New story about the Avengers. Mostly Tony whump and Tony/Steve BROMANCE. No slash, but it could be if you squint.
Chapter 1
Many people believe that fear is the best motivator. That if people are scared, they will do anything. Lots of terrorists, torturers, and politicians use this tactic. They make the victim so frightened, and so terrified, that they will do most anything to get the fear to stop.
This method has been used on me.
Multiple times.
In many different ways.
Like threats. Promises. Physical torture. Mental torture. Psychological torture is my favorite, when they slowly make you go insane by making you hallucinate, by telling you lies, by playing into your worst nightmares. It takes a while to accomplish, but in the long run, is totally worth it.
But, they would be wrong.
Fear is not the best motivator.
Hope is.
When someone has lost all hope, they give up on everything. If they don't believe that things can get better, they will think what the heck? It can't get any worse. What's the point? They will just be dead weight; they won't comply with orders, and they won't care if they get killed. That's bad. The victim should always have a sliver of hope that things will turn out right. Dangling hope in front of them makes them a hundred times more eager to please. There has to be some part of them that prays to God that they will get out of this mess, and if their captures, torturers, etc, play into that, the results would be astronomical.
Fear works.
But the desolation of hope is better.
I know from personal experience.
oooOOOooo
"Hey boys, if you want to make it really painful, you should follow through with your fist. Like, don't just stop once you've hit me. Keep going with that momentum you've built up. That will make a satisfying slap noise, and it will be more powerful and trust me, it will be painful. Just a suggestion."
Despite being tied to a chair with rope, (such amateurs; everyone knows zip-ties are way harder to escape from) I smiled at the hunk of man in front of me, and gave him a little wink to let him know that I found him slightly attractive, in an intimidating kind of way. He growled at me. I guessed my advances had been spurned. I tried not to let it show on my face that my feelings were a little hurt.
I saw him make eye contact with a non-descript man in the corner, with all the other goons that all looked alike. I wondered if the leader had some sort of farm where he grew these monster, mountain men. I could barely tell them apart. I was starting to call the hunk in front of me Hunk #1.
They all had black, beady eyes, and thin lips that were perpetually formed in a frown, and their hands were huge and so were their heads, and so were their shoulders, and pretty much everything was really big. But, I did know that the goon in the corner was the leader, even if he was trying his best to hide it.
The leader gave a minute nod at Hunk #1 in front of me, and Hunk #1 looked immensely proud that he had gotten permission from his boss. I saw his arm coming from a mile away. If I wasn't tied up, (which wouldn't be a problem in a few minutes thanks to the nail that was conveniently placed right where my tied hands were) I would have dodged it with ease, but due to my predicament, I had to take it like a man. And grown men who have survived two wars with various superhumans and aliens and have cheated death too many times to count do not groan. Good thing I am not a grown man, because the groan that escaped my lips was more of a whimper and if it's embarrassing to groan, it's especially death-insured to whimper. If I ever make it out of here, I would edit that part out of the story.
"Oh, much better. I could really feel it that time." I said to the ground, because I didn't want anyone to see the tears leaking out of my eyes. Show weakness, and these type of people will pounce on it like a cheetah on a gazelle. Actually I don't even know if cheetahs eat gazelles. They probably do. There's probably a bajillion documentaries about it too. I'll have to watch one sometime so when I use the "pounce on it like a cheetah on a gazelle" comparison, I can be assured that I am correct. Because being wrong is even worse than groaning in a grown man's book.
Hunk #1 looked a little upset that I hadn't shown more pain when he punched me the second time. Well, I think it was the second time he punched me. I don't really know when or how I got here, and I don't know how long I've been here. When there aren't any clocks, or windows it's kind of hard to judge time. Being unconscious doesn't help either.
He glanced over at the Leader Goon in the corner, and some sort of signal passed between them, because Hunk #1 stepped to the side, and another Hunk took his place. This one was a little different than the others, because he had a sort of intelligence hidden behind his beady, black eyes. He made me slightly more scared than Hunk #1. But since the frightened level was at about negative one with Hunk #1, I wasn't that worried about Hunk #2.
I should have been worried.
He reached into his suit jacket (why do people insist on torturing in suits? It's impossible to get bloodstains out of suits, and ironing is a bitch) and pulled out a little bag. Suddenly I got hit with chills. Shivers ran through my entire body, making my hair stand up at attention. I knew that the bag meant bad news for me and good news for the Goons.
"So, whatcha got there? Are we going to paint our nails together? Have a little bonding experience?" When you're unsure what your captors want, I believe sarcasm is the best approach. Then they think you're dumb, and will treat you as such. They won't be afraid to gossip in front of you, and they will think they have to explain every little detail to you. It's a little condescending, but worth it if you can get information.
Unfortunately, Hunk #2 saw right through my stupid act and just glared at me. I paid no attention to it, and just kept my idiotic grin on my face, almost daring him to wipe it off.
Hunk #2 looked back down at his little bag and slowly undid the ties holding it closed. I knew he was doing it slowly on purpose, in order to draw out the suspense and leave me guessing what was in it. It is a common tactic used by torturers; to draw out suspense so the victim is agonizing over what on earth they're going to do to him. Fortunately, I have been on the receiving side of that tactic. But, that doesn't mean I know how to stop the agonizing question of what's in the bag?
Finally he had untied the strings around the bag. He had a wicked, evil grin on his face and that's what told me I was deep doo-doo.
He stuck his hand in the little black bag.
He stuck his hand in down to the elbow.
He was acting like it was Mary fricking Poppins' fricking bag, the amount of time he spent rummaging around in that itty bitty little thing.
His hand must have been in there for at least three years.
After another millennia, his hand finally starting coming out of the bag.
First his forearm.
Then his wrist.
Then his hand.
Then his fingers.
He was holding a locket.
My locket.
The locket that said Tony Stark has a heart on it.
My locket.
No one touches my locket.
My fists started to clench as I saw it dangling from his hand, like it was some worthless dog-tag.
And he had the nerve to smile at me. He grinned at me, he smirked at me, like this was all some sort of sick game, and I was the prey. His mouth curve up and up and up until he looked like the damn Cheshire cat.
I was angry.
We're all mad here.
Off with her head.
The nail wasn't cutting it anymore; I started shaking, struggling against the ropes around my wrists. I lunged and snarled at the hunk in front of me, infuriated that he thought he had the right to hold my locket and mock me.
And his grin just got bigger. He shook the locket in his hands, as if to say come and get it.
And that set me off the edge.
I started screaming and spitting and shaking even harder, desperate to get free of my bonds and yank the locket out of his unworthy hands and wipe the smirk off his face and kill every single one of them.
I saw red.
Blood red.
I wanted to see red all over the surface of the walls. I wanted it to drip with crimson. I wanted smears and handprints and tears covering every inch of the room. I wanted it to dry, and when they thought about torturing someone else in there, they would remember the amazing paint job I did for them.
The hunk must have seen the murderous look in my eye, because he stopped waving the locket in my face. He walked over to the table in the corner of the room, and pulled out a hammer from the inside of his suit jacket.
Instantaneously all the blood from my face drained. My eyes widened.
Oh no.
Please, anything but this.
I'll give you anything you want.
Just please, not this.
I tried to look away, but the chair only allowed for so much movement. So I sat there and watched as he brought the hammer down on the locket and heard as the metal crunched under the weight of it and realized that it was more than a demoralization technique.
It was a threat.
Let me know what you think!
