The Chase: Chapter 1

Nightmares and Reality

“You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.” ~Megan Chance, The Spiritualist

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He was running again. Blurs of brown and orange fly past, as uneven footfalls desperately try to maneuver their way over fallen wood and roots. His breath comes out in fierce puffs, painfully scrapping its way through his exhausted lungs; his veins were now harboring pure adrenaline.

Boom!

He could hear the pounding of his own frantic heartbeat banging around in his skull, uneven and flustered. How long had it been? A few minutes? Hours? Days? He couldn't tell; all that he knew was that if he stopped, he would cease to be. Behind he could hear the guttural sounds of the beast, the monster that plagued his very existence, his very being.

Boom!

He was closer now, than he was only a few moments ago. Where had this new burst of energy come from? He continued running through the never-ending expanse of Canadian oaks, but he knew his efforts were fruitless; he could never escape.

Boom!

He was right on top of him now, yet he still ran, desperately hoping to evade the inevitable. His eyes wide in terror and confusion, he looked up just in time to a flash of green and smell the sick aroma of the fiend, like acrid chemicals, before he heard the crack of bone, and was sucked into the darkness.
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Bruce's eyes jerked open, his body convulsing slightly from the shock of sudden consciousness, and was drenched in sweat. He sat up, clenching the Egyptian cotton that caressed his body, and tried to calm his racing heart. He saw that same flash of emerald in the mirror across the room, only now on his own pale skin, like the skin of the diseased. He knew he had to calm himself down, "breathe Bruce…breathe…"  It took 18 minutes for his heart rate to return to its normal state: the longest recovery time since the nightmares started; since the running started.

"Is everything all right Master Bruce? Shall I send in Master Tony?" came the AI, in his British tone. If the computer was capable of it, Bruce could've sworn he'd heard a bit of concern in the system's voice.

Bruce, still breathing heavily, replied, "Yes, Jarvis, I'm fine. Uh, no, don't tell Tony; I don't want him to worry."

As the physicist rose shakily from his bed, whose purple sheets were now a tangled mess from the thrashings during last night's nightmare, he could faintly hear the sound of the AI mention what the temperature was outside; as if he ever went anywhere other than the tower. He shuffled to the stark white walled bathroom and gazed into the face of an unrecognizable creature. Its skin was pale and was covered in a sheen of damp; even its lips were pale. Its brown hair had stuck together in slick clumps around its face. Its eyes were dark and hollow, void of anything but fear and exhaustion. The nightmares had gotten worse, increasing in intensity every night for the past few weeks.
He splashed water on his face, hoping to wash away some of the grime, but after 5 minutes of scrubbing, he realized that this was a problem that only a hot shower and fresh coffee could fix.

After showering, brushing his teeth, and towel-drying his mop of chocolate curls, he dressed in his favorite pair of khakis and purple dress shirt; he needed the comforting feeling that the shirt brought him today. On his way out, he glanced in the mirror across from his bed. Dark bruise-like smudges still harbored themselves underneath his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about them.

Bruce stopped in the doorway of the room Tony had given to him in STARK tower; it was painted from floor to ceiling in calming, light, powder blue and lilac, and was filled with just the right amount of furniture, all insanely expensive knowing his best friend. "I can't believe I live here," he thought just as he did every morning.

He took the elevator down to the newly remodeled floor (thanks to the other guy) housing the kitchen, bar, and living area. The elevator came to a soft thud, and the doors opened silently, revealing the tangled bed-head of Hawkeye. Ever since the Avengers had saved New York from Loki and the Chitauri, Clint had been staying in the Tower; it had taken him a lot longer to recover than Fury had thought, so he's currently on "sabbatical" away from S.H.I.E.L.D.; whatever Loki had done to him, whatever he had made him do, had damaged something inside of the Archer. Not that he'd ever admit that it had.

"Oh, hey Bruce," he said, stifling a yawn. "Sleep okay?"

The brunette stared at him for a fraction of a second; watched him stretch out the night's stiffness. He hated the feeling of stiff arms. He cleared his throat, "Yeah, fine. You?" He tried to hide the nervous twitching of his calloused hands.

The archer shrugged, "Okay, I guess. I must've slept on my shoulder wrong though; I can't get this knot out."

"It's probably from all those hours you've spent in the training room."

"Well, I have to do something to occupy my time, seeing how I don't go on any missions now." Could Bruce see something resembling a flash of resentment in the agent's eye? It was gone too fast for him to conclude anything.

Diverting from the awkward subject, Clint inhaled deeply and asked with honest curiosity, "Mmmmm…do you smell that? Smells like breakfast!" Bruce watched as Clint sprinted the rest of the way down the expansive hall and rounded the corner into the kitchen.

As he got closer, Bruce could hear Steve cooking up a frenzy of what smelled like pancakes, sausage, and eggs, probably enough to keep the other guy satisfied for a while. He chuckled to himself and wondered why every morning couldn't be as marvelous as this.