PAINTED BLACK
OLIVIA STEPS OUT OF HER APARTMENT, FINDING EVERYTHING TO BE EERILY STILL. There’s no noise; not even the typical New York honking and engine sounds. She makes her way down the hallway, slowly, and a sense of foreboding overcomes her.
Something is wrong.
She goes down the stairs, finding the only noise to be that of her own footsteps echoing through the stairwell. At the bottom, she opens the door to find the lobby empty. Even the desk is vacant, the streets deserted.
She steps outside as her uneasiness starts to mount. New York City was never meant to be a ghost town, but suddenly it is. The towering buildings and empty streets are foreboding, at best.
She stares, at a complete loss, when she feels a sudden hand on her shoulder.
She flinches violently, and her first urge is to whip out her knife as she spins— but it’s Bruce. His hands are up, and he’s eyeing her knife with vague distaste.
“Just me,” he assures her. “What are you doing out here?” She lowers her knife, but something feels off still. Her hands look wrong— she’s wearing black leather gloves.
Her stomach drops.
“Where is everyone?” she inquires, glancing subconsciously down at the empty street. Her hands go for the gloves, to take them off, but she’s just pulling at skin.
She thought they were gloves, but it’s paint, or something— she knows her hands shouldn’t be shaped exactly like this. It’s making her incredibly uneasy.
“Are you okay?” Bruce asks in return, looking at her with concern. She tries to rub off some of the paint on her hands, but it just feels like skin. It won’t come off.
“Yeah, I just— I’ve got some paint on my hands,” she replies, rubbing harder at the hand, more aggressively. “Not coming off easy.” He glances down at her hands, nodding.
“I’ll help,” he offers, leading her back inside, to her apartment complex’s lobby bathroom. She continues to rub, almost obsessively, at her hands— panic is setting in.
Bruce pulls her hands apart, frowning as he goes for the soap. While he tries to get an adequate amount, Olivia chances a glance in the mirror.
She’s wearing her Fox mask.
Her hand shoots to her face, feeling cold plastic, and she tries to pull it off, but it hurts. It feels like it’s attached to her.
“Hey, hey, woah,” Bruce interjects, pulling her hand away from her face. “Easy!” He looks her over worriedly as her head starts to spin, trying to help her wash her hands.
“My mask, why is my mask on,” she fumbles out, terrified now. How is she back there? She was out. She was out!
“Calm down,” he assures her. “Here, let’s get this paint off your hands.” He turns on the water, running it over her hands. Indeed, some black paint comes off— revealing red beneath.
The water tints pink, but by the time she realizes what’s happening, it’s completely red. It’s not water anymore, the sink is filling up with blood, pouring from her hands.
“What— I—,” she stammers, looking at Bruce in terror. He looks completely calm still.
“You wanted the paint off,” he reminds her. “These are your real hands, remember?” He reaches out to tap her mask, and to her horror, it feels just like he’s touching her face. “And this?” He smiles bitterly, glaring at her. “This is your real face.”
“No, it’s not,” she denies quickly, pulling her hands away from the overflowing sink. The blood is everywhere, it’s on the floor, her clothes, her skin— it’s still flowing, staining everything she touches.
“That’s not your blood,” he reminds her, pointing to her hands. “No matter how many people you kill, torture, maim, you’ve always got a justification ready. Them or you, them or you. It’s always them or you; did you ever think maybe it should be you?”
“I don’t…” she shakes her head, at a loss for words. “I don’t do that anymore!”
“Yes, you do,” he scoffs. “You can say you’re out all day and all night, but you know it’s not true. You know you still answer to these.” He pulls a red envelope from his pocket. “Let’s face it— this is who you really are. Fox. Olivia Banner is the mask.”
The blood that’s been pouring from her hands has been accumulating on the floor, rising steadily— too high. She’s swimming in it now.
No, not swimming.
Drowning.
She makes one last gasp for air before she finally goes under, ending her futile struggle.
“Olivia!” a voice exclaims. Her eyes snap open like a rocket, and she’s laying in a soft bed with blue sheets. Someone is hovering near her, watching with worried eyes.
It takes her a moment to get her wits together, and remember where she is. It’s Asgard, and the person is Loki. She had a bad dream, that’s all.
“Morning,” she sighs, her voice coming out heavier than she’d like. His brows furrow.
“Are you… alright?” he inquires, hesitantly. She takes a deep breath, then nods. It’s kind of a lie, and she doesn’t really feel reality right now, but she’ll live.
“Not used to dreaming again,” she replies quietly, as if that’s the answer to everything. He frowns a little.
“…did you want to talk about it?” he inquires, slowly. She shakes her head; no, she absolutely does not. That sounds like the worst, actually.
“I think I’d like some bacon, though,” she offers up as an alternative. “I’m starving.” He hesitates, but offers her a small smirk.
“I can certainly do that,” he agrees.
***
“I really don’t think I’m welcome in Germany,” Loki reminds Olivia as they eat breakfast in bed. “Last time I was there, I made a bit of a mess.” Olivia nods sagely, humming.
“Oh yeah, I heard about that,” she confirms. “Carved some guy’s eye out; apparently it was really gnarly.” He scrunches his nose up in distaste.
“Oh,” he notes, sounding a little off, “you know about that.” She pauses in the middle of munching a piece of bacon.
“It’s… I mean it’s… fine,” she advises him. “I’m not judging. I’ve done worse, remember? My old job?” He frowns, a little bitterly.
“I recall,” he assures her. “Actually, I noticed something last night; where did you get that scar on your thigh?” She hums, knowing exactly the one.
“Takedown job,” she sighs. “Boss found out one of the guys was selling information to someone whose name is mostly forbidden; asked me to kill him. I cornered him in his apartment, but the guy was determined not to go down easy— got me with a kitchen knife. I did get him, though. One of my more gruesome ones, actually, I—…” she trails off, recalling her dream.
Suddenly she remembers that she’s talking to a person right now, telling him about a mission. No, not a mission; a kill. She’s telling him the story about a man she brutally murdered in his own home.
“Well, you… probably don’t wanna hear about that,” she decides, suddenly feeling strange. He frowns.
He was actually getting kind of invested there for a minute.
“The day we met, I threatened to peel you like an orange,” he reminds her. “We just mentioned how I carved a man’s eye out. You don’t judge me, and I’m not going to judge you.” She smiles with some humor, though it comes out a little weak.
“I wish you said it like that,” she jokes halfheartedly, “that would’ve been a really funny story.”
“You don’t need to deflect,” he sighs. “I was just curious; you don’t have to tell me anything.” For a long moment, there is silence, and Olivia takes another bite of bacon.
“I, uh… had a bad dream last night,” she admits softly. “Brought up some stuff I thought I was past.” He softens a little.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sincerely. “Night terrors can be awful.” She shakes her head.
“I just don’t really wanna talk about my old job today,” she sighs. Then, she plasters her face into a mischievous grin. “Instead, I’d prefer to wipe the floor with you in blackjack.”
“I beg your pardon?” he scoffs. “You, wipe the floor with me?” Her grin widens.
“Then beg,” she shrugs. He narrows his eyes at her.
“Oh, you are bold indeed,” he muses, tone almost sinister. “This… this means war.” She grins like the cat that caught the canary, apparently assured of her victory already.
“Then war is what it will be,” she fires back, almost haughtily.
They have so much fun that Olivia’s nightmare is allowed to drift back to a quiet corner of her subconscious to gather dust.
…or maybe it’s gathering something else.