Bleed it out
It was like waking from a dream -- one of those flying dreams where you're soaring impossible heights, thrilling with the wind and the sun but then suddenly you start to fall, faster and faster and nothing can save you and you know you are going to die but then you open your eyes and it's worse, you've already hit the ground, you're staring up at that vast heartless sky and the pain of your smashed body is nothing compared to the agony of knowing you'll never -- NEVER -- get back there.
That's kind of what it was like.
Tony had walked half the night, as the hours ticked by and the streets crept closer towards solitude, finally giving up and coming to rest in an abandoned alley. All the roads were the same. None could take him back to that moment -- any of those moments, and gods there were so fucking many -- when he'd had the choice and blown it, convinced he was unstoppable, stronger and smarter and better than everyone, that he was the player and not merely the played. So high on top of the world, completely blind to the thumb looming over him.
Willfully blind. That was the kicker.
The low chant filled his ears before he consciously decided to say it, feather sliding smoothly into an obsidian blade as he drew it from around his neck. He hadn't done this since Austin, he realized as he opened his veins. Gods, that was fucked up. He was fucked up. The memories of what he'd done were hazy, but they were coming back since he'd spoken with his father; flashes of clarity, vivid like he was still there, two of him, watching himself watching himself. Tony the Inflated and Tony the Rational, knowing the pieces didn't add up even as he mashed the puzzle together, deliriously proud of the intact picture that wasn't there.
It was so fucking easy. Of course it was, he was Tony the Unstoppable! Nothing could stand in his way, gods and titans be damned.
Damn them all for using him.
But it wasn't just them, and that was the ugly truth he'd tried to beat the shit out of (sorry, Evan) and then flat out fled from when he couldn't. His aunt's curse didn't change him into a different person. That person existed inside him -- all she did was let him out. The best magic worked with what was already there. And that was why it felt so real, so natural, even now on the edge like he might slip back into that blanket of ego. It was terrifyingly tempting, a plunge from which he knew he would never recover, in large part because he would never want to.
That was who he was, himself and the other, hero and monster, both. Tony the Divided, the Incomplete.
Tony the Insane.
The tattoo spider tickled as it skittered between the charred bones of his forearm. He chased it with the feather-blade. The thing was unclean. It needed to be gone.
What's that? Oh no, definitely not. Move along, nothing to see here. Just another junkie digging the bugs out of his skin. This was where he belonged, in the gutter with the rest of the trash.
He could still feel it inside him, that building madness and rage, and above all thirst for blood. Every time he'd started to question, started to doubt the path he was on, that savagery had taken over, neatly wiping his mind clean in a haze of red. That was when he was truly alive, when he was sowing death amongst his enemies, and all else ceased to exist. An easy way to keep Tony the Ruthless under control, without him even knowing it.
And now he had to wonder.... how much of that had really been his aunt's work, and how much his own flawed nature? When she threw more of her minions at him as a distraction, would he be strong enough not to take the bait? Or would he lose himself to his own brutality, forget his single most important task, and forfeit his only chance at redemption? The curse was broken, or at least mitigated in some part, as long as he continued to wear that enchanted necklace. Her enticing Black Hummingbird no longer held any sway over him; though that locked away part of Tony the Invicible was convinced it never did in the first place. Tony the Mastermind. Tony the Fool.
Even if he overcame that obstacle, could he be strong enough to ensure he'd kill the priestess because it was his duty, his responsibility, his burden to see though to the end.... and not just because he wanted to? Just the thought of killing her, of wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing the life out of her as she writhed and struggled, sent a powerful rush through him. The edges of his vision went red all on their own, and he dug deeper into his arm, savoring the pain, latching onto it like an anchor to keep him himself.
His road from here would be a solitary one. Because Tony the Fragmented could not be trusted. Not by anyone, and least of all by himself.