At Hero's Bay

Flight of the Anzaar

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐀𝐀𝐀'𝐬

𓄹 𝐘/𝐍 𓄼

Out in the void of space, again.

You've just saved your home planet to come to Earth, only to leave days later to go save some friends on Vanaheim. This was getting old. Was it supposed to get old? Was she supposed to have an opinion about it at all?

The course of thoughts that Y/N's mind whizzes past is a malady all on its own, plaguing her with riddles and passages of guilt. There didn't seem to be an end in sight in the goalless corners of her brain, and it only throbs sorely when Y/N tries to get rid of it. She lets the pain linger, why would she do something like that?

The guilt is doing more than just eating away at her, it was moving through her as it rested in her stomach, guiding her through the stars, and wallowing in the acidic self-pity that became the norm. How much longer until I even see Vanaheim? Y/N's thinking is even laced with ire.

Tinkering—that's all Y/N Skaraeith has done during her flight to the realm of the Vanir—endless tinkering. Tinkering with needless human things that she has only introduced yesterday, or two days ago, it was hard to keep track of the days when everything outside the glass was just starry and black. She forfeited that thought, however, as she remembered how New York's sky had no such thing other than electric, colorful, and contemporary darkness. There were no primordial forces at work there, just the clanking of machines from the many technologies made by the humans—it was suffocating—and Y/N argued whether it was better being in the confinements of her ship alone or being in the spacious Avengers tower with the contrastive humans.

The walls are humming in a mechanical tone, droning endlessly that has become merged with Y/N's regular spatial hearing, like listening to soundlessly still air. She yearns to feel a breeze that didn't come from the ventilation system, fighting the displaced chill. If not that, Y/N wants warmth. She wants stability. But she doesn't know how to get it or what it even looks like.

She wreaked silent havoc with her glares, throwing her belongings with feeble strength, and was careless with her whispers around Grey Blood. The beast is meticulous all on his own, stirring in what Y/N suspects is the night, and does not indulge in throwing any bones to keep his energy levels satiated. She dreads whatever this was—self-loathing?—and takes at least a day to put her focus onto reflection.

There is unforeseen darkness inside her, she's come to learn, and it had been eager to slake its hunger ever since she had pushed beyond her limits back on her home planet. She suddenly remembers why fighting was rendered into a strict three-month cycle, shuddering at the growl she involuntarily makes as it resents that routine. She hastens in progress, finding that those shifts in her consciousness affected her prowess.

She doesn't dare to let it consume her or override her abilities completely, practicing on mere drops of the stale moisture and some of her blood instead. Her blood is curling in sinuous forms, still attached to its maker like some macabre umbilical cord, a jagged slice in Y/N's upper bicep that only brings a sting upon infliction. The knife she had used to carve into her skin rests in the other hand, directing the stream, ready to sever the connection if the amplification of her darkness makes her blood have a mind of its own.

It's like tapping her finger against the deepest part of her mind, accessible by using the full volume of her concentration and even more due to only manifesting such a small amount of it. She breathes to steel the assault that comes biting at her nerves, and itching pressure that comes raging at the tip of her fingers. Y/N feels its oddity, its power, wrangling through the canyons of control. But she could only let it linger for so long. In an abrupt jerk, the bloodstream snaps her wrist backward.