#ive drawn way more in volume in the 10 months ive known them

[petorahs]

what is it about avenday that makes me snap and go crazy with my art i wonder

[tonystarktogo]

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 10

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend within three hours of receiving it because I have no time management skills to speak of and they’re just that wonderful. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: In which Tony realises he’s been thinking about the wrong fandom all along. This isn’t Kim Possible at all—this is some super-duper messed-up Supernatural crap. Also for an uninhabited island, there sure are a lot of bodies on this one…

.On a tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

What happens next is something nothing, not even nine years of futuristic knowledge, could have prepared Tony for. He’s leaning back and forth, trying to make out the shadows of the creepy helicopters that have been following them like wasps drawn to a glass of lemonade in between the leaves of the trees surrounding them. The choppers appear to slowly lower themselves, though they probably, hopefully, don’t plan to land. By now, the booming noise of their motors is impossible to ignore, as is the wind that blows Tony’s hair out of his face—which is convenient, so that’s something.

The girl is muttering under her breath, but Tony doesn’t pay her any mind. He’s transfixed by the sight of their doom descending down on them in slow-motion—alright, that might be a tad dramatic. They aren’t dead yet. Besides, he’s got Dead-Eyes. If that guy is anything like his future self, he’s damn hard to kill off. As is Tony himself.

Focusing on those reassuring thoughts isn’t as easy as Tony would like it to be. Or maybe he doesn’t trust bland drivel as much as he used to.They had all stopped believing in hope eventually, hadn’t they? Some just held out longer than others.

“We could really use a miracle right about now,” Tony whispers. The words are lost in the sound of rustling leaves, ripped away by the sharp wind, but he feels better for having said them out loud all the same.

Dead-Eyes makes a noise that falls flat before it can become a full word, and Tony turns his head reflexively, unnerved by anything that can make Dead-Eyes break his apparent vow of silence. But the frantic question never makes it past his lips because in that moment, the sky explodes.

The funny thing is, there is no noise. Tony hears the choked yell of the girl as clearly as his own reflexive, “Get down!” Hears branches break and small stones roll as he throws himself onto the ground. There’s a light so bright, even though Tony isn’t looking at its origin, it sears through his closed eyelids, burns itself deep into his skull. And it doesn’t end. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give.

Its brightness is loaded with a physical weight, a heaviness that presses down onto Tony’s limbs, his torso. Pushes the air right out of him—and that, that isn’t right. Light isn’t supposed to do that, isn’t supposed to press you to the ground and keep you there. Like a butterfly stuck with needles to a collection. The pressure keeps building up, like lightning racing towards the earth. And then, as sudden as it came, it’s gone again.

Tony blinks. And blinks. And blinks again. He rubs his hands over his eyes, a pointless attempt to soothe the ache, and regain something approaching a clear vision. By the time the bright sparkles in his eyes finally clear up, Tony finds himself still lying on the hard ground, shaky but unharmed. There’s a gentle breeze caressing his skin, leaves rustling above him. A mockery of peace in the aftermath of a devastating storm.

It takes him a long time to realise that the soft, choked sound Vic makes are sobs. And even after the realisation, Stark can’t work out what, exactly, they mean. He can’t remember the last time he saw anyone cry—real tears, tears that don’t stand for pain or manipulation, that is.

“Every morning,” Vic says eventually, her voice as shaky as her hands when she clasps them in front of her.

Stark turns to face her, observes her profile in the dim twilight. There are tears running down her cheeks freely, utterly unashamed of her lapse of control in a way he’s never witnessed Vic be. She’s too guarded to be comfortable expressing emotions. Usually, at least. Wound too tightly to let anyone close. Even him. Especially him.

Barnes told him they were too alike once. Stark doesn’t see it.

“Every morning,” Vic continues, stares straight ahead, not acknowledging his presence at all. She doesn’t appear to see anything at all either. “I get up and I wait for it happen. For the sky to burn down around us. For the world to implode in itself. For the poison that seeps into everything we touch to finally reach the heart and kill .” She giggles, high and perhaps a little unhinged—not that Stark can judge her now, can he?

“But it doesn’t. Even when you’re stuck in standstill, frozen by a pain so terrible, you’d rather rip out your own lungs through your ribcage than take another breath… We’ve all got that one person, don’t we? The one that keeps us from giving up, from lying down and stop fighting. And when we lose that person that we’d do everything for, that we live for… It doesn’t change anything, in the end. Night still falls, and morning still comes. And the world just keeps on turning. No matter how much it hurts. How impossible it seems. We keep talking about it, keep preparing for the worst, keep saying the world could end tomorrow. But it doesn’t .”

She turns then, looks at him, eyes brimming with fresh tears in the wake of devastating understanding. “It never will, won’t it?”

And Stark wishes with all his heart that those words could still bring him hope. That they could feel like anything but yet another punch in the gut, another curse carved into his skin. As it is, Barnes’ hand—cool, and unnatural, and safe—is the only thing that keeps him standing.

As the last stars in Tony’s sight dissipate, so does the memory. Unfortunately, this one is a little harder to shake off. It’s yet another one involving that woman, Victory—and what a bitch it must have been, living in a post-apocalyptic world with that name. Tony remembers her, of course; years spent fighting side by side are hard to erase in full. But it’s curious, isn’t it? How his memories seem to focus on her, when other people, like Natasha and Barnes, were by his side almost as long?

Tony shakes his head, focuses on getting back onto his feet for the time being. Dead-Eyes and the girl they have with them seem to recover as well, though Dead-Eyes looks a little shell-shocked—a downside, Tony assumes, of having enhanced senses in the face of whatever the fucking hell that was.

The girl looks pale as a ghost, sick even. She’s staring blindly at the sky. “They’re gone,” she whispers, horror and relief and something more primal than fear etched into her face.

She’s right, but then Tony has already known that. Even if he hadn’t fully processed it until this very moment. Because the noise, the clear rumpa-rumpa-tab of the helicopters is missing. It’s impossible, Tony recalls his fragmented thoughts when the light show first started. Followed by a less urgent, but just as damning, where lightning strikes, thunder will follow.

But there hadn’t been any thunder, had there? Or at least, none that he’d heard. And so Tony does the only thing he can think of. He tilts his head up and states with a calmness he most certainly doesn’t feel; “Well, that was anticlimactic.”

* * * * *

.In a great hall made of stone.

“Are you sure about this?” Gracie, a young woman who has been with them for less than a year, questions quietly. She isn’t obnoxious or challenging about it—a fact that Epolia appreciates—but doubt, in any shape and form, has the potential to cause great harm. And with how far they have already come, well. There is a delicate balance to these things. It wouldn’t do for a youngling like Gracie to upset the Eye through inexperience and poorly-timed hesitation.

Epolia rises from her chair, a motion that immediately quietens the mumbling as the eyes of everyone present seek out their eldest member. There is no such thing as a leader among them—there can’t be, even though there has to be, for only the Eye shall judge and order, and only Its word shall be their law—but Epolia is the eldest, a position that comes with a certain amount of recognised expertise and respect.

“My dear friends,” she says in a gravelly voice that travels through the entire hall despite her low volume. “Do not fret. There is no cause for worry-“ here, her eyes find Gracie in the crowd, and Epolia holds her gaze steadily, “for our mission has succeeded.”

Her bold declaration is received with the expected excitement, and it pains Epolia to do this, to use their trust in her this way. But it is the only way. She will not allow their faith to waver now, when they have come so far, have achieved so much. Their sacrifices can not, will not be for nothing. Epolia will ensure it.

“How?” Gracie asks, but this time there is no doubt in her eyes, only a growing, desperate hope that reminds Epolia why she had chosen her despite Gracie’s young age all those months ago. “Have you felt the Eye? Have—have we not been found worthy?” Her brown eyes fill with tears at that thought, and Epolia adamantly shakes her head before the girl’s terror can take hold.

“No!” Epolia insists, and that, at least, she knows to be true. “The Eye will approach us when It is ready, and our fidelity will be rewarded. I know this to be true, not because I have been judged, but because I have seen the Heart with my own eyes!”

“The Heart?”

Epolia can’t make out who in the crowd has said the words, but when she meets their gazes one after the other, she reads the same awe in them she has felt herself upon being graced with the Heart’s presence.

“Yes,” Epolia confirms. Remembers her encounter with the Heart, the pain, the suffering, the bloodshed she had seen in them. The cool detachment of something too big to be fully concealed by its human shell. “It was a youth with eyes of the old, a true warrior, leaving shadows and darkness in its wake, just as the legends have told us to expect.” Epolia takes a deep breath, willing her racing heart to calm down at the memory of having to endure the weight of the Heart’s judgement as it deemed her trustworthy, the warmth, the aching familiarity of its touch.

“But more than that, their very presence resonated in my soul. I—“ Epolia’s voice catches in her throat for a moment, unprepared for the wave of emotion her words bring down upon her. “I have felt Luca. I have heard the calls of our children. There is no doubt, the Heart has been returned to us. And soon it will rejoin the Eye. Soon it will turn this earth’s tide, as it was always meant to be.”

Epolia does not bother to suppress the growing smile on her lips, not when she wishes for her fellow believers to find the same comfort in this knowledge that she has been given. The silence is broken by excited chatter, relieved laughs, and the brilliant tears fuelled by hope alone. Epolia’s eyes pick out Gracie in the crowd, and the young girl’s happiness—written all over her face—eases some of the hollow pain she has carried ever since her grandson’s passing.

“Rejoice, my friends, for the Heart has been returned to us,” Epolia whispers, and watches, as she always does.

And with the return of the Heart, darkness shall fall, and the Eye shall be joined by Its Highest, Its Brightest, Its Warmth. And together they shall rise, to purify this bitter earth of its greatest sacrilege.  And though the price shall be high, the sacrifice of the faithful shall be rewarded and their peace shall remain untouched, she recites the words she knows by heart in her head.

Epolia smiles. So the end comes upon us then, not in frost or ice, but in flames.

* * * * *

.On a tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

“One moment they were right there and the next they were just thrown away, like paperweights!” the girl says numbly.

Tony turns his head so fast he’s sure he’ll give himself whiplash. “Wait, you saw it happen?”

“Yeah.” The girl wipes a hand over her face. Takes a loud, deep breath, as though she wants to force her body to calm down through sheer will alone. It seems to be working somewhat, because when she looks up again, her gaze is less frantic, almost centred even. “They just—stopped, in mid air. Like they were bouncing off an invisible wall or something.” She shakes her head with a weak laugh, rubs her eyes. “And then the light thing happened—which hurt like a bitch, what the everloving fuck was that anyways?—and I lost track of them. But I’m guessing they crashed? I don’t know. This shouldn’t be possible. Bloody fucking hell, I saw it and I still don’t believe it!”

Tony shakes his head, even as his mind already runs over the options that might explain what they have witnessed. Unfortunately, almost all of them lead back to a single word Tony used to hate ever since Loki first showed up with his brainwashing stick—and hasn’t grown fonder of in recent years: magic. Of course, there is always a second option, a sarcastic voice in the back of his head reminds him.

“Either I seriously need to overthink my stance on the existence of all-knowing deities or I really, really picked the right island,“ Tony ends up saying, stunned despite himself.

Dead-Eyes doesn‘t appear particularly moved by this declaration. He’s still carefully blinking, too slow to be anything but deliberate. Tony wonders whether his eyesight has recovered yet—enhanced senses have to be a bitch when you’re watching a detonation-without-the-explosion-part first hand—but doesn‘t ask.

“Come on,“ Tony says instead. “Let’s see if there’s anything worthwhile on this island. A boat, for example.” Though their luck can’t be that unreal. But hey, it’s not like they have anything else to do, right? They’re essentially stranded. And if they don’t move now, Tony knows he’s gonna sit down somewhere and not get up any time soon. Hell, just the simple question What the fuck just happened? runs in circles through his mind, so fast it leaves him dizzy and disoriented. A small—or maybe not so small—breakdown might be in his imminent future. Not that that‘s ever stopped him, but it‘s sure to put a damper on things.

Dead-Eyes complies immediately, a reaction Tony has grown used to. He shouldn‘t, he reminds himself, but it‘s become an afterthought at this point. Or maybe it‘s always been, Tony muses as he brushes the dirt off his hands and knees. Dead-Eyes had been his silent shadow long before he‘d woken up in this crazy world, where nothing made sense and no one acted like they should, after all. And maybe that was precisely the reason Dead-Eyes took so little shape and form in his memories—because a shadow was all he had ever been to Tony.

But thoughts like that have no place on an abandoned island that may well be warded against black helicopters, what with the way Tony’s day is going. And that reminder is enough to motivate him to start moving again, despite the protests of his sore muscles and aching limbs.

We‘ll rest when we‘re dead, Tony thinks with a grim smile, and stumbled onward. It‘s not like there are may directions to take anyways. Up sounds like the most logical choice.

“Really?“ the girl mutters somewhere behind him. “Why do you people always have to do things the hard way, seriously’ What the bloody hell is wrong with you, and how come I always end up with the batshit crazy ones anyways?” She continues her tirade quietly—though not as quietly as she seems to think—under her breath.

When Tony chances another glance at Dead-Eyes, he’s certain the guy is rolling his eyes. It’s such a fundamentally un-Dead-Eyes-action, Tony actually takes a double-take. But Dead-Eye’s expression is as even as it ever was. He must have been imagining things. Or projecting, more likely.

Next to him, the girl—and Tony really needs to learn her name at some point, this is starting to get awkward—stumbles. Tony turns, more out of abstract curiosity than an earnest desire to help, to find her expression strangely blank. A startling echo of Dead-Eyes’ regular appearance. It doesn’t look as out-of-place on the girl’s features as it should.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks because Dead-Eyes definitely won’t. He’s observing the girl with a tilted head, like a small boy might watch a butterfly he’s caught in a marmalade glass. And okay, that’s a disturbing comparison to make, even for Tony.

“I think you chose the wrong island,” the girl deadpans, her gaze fixated on something behind Tony.

Tony whirls around, the familiar thrill of threat, attack, chase racing down his spine. He doesn’t know what he expects—a gun, a knife, a machete aimed straight at his throat—but what he sees definitely isn’t it.

Without Tony noticing, they’ve reached a high point that allows them to oversee most of the grounds—the ones that aren’t covered completely by trees and bushes, that is—only there isn’t just the expected sand, rock and grass.

“I thought you said the island was uninhabited?“ the girl asks surprisingly even. Perhaps she has reached her limit of shocks per day, and is now simply accepting the twists heading her way, without processing the information or reacting to them at all.

That must be nice. Tony wishes he could say the same for himself.  “It is,“ he winds up answering mechanically. Followed by an unhelpful—though entirely appropriate—“Well, fuck.“

* * * * *

.On the helicarrier.

Fury watches as two of his best agents stare down at the files laid out in front of them. He’s survived a damn long time in the business he’s chosen for a reason, which is why he’s entirely unsurprised when Barton leans back in his chair, obnoxiously chews on his gum—and Fury has no idea how he got a hold of the damn thing—and drawls, “Sooooo, what’s those numbers supposed to be?”

Thanks to many years of dealing with men way more irritating than Barton—politicians, lawyers, Stark, just to name a few—Fury manages not to throttle the man. He’s well-aware that Barton is smart, certainly above average. But as good as Barton is at putting things together at the drop of a hat, he’s even better at dumbing himself down. And turning important meetings into games for his own amusement. And giving Fury just cause to plot his more violent retirement options.

Yes, Barton is a man of many talents indeed. Luckily, Romanoff has a habit of keeping Barton’s most irritating habits in check—if only because she lacks the patience to put up with them.

“So there was a energy spike so high it was picked up all-around the globe.” Romanoff taps a finger onto one of the many diagrams that have been the cause of Fury’s latest migraine. “A spike which originated from a tiny island we didn’t even know existed.”

Well, they had known it existed, theoretically. The island was in their records somewhere—Fury had checked, the last thing they needed was a blot of land appearing out of nowhere—it was just that, until now, no one cared.

“This spike that could be recorded everywhere,” Romanoff continues with an unhappy curl of her lips, “happened only minutes before Iron Man was attacked. A couple of hours before White went rogue. And we’re only hearing about this now?”

Fury’s scowl deepens. Truth is, he’s thought the exact same thing—coincidences don’t happen in their line of work, and a signal like that, while obvious, couldn’t be missed. “The techies recorded it just fine, only we were in the middle of our black-out and missing Stark case,” Fury growls. “And then you developed that charming traitor theory of yours, which meant we were too busy vetting our own men to get the information through to the right people as fast as it should have.”

Barton raises his eyebrows. “That’s awfully convenient.”

If possible, Fury’s expression darkens even more. “Indeed.”

“You know, this could be the signal that activated White.” Romanoff tilts her head. “She might not have been the only one either.”

“It’s not my first day in the bureau, Romanoff!” Fury snaps. “I have people on that already. But they can only interpret the data we already have. I need eyes on the scene. I need the two of you to get your asses onto that fucking island and tell me something I don’t know. Like what the fuck caused such a massive spike and who the fucking hell is behind it!”

And Fury swears, if this is another magical alien letting them run around and chase their own tails, he’s not going to hand this one off to his own people’s court. He’s gonna shoot the fucking bastard himself.

“Take a quinjet and get moving,” Fury barks when neither Barton nor Romanoff make a move to get their asses going. “Dismissed!”

Barton grins brightly—which causes Fury’s head to throb in advance—but Romanoff pulls him out of the office before he can get someone killed. Possibly himself.

It’s only after the door falls shut behind the troublesome duo—and damn, but why do his best agents always have to be such a fucking hassle?—that Hill, who’s been standing quietly by his right side, clears her throat. “Are you sure about this, boss?”

Fury grimaces. The blunt truth that he despises more than anything is that he isn’t sure about anything. Hasn’t been since Stark dropped off the map. And with good reason. The last time the man went missing, he blew himself out of a terrorist cell, revolutionised clean energy and turned into a vigilante with multi-million-dollar resources. Just the thought of not having eyes and ears on Stark makes Fury itchy. That he also had a traitor under his nose and everything has gone pear-shaped without any apparent reason is almost negligible at this point.

“No,” Fury grumbles after a moment of careful consideration. Hill is a remarkable woman and an even better agent, but he knows better than to trust in that. Still, as his second-in-command she deserves certain insights—especially regarding the Avengers. “But I’d rather have Romanoff and Barton causing havoc on some island than in my own backyard. They’re wildcards, Hill. And they’re pissed. You leave them alone too long to stew, and they’ll blow up in your faces, probably bring the whole agency down with them too.”

Hill furrows her eyebrows in consideration. “You saw the footage, though. You really think there’s anything they’ll be able to tell in person that we don’t already know?”

Fury shrugs. “If there is, they’ll find it.” But that isn’t the point. “Besides, I had to clean up your mess somehow, didn’t I?”

Hill tightens her mouth at that, clearly displeased, but she doesn’t disagree.

She better not. Really, suspending Romanoff, Barton, and Rogers? Giving them endless free time, a dangerously capable AI, and a reason to start a little private hunt? It’s a recipe for disaster if Fury has ever seen one. No, those two are far better off investigating some messed-up freak shit as far from the Stark tower as he can reasonably get them, that’s for sure.

* * * * *

.Still on the same tiny, uninhabited island in the Bahamas.

Tony doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen. Staring at—he doesn’t know. Except, that’s a lie, isn’t it? He does know. He’s seen sights like this before, and with every time he blinks, the view changes, like a new layer or filter has suddenly been slipped over his eyes. Different faces, different backgrounds. Sand. Grass. Rocks and stones. Children. Adults.

“Stark?”

“Stark!”

“Stark!”

A hand grasping his forearm. He whirls around, knife at ready. This close up, it’s personal.

Victory stares at him. A little wide-eyed. A little scared.

He doesn’t lower the knife.

“Tony.” She says it softly, like a prayer. He wants to laugh at that—the gods are all dead, there’s nothing left to pray for—but he can’t find his voice.

“You can’t help them, Tony.” She’s gentle. As though she’s talking to a child. Victory hates children. “They’re gone.”

He isn’t listening.

Victory closes her eyes in defeat.

His hand—holding the knife, don’t let go—trembles.

“Barnes!”

It’s always the same.

He’s been wrong, Tony admits to himself, with the sort of black humour one might show before his own execution—before the execution of someone else. This isn’t a Kim Possible episode at all. This is some next level Supernatural shit if he’s ever seen one.

The small clearing Tony is staring down at is covered in bodies. And not the skeletons of some ancient sacrifice either. They’re fresh, can’t be more than a few days old. Still so easily recognisable as people, even from where he’s standing. Children.

“Jesus, how many bodies are there?” Tony whispers, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. He should be used to this, he inwardly scolds. He used to be better at shrugging these things off.

“Forty-two,” Dead-Eyes replies immediately, eyes sharper than they’ve been in a while. He’s standing stock-still, but there’s a faint restlessness in the way his gaze shifts from one unmoving body to another.

“That’s…oddly specific,” the girl comments from where she’s leaning against a tree.

“Yeah.” Tony takes in the way the bodies are lying in a circle. The cut throats, the blood. He’ll have to take a closer look to know for sure, but it looks like these children—fuck, they look about as old as he currently is—were killed here. More importantly, they didn’t fight, didn’t run. The blood is very localised, only soaking the grounds where the bodies fell. Maybe they were held in place. Maybe they were willing. “I'm no expert on the occult, but does this look like a ritual to you?”

“You think someone sacrificed these kids?” The girl swallows. “What kind of ritual would include something like this? And who’d be crazy enough to actually do it?”

Tony grimaces. Unfortunately, he knows people who’d do a lot more than this to accomplish what they want. It’s not a short list either. “Nothing good,” he promises darkly. He’s never been a fan of magic, and if there’s any brand of it that has ever deserved his every prejudice, it’s blood magic.

His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides when Tony remembers—and how could he forget in the first place? Has he really gone this soft already? Been lulled into a false sense of security because the danger isn’t imminent yet?—the haunting words of that strange, old lady he met at the airport.

“Don’t worry, you will find the answers you seek on the grounds of the bloodless children.”

The words echo in his head. Mock him. Mock the sight of countless children slaughtered for nothing. And Tony—Tony doesn’t think. Stumbles forward, down the hill, toward the bodies that have just been left here. Discarded. Forgotten. He’s seen this all before, and he can’t stop.

He can’t stop.

There’s someone yelling, shouting his name, and Tony can’t tell if it’s real or a memory. Can’t tell if any of this is real. There are footsteps right behind him, a steady presence shadowing him—Dead-Eyes, Tony knows, because this is the only thing he knows, the only thing that’s always, always real.

Dead-Eyes doesn’t stop him though, so Tony doesn’t stop either. Walks even faster. Stumbles. Sinks to his knees besides a body, a little boy with hands as small as his own. Tony doesn’t reach out, but he wants to. Despite the smell, and the insects, and he’s long gone but Tony wants to—

You’ll find the answers you seek.

The air is heavy, saturated with a pressure Tony has felt before. But this time, he doesn’t fight it, welcomes it even. Feels as though he’s floating away, is being pulled into different directions, all over the place, and this weight is the only thing pinning him down. The weight and Dead-Eyes’ heavy breathing.

“If only we could turn back time.” Victory laughs, shakes her head at her own folly. Stark wonders whether she realises that it is this light-heartedness he admires the most in her. “Would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it?

“That’d be easy. Convenient,” Barnes speaks up with a voice as unused as Stark’s first name. “S’not how the world works.”

There’s something sharp in the glance he throws Victory, something Stark notices but doesn’t quite understand that passes between them.

He shrugs, reloads his gun. They have people to kill.

Barnes and Vic fall into step behind him like he knew they would.

Tony stares at the boy’s face. He must have been cute, he thinks, when he was alive. Children always are.

“It’s everywhere. In the water, the earth, the air. We can’t fight this.”

“But we can draw it out.”

“What would be the point?”

“To find a cure. A better way. To put a stop to this. Save the world. That’s our job, remember?”

“Save the world for whom?”

He’s been promised answers, even if he hadn’t realised. Hadn’t taken the woman seriously at the time. Because the prospect of someone else knowing had been too daunting, too terrifying to consider. Now Tony can’t stop wondering which questions exactly he’s supposed to get answers to.

You’ll find the answers you seek.

It’s nothing but a whisper. A product of his own imagination. And like a key that has finally been put into the correct lock, Tony feels the words slide through his mind, bypassing walls and safety measures he hadn’t been aware of existed.

And with a soft click, the door opens.

“Thanos was the catalyst, not the cause. We were only ever going to be brought down by an enemy from the inside. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Barnes’ gun doesn’t waver. “You killed Captain America.”

Neither does Stark’s. “You killed Iron Man.”

Thoughts? :) 

[planar-echoes]

Makin’ the Law, Makin’ the Law (Ravnica) By Matt Cavotta (5/23/06)

Many years ago, Ravnican citizens both guilded and unguilded began to have problems with some of the big, uncivilized creatures with whom they shared their cramped city streets. Enough momentum was gained through the influence of Orzhov business and Simic interests that the Azorius Senate set out to create a new law (which turned out to be, in grand overblown Azorius fashion, a long list of related laws) that would help deal with the problem. Though the Senate does not need approval of other guilds to make law, it often considers the requests of guilds in order to build political capital. Other than the Orzhov, the Azorius are the most interested in jockeying for power and influence among the 10 guilds.

In the case of strange beasts roving unrestrained and unregistered through the streets, there was plenty of support from the Boros, Orzhov, and Simic to make it a shoe in. After a few short years (short in terms of how long the Azorius normally take to inform, lecture, lobby, and stonewall each other) the Ravnican “Leash Laws” were put to scrolls. The short and sweet of these laws was that any “pets” that were registered as a citizen’s property had to be restrained either physically or Dream Leash while out in public. Of course, there were countless other sub-laws and sub-subsection addenda to laws that dealt with the nature of said restraints and the mountain of paperwork necessary to actually declare another being one’s “pet.” But, to most regular citizens, the Leash laws just meant that you had to keep Scruffy on a string.

Once the new law is made, it becomes the duty of the Azorius to make the new laws known to the public. When this demand was placed upon the guild way back at the beginning, it did not seem like such a big deal. But now, with people spread across the entire plane and down deep into the undercity, this sort of announcement has become more difficult.After decades of poor communication of new laws, and a glut of cases being heard with defendants not even knowing about the laws that were broken, Grand Arbiter Augustin I instituted the Skyscribing policy. This policy authorized the one-time only use of mind penetration magic that would essentially “broadcast” new laws to all living citizens through a magical script written into the sky. The wonderful thing about this technique is that the hustling, bustling (and illiterate) citizenry does not need to take the time to learn the new laws. (Another byproduct of this, which makes the Azorius happy, but no one else, is that now there is nothing keeping them from making every law they can imagine, as well as laws that fit only on scrolls two miles long.) Still, it has proven to be a resounding success, and also a great responsibility. Other guilds have been angling to get their hands on this mind-penetration magic since Augustin I created it. In the hands of any guild other than the Azorius, this power would lead definitely lead to trouble.

While making the law is a long, drawn out process, enforcing it is, well, long and drawn out too. The Azorius are not the sort to skip over protocol or speed things along or really anything that does not involve full implementation of the written processes or the dotting of all i’s and crossing of all t’s with the official i and t scripting stylus as described in “Processes and Procedures, Implements and Accoutrements Of, Volume III.”

In the present day, laws are broken all the time. Skyscribing or not, people are bound to slip up or just go bad. The Azorius are busy with these cases each and every day of the year, except for official holidays (when most of them are deep in the bowels of Prahv anyway, poring over dusty old scrolls anyway. The Azorius are not known for cuttin’ loose at parties.)

Take the Leash Laws, for example. Just a short three and a half years ago (again, short only to the Azorius) Igort Uriklatz was arrested by Boros Legionnaires for Disturbing Commerce and breaking the Leash Laws. One of his many registered pets, in this case an Ogre, broke free of his restraint and rumbled out the door and through the streets - tipping over Orzhov merchant carts and trouncing Selesnyan Cryers. It rampaged for a short while until it was easily handled by Boros officers. They traced the blood and wreckage back to Igort’s home. There, they secured the secondary crime scene and signaled for a Sky Hussar patrol.

When a Sky Hussar arrives on the scene, it is prepared to do the job alone, but is most often accompanied by a processing host consisting of Azorius First-Wing or Second Wing units. In the case of Igort Uriklatz, the wing team of Sky Hussars arrived without aid. As always, they appeared in crisp formation, dismounting with a snap of the cape, armor gleaming in the sun.

They extended no pleasantries to their partners in law and order, the Boros, but immediately launched into the long pre-transfer recital of arrest to trial protocol. That takes about a half an hour, during which the trigger-happy Boros usually split as soon as the Azorius takes his first breath, (and you’d be surprised how long they can blather without stopping.) Once the arrest documentation and evidence scrolls are accounted for, the crime scene is turned over to scrollwardens to add more paperwork to the file and to go over the minutiae with Azorius precision. (Boros hotheads cannot possibly be trusted to thoroughly document the crime scene.)

The detainee is brought immediately to the lower levels of Prahv where he will be turned over to the Court Hussars, the wardens of the guildhall grounds. A similar transfer speech takes place- even though the Sky and Court Hussars each know the whole thing backwards and forwards and in their sleep. The Azorius follow the rules to the T, no matter how inefficient the rules may seem.

The detainee is then taken into the underchambers and put into a Stasis Cell by Prahv detention mages.

An interesting thing happens next (though it has nothing to do with the law.) Whenever an Azorius guildmember finishes up involvement in an arrest or detention process, he or she immediately performs the cleansing rituals as stipulated by “Processes and Procedures, Dress and Etiquette, Volume I.” As Azorius guildmembers see themselves as living extensions of the law, any guild member who comes in contact with outlaws or even alleged law breakers must then wipe away “the taint of impropriety, the stain of lawlessness,” - P.P.D.E. Vol. I. This cleansing procedure involves magical methods as well as good old fashioned soap and elbow grease. “…the Law is perfect, clean and precise. And so shall you be.” - P.P.D.E. Vol. I.

While Mr. Spiffy spitshines his breastplate, Igort remains in stasis until a lawmage is appointed to him and all the evidence is processed through all the proper channels. It’s a good thing that the Azorius are so thorough with their documentation, and that the Stasis Cell keeps the detainee from aging, because it takes so much time to weave and wind through all the Azorius pre-trial bureaucracy that witnesses forget what happened, crime scenes are ruined by Helldozers, and arresting officers often pass of old age.

When the trial is finally ready to begin, the courtroom is quieted by Prahvian Paladins and the Minister of Impediments opens the trial with a reading of the protocol of the courtroom (in its entirety), the list of allegations, the laws that were broken by the accused (in their entirety) and then the pre-presentation list of evidence. Some days later, the presiding Senator and his or her appointed sub-attorneys and guildmages enter and the trial itself begins. Those who have not dozed off or contemplated suicide or fled screaming in mind-numbed horror to the nearest bumbat hole rise, repeat an oath of procedure after the Minister of Impediments, and then sit down to an Azorius treat that could last years- and that’s just for minor infractions (like that of Igort Uriklatz (thank goodness, for our sake.)

The courtroom clicks with the crisp rhythmic monotony of Azorius bloviation. Igort feels like this is his sentence, not his trial. Things are not going well for him, though he does not know it. The Azorius speak with such arcane legal jargon that they could be discussing this weekend’s NFL draft and nobody would know but them. But they would never do that, because this is a court of law and there is hardly enough time before the Dodecimillennial just to talk about the Leash Laws. (The Dodecimmillennial, for those without a Ravnican calendar handy, is only nine-thousand, nine-hundred eighty-something years from now.)

The dronery is broken some months later when Igort is finally called to testify. He is placed in the verity circle, an area that is enchanted with truth magic that will not allow lies to be spoken. It is quite effective in that one may believe that he is saving his butt with a finely planned lie, but in reality he is reciting the poetry of his own guilt. Understanding of the verity circle has trickled out to the rest of society, so now people rarely try to “beat the system.” Instead they try to leverage any law that would allow them to keep their own mouth shut. Unfortunately, Igort had not heard of it before and has dug himself into a pretty deep hole.

Every time he opens his mouth, he brings up another rule he has broken. The Walking Archives amble in and out of the courtroom, providing documentation relating to each infraction Igort mentions.

While Igort is busy dooming himself and his lawmage is slumped over in defeat, the courtroom begins to buzz and murmurs break the silence in the gallery. The Soulsworn Jury have entered the courtroom. To those in the know, this can only mean one thing; the Grand Arbiter Augustin IV is coming. In Prahv there are many trials going on concurrently, and the Grand Arbiter presides only over those of greatest import. When such a trial is not in session, he and his Soulsworn move from one trial to the other, “laying down the law.” While most Azorius impress each other with how longwinded they can be, Augustin IV and his disciples pride themselves on brevity and decisiveness.

Grand Arbiter Augustin IV enters the room on his floating bench. The proceedings halt and, finally, the steady stream of talk ceases. “I have heard enough,” he says. “Guilty.” The courtroom erupts. The gallery cheers, the lawmages resume their argumentative tone, and Igort goes nuts. Not thinking, he screams out “Due process! Due process!” Voices from the gallery can be heard yelling “Oh god, please no!” The place is out of control.

“Silence!” Booms the imperious voice of the Grand Arbiter, and then there is nothing. “This trial shall move to sentencing, now.”

Igort glares at his lawmage, nudging him and gesturing for him to do something. The silence spell dissipates. In a half-hearted attempt to please his client, the lawmage raises an objection to the decision, “Your Honor, statute 12B of the Porcedural Code states tha-“

“Overruled!” The lawmage is immediately shut down by the Grand Arbiter. The lawmage feels like a child who was just scolded by an angry parent. Beneath the humiliation, however, lies a deep-seated pride that he is part of the guild that follows such a stern, powerful guildmaster. His utter defeat reminds him of the clear-cut perfection of the law, and of the power it extends to those who follow it.

The Grand Arbiter and the Soulsworn breeze silently from the room. Once they are gone, the court officials bustle about, quickly rearranging the trial scene to that of a sentencing. All seats and signets and guards and recorders must be positioned as laid out in “Processes and Procedures, the Courtrooms of Prahv”, Volumes I, II, III, IV, and V. Once the room is properly arranged, the sentencing hearing begins. It is as if the very aura of the Grand Arbiter still lingers, or perhaps it is his show of power and decisiveness that has rubbed off on the lawmages in the room. Something has happened because the sentencing hearing takes only four and a half weeks! When it all shakes out, Igort is fined, all 22 of his pets are confiscated and turned over to the Simic for “care,” and his Non-citizen Domestication license is revoked permanently. He is crushed. “Be happy you escaped imprisonment,” his lawmage tells him. It does not make Igort feel any better. The entire process ends with the room rising to its feet, facing the great Azorius signet upon the wall behind the judge, and reciting “The Oath of Life and Law” as it was first uttered and recorded by Grand Arbiter Azor I, the parun of the Azorius guild. This takes several hours. Apparently, Igort’s sentence also includes a few hours of torture as well.

It is a gloomy, lonely scene when Igort returns home. His “friends” are already gone. He cannot bring himself to think of what horrible things the Simic are going to do to them. He is weak-minded, and can’t help but imagine his Drekavac’s head stuck on his Ursapine’s body. He cringes. “Stupid laws,” he says to himself. Then he notices that they took all the animals, but left all the leashes. “Sure, rub it in why don’t you. Stupid Leash Laws!” For months Igort stews in his loneliness. But necessity breeds invention, and Igort needs companionship. He pulls himself up by his bootstraps, gathers his thoughts, his cash, and some items from the house and sets out to find an Izzet. He has an idea.