Give me fuel, give me fire, give me that which I desire....
Tony was restless. His fingers itched to tear into something; his tongue thirsted for blood. Consuming his own was becoming less and less satisfying. He supposed that for the others the lull of these past few days must be a welcome respite from the chaos of before, that urgent, frantic rush to save the city from a doom that only they could see. That was how normal people functioned, right? Tony was so far removed from normal, he wasn't even sure anymore. For him, normal was conflict. Normal was combat. That was the only thing that came natural, rage and violence, intensity bathed in blood. It was all Tony could do to not give in to that ferocity, building with every day, every hour, every moment.
Because that was who he was. Tony was a weapon. His father had made that abundantly clear; his aunt had taken it to her fullest advantage. And Tony could not deny it anymore. He was a weapon, created to destroy, and could no longer pretend to be anything else.
Even in their most recent endeavor -- they saved the city! That was the opposite of destruction, wasn't it? But the reality only drove the point home. Tony had tried to save the girl. He was hellbent on pulling her out of that building, only to be unmercifully slapped down by the invisible hand of Fate. Protection, defense, rescue -- these were not for him. His part was to slay the beast. Destruction towards salvation, but destruction all the same.
Thus were the grim thoughts swirling through Tony's mind as he walked the busy streets of New York, solitary amidst a sea of people. They opened a path before him, as if having all conferred and agreed beforehand, giving him a wide berth; he could have closed his eyes and strode forward blindly without fear of running into anyone. Having that sort of effect, that intimidation.... It would have made the Tony from two weeks ago feel like a king, like a God. It made the Tony of today feel lower than dirt.
That ball of ego was still there in the back of his mind, ever-present and all-enticing, throwing all his mistakes back in his face and tempting him, daring him, to make them all again. Disgusted by all he had been, seduced by all he could be once more. Just that one slip he had to keep convincing himself he did not want to make.
He walked on without seeing anything, trying and failing oh so miserably to ignore the stares, praying no sideways glance would catch his eye and set him off, and smothering the bloodthirsty hope that it would.
Soul full of fire and fury, embracing the destruction without losing himself to it, this was the razor's edge he lived. Always a struggle. Always in conflict.
Normal.