[pietro awakens from a deep sleep abruptly. his eyes squeeze shut tightly, blinking away the bright lights he's unused to; noise comes to his ears, of whirring machines and lines beeping the status of his vitals, a constant yet affirming sound that he isn't slumbering anymore. he feels fatigued, pushing himself to sit up, pain in his atrophied muscles making the action more difficult than what it needs to be, groaning in annoyance as his sudden awareness of his surroundings calls forth the attention of what seems to be nurses and doctors.
he tries swatting them away, but he isn't strong enough yet to voluntarily throw himself out of the way.]
Wanda. [the question comes easy, almost expected, his sokovian accent deep and his voice hoarse] Where is Wanda?
[little does he realize that he is not the only one who seems to have awakened from a deep sleep. he's pulled away from the world of the unconscious at the same time as wanda's magic rescinds from westview—the pulse of herself in this reality seeming to reach out to him, a quickening in his heart: concern and loss, a desperation to find her.
no answers; only questions about himself, how he feels, an attempt to fully ignore the fact that he's asking about his sister.
weeks pass.
he is not entirely better, but he's good enough to handle his powers in short spurts. the avengers are no more, far as he can tell, and even tony stark is dead. the world he has awoken to, this post-blip reality, carries a stench of inconformity and undeniable uncertainty for pietro. it is like he doesn't exist, a ghost following his gut, his intuition, in finding his sister. no one seems to know where she is, and though it all took him as far as new jersey, he didn't really find anything useful there. and, so, he continued on, slow and steady, frustrated at his own incompetence, but knowing that sooner or later he would find her.]
Hopefully sooner rather than later.
[a mantra he grumbles to himself before he picks himself up from the forest floor (taking a breather, resting) and continues with a rapid stream of movement between the trees towards what he thinks is a lake just in the outskirts of it; in the nearest village (two days from where he stands), the children and elderly spoke of a hermit in a cabin by the lake. it is a reach, certainly, but he can't let any rock unturned, not when he feels his sister. the mountains taunt him, like old giants watching over his progress (or lack of?), and pietro can't help but want to curse every single thing in his path, if only to shove his frustrations somewhere and onto something.
a fallen log catches his feet, and pietro finds himself unable to stop the tumble he takes forward—all the built-up momentum of speed throwing him forward into open field, rolling until he stops by the shore of the aforementioned lake, some ways off from the cabin.]
Shit. [it's brought him closer to the cabin, but at what cost? his entire side hurts, his legs weak and wobbly, cracking at the knees from the exertion. he turns onto his back, looks up at the bluest of skies, gulps air, his throat constricting at the same time as his fists clench.] Wanda...
▶ redchaos
he tries swatting them away, but he isn't strong enough yet to voluntarily throw himself out of the way.]
Wanda. [the question comes easy, almost expected, his sokovian accent deep and his voice hoarse] Where is Wanda?
[little does he realize that he is not the only one who seems to have awakened from a deep sleep. he's pulled away from the world of the unconscious at the same time as wanda's magic rescinds from westview—the pulse of herself in this reality seeming to reach out to him, a quickening in his heart: concern and loss, a desperation to find her.
no answers; only questions about himself, how he feels, an attempt to fully ignore the fact that he's asking about his sister.
weeks pass.
he is not entirely better, but he's good enough to handle his powers in short spurts. the avengers are no more, far as he can tell, and even tony stark is dead. the world he has awoken to, this post-blip reality, carries a stench of inconformity and undeniable uncertainty for pietro. it is like he doesn't exist, a ghost following his gut, his intuition, in finding his sister. no one seems to know where she is, and though it all took him as far as new jersey, he didn't really find anything useful there. and, so, he continued on, slow and steady, frustrated at his own incompetence, but knowing that sooner or later he would find her.]
Hopefully sooner rather than later.
[a mantra he grumbles to himself before he picks himself up from the forest floor (taking a breather, resting) and continues with a rapid stream of movement between the trees towards what he thinks is a lake just in the outskirts of it; in the nearest village (two days from where he stands), the children and elderly spoke of a hermit in a cabin by the lake. it is a reach, certainly, but he can't let any rock unturned, not when he feels his sister. the mountains taunt him, like old giants watching over his progress (or lack of?), and pietro can't help but want to curse every single thing in his path, if only to shove his frustrations somewhere and onto something.
a fallen log catches his feet, and pietro finds himself unable to stop the tumble he takes forward—all the built-up momentum of speed throwing him forward into open field, rolling until he stops by the shore of the aforementioned lake, some ways off from the cabin.]
Shit. [it's brought him closer to the cabin, but at what cost? his entire side hurts, his legs weak and wobbly, cracking at the knees from the exertion. he turns onto his back, looks up at the bluest of skies, gulps air, his throat constricting at the same time as his fists clench.] Wanda...