hoard consisted of essentially being out-of-this-world, he'd set about making his own. PTSD prevented him- no, reminded him of why space travel is a bad thing- a terrible, most dreaded, and utterly anti-human endeavor- so the safest option he had was to simply create it all.

He'd done more difficult tasks before. Like in caves, with a car battery wired into his chest.

Tony repressed a shiver but was unable to stop the frown which settled upon his face like scar tissue. Even during his most poignant moments, the repressive and plagueish feeling gnawed at him, chewing him to pieces and scattering his sanity like dollar bills from a blimp.

His new element glinted in the soft lighting. Iridescent like a polished pearl, it held his hopes, his fears, and his obsessions.

Snatching up his scanner, he let the holographic wave flow across it before processing the data.

Tony stood quietly with shaking hands, lost in the swirling mist of his coffee.

"The element does not match, sir."

Tony cursed, nearly throwing his cup against the wall. Instead he discarded it behind him, unaware of the blistering liquid splashing his bare feet. In a rare moment of ill-restraint, Tony let out a frustrated scream, sweeping his arm across his desk and sending it's contents scattering across the polished floor. Glass shattered and sprayed him with thin, nearly invisible cuts. His chest heaved, pumping out gutturally anguished grunts.

"Sir?"

"Does any of it match?" Tony screamed into his hands, fisting his hair into painfully tight clumps.

His shaking increased with his shoulders hunching and tensing more as he waited for JARVIS to calculate the difference.

"There is a 52% match rate, sir."

"Fifty-two percent," he enunciated to himself quietly, "It's never enough."

Tony straightened up to stare blankly at the mess covering his lab.

Post-it notes dotted the walls, his tables, and even his cars. He didn't need them. In fact he had only ordered them last week thinking perhaps it would ground him, and remind him of the necessity and fruition of such an ambitious dream. But now it slammed into him with a splitting ache, his eyes scrunching up as a blinding pain coursed down his head. It reminded him of how fucking ruined he was.

"Never fucking enough," he muttered.

Fifty two percent means the elements, the material, whatever the fuck he labelled it- it all boiled down to having the same matter which existed for tangible forms, but beyond that, whatever accumulation of atoms formed the mysterious armours, 'flesh', and weapons of the Hoard simply did not exist as an Earthen configuration, and if Tony dared to press his mind into the darkest corners of his intelligence, he would be forced to consider that potentially, the elements he searched so desperately for were beyond his highest form of science.

Beyond science itself and perhaps into the realm of speculation and, he shuddered, magic. The horror.

Horrible potential. One would believe Tony Stark idolized magic. His own creations all embodied the most human form of magic. Technology so advanced he could craft his suit from the air (seemingly) and power his tower from a self-sufficient source. All ideas that scientists had salivated over, but truly, few had the brains capable of processing such advanced theories.

"JARV," he ground out through gritted teeth, "What does the two-percent signify?"

Another moment of silence while JARVIS considered his readings. "I believe, sir, that the two percent is evidence of a nuclear-bonding between the armours of the Chitauri Hoard, and their 'flesh'."

That means their armour is really an exoskeleton..

Which again meant he was no closer to understanding their technology or their ability to breathe in space.

Tony wanted to cry but he settled for sinking to his knees and gasping for air. Imagining space without his suit.. imagining floating in that awful, endless void..

He couldn't breathe.

Grasping at his throat, his vision swam.

"Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta..."

Code Beta.

Tony's self determined code word broke through the haze, allowing him enough time to stagger to his feet and slump towards his coach. Barely mustering the strength to pull his suddenly lead filled body onto the expensive leather, he never heard had a chance to fight he sleep which wormed its way into his deprived and demented brain.

Burning cinders drifted through the air lazily. Such beautiful hues of orange and magenta glowed behind the thick, black smoke. They danced like peacocks of death.

Plumes of the smoke filled the skies and suffocated him, working its way down his throat and filling him with trepidation.

Her voice chanted above the carnage, "Cinis praecepto cadunt acie retro.."

Screaming metal cut through his dazed thoughts and he raised his head, vision blurred by red, to see a ship leaning to left. It groaned ominously, straining against gravity, but inevitably, it lost. The dull silver wings tipped downwards and the ship fell headlong into a spiralling descent.

"In acie retro faciens iter sonitu.."

He tried to cry out in pain but the sound lodged in his throat. His entire body ached like he had been beaten for all eternity. He had to press on. Desperation clawed at him.

A spindly hand shot towards him and tightened around his throat. He thrashed violently before regaining his senses. Lifting his hand to fire a propulsion, the being was swept away in with a loud bang, landing sickeningly against a stone wall.

Everything blurred together as he fought them. There were so many. Everywhere. They swarmed like roaches, never ceasing, never lessening in number despite the culling blows they were dealt. Slate coloured skin, red eyes, and horrible, repulsive green mouths like moss and mold.

Somewhere far from his vision the Hulk let out an almighty roar, shaking the earth he lay on with a bellow deeper than he had ever heard.

"Rumpitur sanguine filiorum tuorum implebo tympana.."

They were losing. Vision hovered above one of their mother-ships surrounded by an unearthly red glow. Another mammoth beast fell from the sky with an almighty crack as lightening touched from the heavens and split it's skull from it's monstrous body.

Agony seared from his chest and as he looked down he nearly passed out. Luminous green shards jutted from his reactor like pins in a doll. They leaked a foul odorous discharge and his reactor sparked, sending blinding spots cascading across his vision.

He sent another energy charge at an approaching Chitauri goon, before commanding JARVIS to launch a rocket at the mother-ship closest to him.

"Sir, your arc reactor does not possess the energy needed to fire the rocket and continue to power your suit."

He forced JARVIS to do it.

The air in his lungs left him like a swift punch and he collapsed in the rubble, unable to breathe or scream or think. JARVIS said something but it didn't compute and he felt a blissful numbness encompass his left side. In the back of his head, he registered a stroke.

"Errorem suum pure et crucifigetis.."

Inhuman shrieks filled the air but it barely registered to him. JARVIS continued to bleat in his ear. All he knew was agony. Unfathomable and unnatural pain.

As his eyes slid shut slowly, the last thing he ever saw were the rising forms of those they had so valiantly tried to slaughter. They stood slowly, heads tipping back to join in the unearthly shrieks, bodies convulsing nauseatingly.

Darkness filled his vision.

Tony woke with a scream.

Silence. Then his ragged breath.

Another fucking night terror. It had been so real. So clear. But it was just a dream.

They were usually quite similar. It always featured the Chitauri. Plenty of death. The Avengers, naturally.

And that haunting voice.

It was so familiar that Tony was sure it belonged to a real person he had met before. But for the life of him he couldn't think of who. And that drove him fucking mad. Despite his near perfect memory, whoever possessed that lilting voice escaped his stranglehold grasp. He eventually concluded the voice manifested as a distorted version of a real persons voice. He then banished it from his mind before it sent him raving mad, and falling over his already precarious balance on the edge of sanity.

Tony had defied nature most nights but the fatigue had gone beyond his previously known limits, and once something as mere as a thought had triggered his fears, the need for rest wormed in like a disease and wouldn't let go.

Drenched in sweat Tony had summoned his latest suit models frantically, despite being barely conscious. Nine feet tall each, separately colour coded, they smashed through the concrete walls hiding them from any potential intruder. Ironically, when he had woken to tall and menacing figures looming above him, he had once again descended into a panic attack.

Sometimes Tony wanted to die. To kill himself. But he couldn't.

If space held such terrible things, then death.. death would be unimaginable.

He would suffer, and suffer happily as only the truly mad can.

The latin translation from Tony's dream;

"Commandment of ashes, fall in line behind your maker, march to the sound of their cries, fill your beating drums with the blood of your broken children and crucify the pure for their aberration."

Enjoy.