En Route to NYC
His mother's ghost and the Black Hummingbird.
They weren't really ghosts, of course, otherwise Brady would have seen them. Which meant they were all in his head. Tony was pretty sure he'd lost the tenuous grip on his sanity that he'd managed to snatch in the previous weeks. He was also pretty sure he didn't care. What was "insanity," anyway, if not a label designed by lesser beings to hold down their superiors? Well, no more would he play that game. He'd wear it like the badge it was, the mark that proclaimed him better than everyone else.
He stretched in the uncomfortably small airplane seat, putting undue pressure on those around him. One flash of his wicked grin, though, was enough to make any angry passengers decide they didn't have anything to say to him after all. It was only a five-hour flight from L.A. to New York; what was a little discomfort weighed against their lives, really?
Not that Tony was dumb enough to start shit on a fucking airplane, but it was amusing to let them think so.
Even Brady. Heh. Especially Brady. The Scion of Mannanán was maintaining composure but still rattled, obviously unnerved by him, and Tony was enjoying every minute of it. Brady was probably even more acutely aware than he was of how easily he could kill every fucking one of them if he wanted to. These ants, these worms.... The only reason they were alive was because he allowed it. He had always known it subconsciously, he must have, but somehow that knowledge had only come to the surface of his thoughts in recent days. It was kind of a mad power trip.
The best kind of trip to be on.
He stretched again, taking a moment to admire the skeletal tattoo traced exquisitely into his hands and arms, rendered in perfect anatomic detail no matter how he moved or flexed. These charred bones were a gift from his father, a reminder of sacrifice and promise of power blah blah blah. If Huitzilopochtli wanted to impress him, he should have sent a better messenger. Tony's mother was a weak, deplorable woman, dead and done; she held no sway over him.
A pitiful servant for a pitiful god. What else could Huitzilopochtli be, having been imprisoned and held helpless? Tony could have killed him -- he would have, if the damned Fate had not interfered. Killed him and taken his place. That was what he was destined for, he knew it. And the whole of the Atzlánti would be the stronger for it.
If he was going to strike at his father, his window of opportunity was swiftly closing. Now that he was freed, Huitzilopochtli must be regaining strength by the day, by the hour. Tony would need to act quickly if he was to have any chance of overthrowing him.
But haste was a folly. Tony was still growing into his new-and-improved self; rush things now and he'd likely end up throwing it all away.
Rather, be patient, and wait for the prime opportunity to arise. And in the meantime, build himself up to ensure his ability to seize it when it finally came around.
Going up against his father right off the bat was the most direct path, to be sure, but one sure to fail. Tony could do with a few....stepping stones, as it were. He smiled privately, maliciously, as a new path laid out before him. For who better to cut his teeth on than his dear old Aunt? Wounded, constrained, humiliated.... Huitzilopochtli must be nothing if not fucking pissed. How better to gain favor and prestige than by enacting his father's revenge?
It would take time, of course, but that was on his side now. Tony folded his massive arms behind his head and leaned back in his seat, for the moment content.
Don't listen to the Black Hummingbird too much? Oh no, Mother, don't worry. I'm listening exactly the right amount.