Pietro Django Maximoff Ϟ Quicksilver (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
superspeeds) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-07-31 11:33 pm
superspeeds) wrote in thecapitol2014-07-31 11:33 pm
Entry tags:
I dreamed I had nothing at all ; OPEN
Who| Pietro and you!
What| Dramatic flopping.
Where| District 7 Suites, Training Center, the Lounge
When| Erhm. Anytime in the last few days?
Warnings/Notes| Dramatic flopping. Possible alcoholism.
[ 1; District 7 Suites ]
He stumbled more than walked through the lavish apartment. It was fancier than most buildings he'd lived in in New York, the floors didn't dip randomly, as was common in the older rehabbed tenements. Everything seemed perfect, pristine, as if inserting a human into the equation would ruin the image somehow. He ruined it. He stumbled instead of walked gingerly as one should, across plush carpet and rich hardwoods, he felt himself almost slip and struggled lamely to retain his balance over the cool tiles of the kitchen.
Earlier, Pietro had felt his stomach growling for perhaps the first time since his arrival in this strange place. Finally he took it upon himself to seek out food, the discomfort having grown sufficient enough to merit actual action. Upon reaching the equally lavish and appropriately stocked kitchen, however, he found himself at a loss. With is powers gone his appetite had also shifted and he couldn't live off of caffeine, sugar, and carbohydrates anymore. He observed the few fruits presented decoratively in a glass bowl on the counter-top, picking one up and blinking at it with only minimal recognition. He double-read labels, and then triple-read them, the information there but unprocessed due to the fact that he had read them too quickly. How cruel this was, how belittling.
—
[ 2; Training Center ]
Treadmills required no small amount of getting used to. Pietro stared down at his feet as he jogged. He could follow their movements which was, honestly, the first sign that something was terribly amiss. In the past, he'd be unable to use this kind of machinery, owing to the fact that, if he pressed himself, he would run it to its limits and the mechanics would crash in on themselves. Now he felt the burn of the incline, the urgency of the speed he'd selected. He wasn't out of shape for a human, he just wasn't himself. It was depressing. Disarming. Alienating.
He pressed the off button on the machine and had to jump to avoid tripping off of it as it slowed. It wasn't just his speed and endurance, his reaction times were also lessened. Captain America had warned him once, half a lifetime ago, about the dangers of relying on his powers for everything. Pietro had reckoned with the man's words a handful of times before, but now here in a strange and hostile land, they seemed to carry more weight.
His arms felt like lead and his face was flushed from the exertion. He felt himself sweating, sensed the droplets beading up on his nose and forehead, pooling at the back of his neck. At the periphery of the room there were towels. He made for one and narrowly avoided punching the wall.
—
[ 3; the Lounge ]
Alcohol made him feel free.
It wasn't healthy, not in the slightest, he knew that. But there was still something to be said for the shift in perception. Gradually the world had slowed down, back to its appropriate rate, leaving him master of it all. The warm golden lights in the room gleamed cheerily, reflecting off the dark wood and bronze of the bar, and the glasses and bottles behind it. Normally none of this would be affecting him as it did, but then normally he wouldn't need it to. He stared down the clear liquid before taking yet another shot. The vodka was good, great, even. He could feel it burning its way down his throat. He could track it. It was a sensation slow enough for him to follow its effects.
He waved to the strange creature behind the bar. In his liquor-addled haze, it reminded him of an Inhuman and he sneered at it with perhaps more vitriol than it deserved. Another glass was necessary, no, not a glass, a bottle. If the world had slowed, maybe he could make it stop entirely.
What| Dramatic flopping.
Where| District 7 Suites, Training Center, the Lounge
When| Erhm. Anytime in the last few days?
Warnings/Notes| Dramatic flopping. Possible alcoholism.
[ 1; District 7 Suites ]
He stumbled more than walked through the lavish apartment. It was fancier than most buildings he'd lived in in New York, the floors didn't dip randomly, as was common in the older rehabbed tenements. Everything seemed perfect, pristine, as if inserting a human into the equation would ruin the image somehow. He ruined it. He stumbled instead of walked gingerly as one should, across plush carpet and rich hardwoods, he felt himself almost slip and struggled lamely to retain his balance over the cool tiles of the kitchen.
Earlier, Pietro had felt his stomach growling for perhaps the first time since his arrival in this strange place. Finally he took it upon himself to seek out food, the discomfort having grown sufficient enough to merit actual action. Upon reaching the equally lavish and appropriately stocked kitchen, however, he found himself at a loss. With is powers gone his appetite had also shifted and he couldn't live off of caffeine, sugar, and carbohydrates anymore. He observed the few fruits presented decoratively in a glass bowl on the counter-top, picking one up and blinking at it with only minimal recognition. He double-read labels, and then triple-read them, the information there but unprocessed due to the fact that he had read them too quickly. How cruel this was, how belittling.
—
[ 2; Training Center ]
Treadmills required no small amount of getting used to. Pietro stared down at his feet as he jogged. He could follow their movements which was, honestly, the first sign that something was terribly amiss. In the past, he'd be unable to use this kind of machinery, owing to the fact that, if he pressed himself, he would run it to its limits and the mechanics would crash in on themselves. Now he felt the burn of the incline, the urgency of the speed he'd selected. He wasn't out of shape for a human, he just wasn't himself. It was depressing. Disarming. Alienating.
He pressed the off button on the machine and had to jump to avoid tripping off of it as it slowed. It wasn't just his speed and endurance, his reaction times were also lessened. Captain America had warned him once, half a lifetime ago, about the dangers of relying on his powers for everything. Pietro had reckoned with the man's words a handful of times before, but now here in a strange and hostile land, they seemed to carry more weight.
His arms felt like lead and his face was flushed from the exertion. He felt himself sweating, sensed the droplets beading up on his nose and forehead, pooling at the back of his neck. At the periphery of the room there were towels. He made for one and narrowly avoided punching the wall.
—
[ 3; the Lounge ]
Alcohol made him feel free.
It wasn't healthy, not in the slightest, he knew that. But there was still something to be said for the shift in perception. Gradually the world had slowed down, back to its appropriate rate, leaving him master of it all. The warm golden lights in the room gleamed cheerily, reflecting off the dark wood and bronze of the bar, and the glasses and bottles behind it. Normally none of this would be affecting him as it did, but then normally he wouldn't need it to. He stared down the clear liquid before taking yet another shot. The vodka was good, great, even. He could feel it burning its way down his throat. He could track it. It was a sensation slow enough for him to follow its effects.
He waved to the strange creature behind the bar. In his liquor-addled haze, it reminded him of an Inhuman and he sneered at it with perhaps more vitriol than it deserved. Another glass was necessary, no, not a glass, a bottle. If the world had slowed, maybe he could make it stop entirely.