Dreamless [MCU SI/OC] (Randomised Power Gain)

[Raguel'sShadow86]

Chapter 0 - Prologue

Woke up and decided to try writing, enjoy.
(Loosely following timeline, MCU is a clusterfuck)

June 23rd, 2010
7:16 am

A Flash of Blue

A light. An explosion. So much noise. Guns. Movement.

It flashes again.

A terrible roar—no, a cry for help?

More light. Flashing. I can't see. I'm blind. I need help. Someone's crying out. I have to see them.

And I do.

Like flipping a switch in the dark when you're half asleep, or reaching under a table for something you dropped without ducking your head. But I found it.

I flipped the switch.

Click.

The noise stops.

It fades into the background...but the color remains. Like a sledgehammer to the skull -- a swirling, coiling prismatic kaleidoscope of unnamable, incomprehensible hues. Depth and patterns and variety I've never seen before and never could.

It's too much. My eyes are wet.

Tears? No. Blood.

It flashes.

Blue.

It's loud. The color is loud. Everything is blue. Everything is loud.

It hurts.

I need to escape. Anything but blue.

An explosion of green, powerful, echoing, and deep. Drowning out another colour I can't see.

But It's not enough.

No more color. I flip the switch again.

The world turns GREY. Monochrome. Empty. Decrepit. It's almost...sad. Fading and dying and bleak and dull and familiar—

I open my eyes.

A breath. Then another. The bright beams of early morning sunlight leak through the gaps in my curtains, cloaking the room in a soft, golden-yellow glow. The flowing warmth overtakes the blue of my quickly fading memories of...something.

A flash of light green follows a birds tweet, though the pain and pressure behind my eyes rages and drags me back to reality. My strawberry-blonde hair -- just a little too short -- fails to shield me from the blazing ball of hate and fire in the sky.

"Ugh. What the hell," I mutter under my breath.

"Not quite, Mr. Guile," says a voice.

From outside my room.

In my apartment.

Where I live alone.

I bolt upright -- or try to. Somehow managing to get tangled in my navy-blue blankets and, quite artfully i'd say, slam my face into the rough, grey-ish carpet.

The door unlocks, and in walks—who the fuck is that? He looks...familiar. That's rare. And...he sounds...purple?

What does purple even sound like ? Him apparently. How the shit does he sound purple ?

"Who the fuck are you?" I ask, surprisingly composed, all things considered. He looks like a Tom. Or maybe a Nick. I feel like he's a Nick.

"Nick Fury. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division."

HAH. Called it.

"And I'm here to make you an offer."

...huh?

------
- Now you may be wondering, what the hell is happening ? And that's a great question, but much like when you watch a movie for the first time with someone, I too have no fucken clue. so if you wanna find out, keep reading and we can figure it out together.

Randomiser:
Power Gain: ??
Power Synchronisation: ??

Thanks for reading !

 

[Raguel'sShadow86]

This is a total rewrite of my original first chapter, as it was kinda rushed, more like a summary of my ideas than it was a story. I've applied some advice, used a grammar checker, added to the story, and I'm trying a little harder, so hopefully I've learned. And let's see how it goes.


Chapter 1: Like Clockwork


A Light. Something moved. Something solid. There's more there; foreign feelings and ideas clash, combine, collide, and disperse. I'm falling; it's bright, painfully bright, but it's fading... no... I am... into the darkness.

Falling. Fading. It's all less clear now. The ideas-feelings-thoughts slowly leak away. There was something important. A desire. A will. A wish. What was it ?

Collision. Something big, coiling and shifting.

It's bright, sharp. And large, so very large... but simple.

Complex in design yet not in use. A colossal wyrm of tendrils, of hooks, and... wings? Odd. It shifts. Churns and twists and phases in and out, is it really there ? Am I ? I'm closer now. Falling faster.

It notices me. It speaks, but not really; it doesn't understand, so it presents its own understanding.


[Trajectory] [Agreement]


A connection. Something in the nothing. I like it.

It shifts again. This time, it's surprised. It's falling now, like me. With me.

Everything fades again, just a little more, but there's something there still; there's always something.

I'm sick of falling.

So I reach out. The wyrm helps.

fading... falling...

It hooks. Something luminous, almost blinding in intensity—just like before— It feels refreshing, like a cool spring breeze on your face in the morning.

We're getting closer now; it's nagging—the light—picking at me, pulling me apart—no, together—the wyrm speaks to me; I don't understand.

There's pressure; my eyes hurt.

Oh. I have eyes.


------


My first memory was understanding. It wasn't a slow process, more like the world clicked into place the very instant I gained consciousness. It unfolded in front of me, a spiralling kaleidoscope of parts, pieces, and patterns clashing, connecting, breaking, and moving. Every action, no matter how insignificant, caused ripples, caused pieces to shift, to loosen or tighten. It's not exactly like I gained the ability to see them, no more like to feel them. To Understand, to know, like I just saw, and my mind clicked it into place.

From that very first moment of sentience, everything made sense. Every word, every action, and every object had a purpose, a cause, and an effect. The world was chaotic; it was random and uncontrollable and wild, but it had rules; they clicked and clacked and clashed but never broke, never bent. I'd never seen them, but I wondered, could they ?

I was only a kid when I fixed something for the first time, just a toy. Not even sure how it broke, but something about that busted arm, dangling by a thin thread of plastic, it intrigued me; the pieces didn't click, but they could. It was instinctive, almost reflexive; I stole a lighter—my foster mother at the time was quite the smoker. I used the house to melt and mould the plastic, a block of wood as a base; I knew it wouldn't burn. I knew what to do, how to do it, and how to slot the pieces back into place. And it wasn't just toys—I knew people too, understood them; I knew just what to say to get the kids at the foster home to shut up; I knew how to make them notice me and how to make them ignore me; I knew how to anger them, how to bring them to tears, and how to put a smile on their face. It was almost supernatural.

Everything just clicked.

The world IS a puzzle, not even a particularly difficult one, for me at least. It's just a matter of finding the right edges, the right slots, and putting them together in the right way.

But people? They're alive. They aren't unchanging, solid, and inanimate like objects; they have puzzles with missing pieces, jagged edges that don't fit the picture, the identity they try to project, even to themselves. They act nice, friendly even; some pretend to care, but deep down, they're selfish, vindictive, cruel, maybe worse even. They try to hide it, but not from me. I see the cracks in their masks, the gaps in their lies. And they hate that. No one likes being seen for what they really are. Even those that think they do.

So, I didn't make many friends. I was pushed away. Outcast. I was odd. Unique.

Foster life sucked. I bounced often. From one home to the next, one family, one school, one life, to the next, and the next, and the next. Some were almost decent; most weren't. I never knew my parents; nobody did. I don't have them to teach me, but I Understood; I learned. I'd always been good at it, head down, fists up, feelings buried. Sticks and stones. Sarcasm and honesty are my weapons to tear down their masks. Words don't work often; actions speak louder and all, and the other kids didn't listen, so I learned to fight.

Eventually, I grew up, joined the wrong crowd. I fought more, earned a reputation, and got a little cash on the side. It felt good—victory always does, even a false one.

Then came Paul.

The old bastard of a mechanic picked me up out of the goodness of his heart. His own son having passed not too many years ago. He didn't want a replacement. Still don't know why he took me. The little hole-in-the-wall garage he called a shop looked like it should've been condemned before I was born. Peeling pale blue paint coated the walls, revealing the white beneath, the grey floor covered in visible stains of whatever-the-fuck that's been spilt on it the last dozen years. The rusted tools, the smells of oil and smoke embedded in the very foundation. I got familiar with it quickly.

The very first time I picked up a wrench, my first day working in the shop, it's almost like everything snapped into focus once more. Just like my oldest memories. Fixing things felt normal, natural, like I was built for it, like breathing. Broken radios, dead engines, shattered electronics, gadgets, and trinkets and all, it didn't matter what it was. I could fix it. It just clicked into place. Word spread, and soon enough, I had a reputation: Evander Guile can fix anything.

By the time I hit adulthood, I thought I had life figured out. I moved into a dingy, dusty little studio apartment down in Harlem, nothing but a shitty kerbside couch and an old box TV I'd patched up for the luxury. Darned thing only picked up the news. I had a stable job through Paul, enough money to live well, and a routine.

But I got cocky. I thought I was special, unique, that I had different rules, that I was untouchable, because I'd never been shown otherwise. I showed up late, left early, and only worked when I felt like it. I picked fights for no reason and broke rules just because. I tested people because I knew they didn't have my advantage.

But, as it always does, reality came to bite me in the ass.


------


November 16th, 2009, 8:36 a.m.

I was late again, jogging through alleys reeking of the same familiar smell of smoke and oil. I'd slept in—though it happens so often I don't know if I can call it that anymore—gotten into a fight with some shithead on the train, and now I was rushing to work.

Kinda, more like lightly jogging.

My phone buzzed.

Ring~

Hmm ?

Ring~ Ring~

I answered without checking the screen. "Yo, I'm almost there. Whaddya want ?"

"Is this Evander Guile?" a voice echoed. Not one I recognise.

I frowned. "Yeah. Who the hell are you, and why do you have Paul's phone?"

"This is Dr. Neuman from Harlem General. You're listed as Paul's emergency contact."

A weight dropped in my stomach. Like swallowing a rock. The natural, almost comfortable force of lethargy removed, replaced with a crippling, unfamiliar anxiety.

Click.

"He's had an accident—a fall. He's in surgery now. He... he won't be able to walk again. I'm sorry."

Click.

The words hit. Like a blow to the gut, or a car colliding down the highway sending me flying. I felt sick. My hand went slack; the phone slipped from my fingers.

Crack. Click. Clatter.

It's all I could hear. The sound of the phone skittering across the chipped pavement. The sound of pieces clicking together. It echoed in my ears, blending with the doctor's voice faintly buzzing through the speaker. Calling out to me ?

Shock. I don't understand. 'a new feeling,' I remark bitterly.

Click. Click.

"If I wasn't late... if I hadn't slept in... if I didn't get into that fight..."

It was my fault. It all just clicks.

I could see the pieces. I didn't want to. But the gears were turning in my mind, showing me exactly how every decision I made led to this moment. Showing me the ripples. The consequences.

And for the first time in my life, the puzzle wasn't satisfying to solve.

It was...

Shit.


------


November 17th, 2009, ?? am


I waited in the hospital room. One hour ? Two ? Who knows ?

I didn't do much, just sat there, thinking, puzzling.

It didn't help.

They got to me eventually; he survived. He's gonna make it.

But he's never going to walk. If he's lucky, if he's careful, if he follows recovery steps, he can use his arms again, but they couldn't do anything for his legs.

And the debt. He'll have to sell everything. His home, the garage, his car. He won't have anything left even if I give everything I've got.

There's nothing I can do. It's my fault. My mistake. And I can't help. I can't get that much money. How could I ? The viscous, slimy tendrils of guilt coil around my mind; it does nothing to help. I need a solution. I have to find one. it's all my f-

[]

A flash. No, more like a memory but not quite, like remembering a... feeling just at the back of your mind. But not really. Impossible to explain, but so, so very jarring. It's something new. But I remember it. A connection; It's not a part of the puzzle. It's something... unique, something-

I snap back to reality as the doctors dismiss me, something about needing rest, about how I can't do anything for him as I am.

They aren't wrong. I need better. To do better, to be better.

I manage to make it out of the building. Even walk a bit further, an urge overtaking me, a need. I don't like it. But I can't seem to care.

Everything seems dull; no one's out, no one to see.

And as I walk down an alleyway a few streets down, as I look up, take a breath, and-

And a puzzle piece bends.

As I take one step, I move a dozen.

The piece bends. It folds. And space follows. I've never seen a piece bend before. I'm making it bend. But not directly. It's not the same. I understand them. They are the natural laws, rules, and the way things work shown to me instinctively. But this, this is something different; it's not a part of the puzzle. But I can feel it. Just like everything else, it just clicks.

And I see it. Like a pathway. Two of them ? Ahh. Understanding.

I feel tired. There's a pressure behind my eyes.

I follow them back. The puzzles. The folding. They look different, each a different path, a walkway, walls, a door; I can see them so clearly.

One is shifting, changing, clashing, and grinding like a maze, but it stays straight. It never breaks, doesn't bend, the cold grey, no, not cold, just bland, bland, orderly. It just keeps clashing, loosening, tightening, but never stopping.

The other—this one's new, I can feel it—silver, yet glassy. Not prismatic, nor ethereal, it's solid. Silver glass, how odd. It doesn't bend or wave or turn either, but it's not straight; I can feel it; it helps me to feel, but that's not what it's meant for. It doesn't matter what direction you move; the destination is the same.

So I move. I take a step. Then another. And another. And-

I'm home. The rushing of wind, the cracking of SOMETHING—is it physical ? Imaginary ? Who knows.

My last memory is taking a step and falling into my bed from the doorway. The comforting embrace of silver, my only company, as it fades to black.


------


-rewrote this chapter a couple times, took some advice to improve. Hopefully the grammar, word count and whatnot are a little better now. Thanks for the help ! Hope you enjoy the word-vomit that is whatever half-asleep ideas I came up with thrown on a page.



Powers: 2



{Understanding}
Type: Scientific
Class: Thinker
Theme: Puzzle
Effect: Allows the user to understand the world as a puzzle. Not necessarily sight, but tied into that sense. The user can see physics, the laws of the world around them; they can see the pieces, the building blocks, and how they slot together, tighten, loosen, and clash.



{Warp - Fold}
Type: Scientific
Class: Mover
Theme: Slipstream
Effect: the user is able to fold space around themselves. They gain the ability to turn a single step into a dozen or more. The very fabric of space folding, rippling, and shifting around them. Other uses are yet to be determined.


-thanks for readin !

 

[Raguel'sShadow86]

Had some troubles irl recently so this chapters been a good bit late, not entirely sure I'm happy with it either but it'll do. Hope y'all enjoy.

------

Chapter 2 - Slippery Slope

------

Noises. Voices. Words.

Something's happening. Someone's speaking to me.

Deja vu. I remember this.

A dream ? No.

I can't dream.

I'm on the streets, I can feel the asphalt below my pounding feet. I'm running ? I can see the bleak grey skyscrapers around me, monolithic spires reaching far up into the empty sky, a testament to man's disdain for their limitations...

And I see them crumble.

Everything's blurry, distorted and unclear.

I can hear screams. Yelling and hollering and... Gunfire ?

No, not quite...

Am I having a stroke ?

Someone grabs my shoulder. It hurts. Why does it hurt. Burns.

I turn and-

Blue. He's blue. But he doesn't look like it, I can't see him. How ? What ?

Something flies over us, it's purple, not like the hard-to-explain blue, but actually, solid, real purple. Mostly. It's hard to see.

Looking at it makes my shoulder burn.

Curse the not-green whatever-it-is.

There's a roar, a loud one...

a very, very loud one. something large is coming.

I can feel it now. Like I'm really here, this can't be a dream, right ?

I can't dream.

I can't see it though, casting my eyes around me, up, around, it's all just the grey. Monotone. I can't see the roar.

Why would I be able to ?

It's closer. I can hear it crashing and slithering and it's behind me I know it.

I turn and-

I open my eyes to light and pain.

------

The morning was muted, grayscale, and monotone in a familiar way that made the world seem to bleed slowly into the city skyline.

After the... events of the morning—the unexpected pain and light sensitivity that almost made me contemplate taking a step out into traffic—I needed an escape, and rather than take myself up on the offer, I instead found myself at my usual spot—a cramped café wedged between a crappy little overwhelmingly expensive convenience store and a dingy old laundromat, its sign half-flickering like it couldn't commit to staying awake.

Kinda like me right now. The smell of coffee beans, fried eggs, and burnt bacon mingled and blended as the scent of rain on asphalt faded from memory, the constant noise of passing cars drowned out into a low hum. It was familiar, grounding. I needed it after last night.

But instead of comfort, it all felt oddly distant—like the world was a step out of sync. A step....

'Silver glass. That's what it had looked like, hadn't it?' The way the air had folded in on itself when I'd used it. The power. My power. I still didn't know how to feel about it.

I'd always joked that the understanding—the puzzles—were a special power or ability of some sort, but...

I'd never expected more.

The memory of the sensation crawls its way up my spine, down to my flexing fingers. It wasn't like swinging a fist or grabbing an object—those were things my body understood, things it had been trained to do, natural things. This was… different.

It felt like slipping through oil, like a stretched rubber band snapping back into place, not really like taking a step... more like a slipstream of sorts, like something ahead was pulling me towards it, like I was wedged in the band before it was let go. Like I was slingshot across the distance. The space moved and I just happened to be in it.

I looked out the window—a stained, scratched, and worn-out thing it was—and stared out at the street, watching the flow of people, cars, and buses as they moved in their predictable, mundane patterns. The events of last night playing in my mind like a broken record.

I can remember the very moment it had clicked—the folding of space around me, that strange, surreal sensation as reality—as space itself—gave way like it was never there in the first place. The air had shimmered, pulsed and moved like the broken surface of a pond as it had folded to my whims.

I could still feel it, faintly, the intangible pull in the air around me. It wasn't just the movement; it was something deeper. I could feel the space around me—its tension, its edges, the invisible threads tying it all together. Even now, in the café, I could sense the room in ways that went just beyond sight or sound. The empty space between tables felt thin, like paper, the walls sturdier, and the hum of the espresso machine oddly intrusive in the otherwise calm atmosphere, dragging me away from the new sense.

"Refill?" The waitress's voice broke my thoughts. I blinked up at her and back down at my as of yet untouched coffee.

"Yeah, sure," I muttered, pushing the cup forward. She nodded, but her smile faltered, fading as she moved on.

I leant back, staring down at the table now. What would I do now ? With this power ?

They say absolute power corrupts absolutely, right ?

The thought made my stomach twist, not with fear, like it probably should have, but with something... sharper—an edge of excitement, of hunger.

'I could do something. Save Paul; it was my fault anyway, and I owe him, so I have to, right ?'

It would be easy to let the power sit, to bury it, to pretend nothing had changed. But I could feel it now—more metaphorically than literally—2 paths before me. A choice.

The first one leads somewhere, somewhere new and dangerous. Somewhere... less than savoury. But forward nonetheless.

The other is simpler, clearer, a perfect, straight line with no obstructions. Not a single obstacle to halt my path. It leads away, back to nothing, back to normalcy—or as close as I can get to it now.

I drained the last of my coffee, stood, and tossed a few crumpled bills on the table. The decision was made, whether I like it or not. Paul needs it. Needs me.

The world was out there, bigger and more dangerous than I'd ever realised. I'm not naive, not anymore; I can't be the only one with power like this. Captain America existed, didn't he ? And with all those sightings of that robot or iron man or whatever, I'll need to be ready.

Evander Guile isn't just another pawn in the game. Not anymore.

------

I step forward, and reality twists. The path aligns once more, and my surroundings blur like a photograph dragged across wet ink. The world rearranges itself around me, pulling me through as if I was never where I started.

I stumble a little as I emerge, not used to the sensation—as it's my first time using it fully conscious—blinking against the dim light of the street lamps overhead.

I turn my gaze ahead and find myself standing outside a pawn shop. The flickering neon sign reads: "Kale's Buy & Sell."

My hands clench and unclench at my sides as I push through the door, a dented old bell chiming above me. The greyed old man behind the counter looks up, his tired eyes narrowing as he sizes me up.

"What can I do for ya?" he asks, suspicion dripping from his annoyed tone like tar.

Nah, he's not that old; maybe molasses ?

Regardless, I don't answer right away. My eyes scanning the shelves, noting the worn watches, the dusty cameras, the pile of broken electronics. It's a graveyard of discarded things, a room full of puzzles waiting to be solved, a treasure trove.

But it's not what I'm here for. Not this time.

"You buy jewellery?" I finally ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

The man nods, his interest piqued. "Depends on what you've got."

'And just like that, the old bastard's not annoyed anymore, huh ?'

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the somewhat thick gold chain I've worn since my first paycheck. I've always liked my jewellery a bit on the thick side, and the gold, regardless of any... Tackiness... Was a bit of an ego thing at the time.

The man leans forward, inspecting it under the harsh fluorescent light. He whistles low. "Nice piece. Where'd you get it?"

"Does it matter?" I snap, the words coming out sharper than I intend.

I'm no criminal

...Not yet anyway.

He shrugs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation. I'll give you $500 for it."

I stare at him, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket, wrapping around me not unlike the very chain I'm selling. Five hundred dollars. It's nowhere near enough to cover Paul's medical bills or save the garage. But it's a start. It's about what I paid for the plated gold anyways.

"Fine," I say, my voice hollow and low.

As he counts out the cash, I glance back at the door, staring at the very puzzle piece I know distorted moments ago.

This is just the beginning. I don't know how, but I'm going to make things right. No matter what I have to do.

Even if it means breaking the rules of the world I thought I understood.


------


It started simply. I need to help Paul.

He has debts, so he needs money.

I need money.

So I'll get some. I have the power now, right ?

I'd try to earn it, but with Paul... Out of commission, and the debts piling up.... There's no time.

So I came up with a better plan, I've just gotta take the money. I don't wanna hurt anyone, especially when they don't deserve it.

But a bank... A grand building featuring Nameless Employees and owned by a Faceless Mega-corporation(TM) well.... That's a victimless crime in the end, no ?

Not the most sane thoughts to be having as I stare up into the entrance of the very same building I'm planning to rob.

------

-Lots of struggles tryna write this chapter so I hope my almost nonexistent writing skills/experience haven't decayed In the time I've been busy, hoping to get another chapter out sooner this time now that I'm getting back on my feet. Good day to you all and I hope it was interesting.

Powers: 2



{Understanding}
Type: Scientific
Class: Thinker
Theme: Puzzle
Effect: Allows the user to understand the world as a puzzle. Not necessarily sight, but tied into that sense. The user can see physics, the laws of the world around them; they can see the pieces, the building blocks, and how they slot together, tighten, loosen, and clash.



{Warp - Fold}
Type: Scientific
Class: Mover
Theme: Slipstream
Effect: the user is able to fold space around themselves. They gain the ability to turn a single step into a dozen or more. The very fabric of space folding, rippling, and shifting around them. Other uses are yet to be determined.


-thanks for readin !