[There's a flash of crimson on Gene's hand, and Tony feels a rush of horror and panic, and reflexively takes a step back. He knows what that means; he's felt that invasion before and he never wants to feel it again, but there isn't time to scream "no, don't do it, don't you dare," because Gene is already inside his head, and someone else's memories are playing out in Tony's mind like a nightmare he can't wake up from.
He gives a strangled cry and falls to his knees, clutching his head. The armor's life support detects the sudden surge of adrenaline and registers a possible emergency; the faceplate closes again to seal off the outside environment. Tony barely notices.
stop stop stop get out get outgetoutgetoutgetoutGETOUT!! But he can't stop it. He has no control over the images and sensations and emotions that have hijacked his brain.
And they're horrible. They're a cascade of experiences as vivid as the day they were lived, one after another after another. They are memories of fear and anger and pain and terrible loneliness, and regret that burns like a hot coal in his stomach.
He understands. He doesn't want to.
It's worse, so much worse this way, because now he can see that everything they've done to each other was as unnecessary as it was inevitable. It shouldn't have been this way, but it was the only way it could be. Like two massive stars locked together in a decaying orbit, doomed to consume each other and tear each other apart.
It was easier when he could blame Gene; then it could be someone's fault. But it isn't anyone's fault, not really. Or maybe it's everyone's fault. All of them making the wrong choices, over and over, in a horrible blind game of chess that none of them knew they were playing. It doesn't make sense; it's pain and pointless tragedy and it didn't need to be like this. It's heartbreaking. It's inescapable. It's too much. It's too much.]
Stop, [he sobs, falling to all fours. He can't take any more.] Please, please stop.
gene. no.
He gives a strangled cry and falls to his knees, clutching his head. The armor's life support detects the sudden surge of adrenaline and registers a possible emergency; the faceplate closes again to seal off the outside environment. Tony barely notices.
stop stop stop get out get outgetoutgetoutgetoutGETOUT!! But he can't stop it. He has no control over the images and sensations and emotions that have hijacked his brain.
And they're horrible. They're a cascade of experiences as vivid as the day they were lived, one after another after another. They are memories of fear and anger and pain and terrible loneliness, and regret that burns like a hot coal in his stomach.
He understands. He doesn't want to.
It's worse, so much worse this way, because now he can see that everything they've done to each other was as unnecessary as it was inevitable. It shouldn't have been this way, but it was the only way it could be. Like two massive stars locked together in a decaying orbit, doomed to consume each other and tear each other apart.
It was easier when he could blame Gene; then it could be someone's fault. But it isn't anyone's fault, not really. Or maybe it's everyone's fault. All of them making the wrong choices, over and over, in a horrible blind game of chess that none of them knew they were playing. It doesn't make sense; it's pain and pointless tragedy and it didn't need to be like this. It's heartbreaking. It's inescapable. It's too much. It's too much.]
Stop, [he sobs, falling to all fours. He can't take any more.] Please, please stop.