Hmm, after thinking about it, I'll just give a brief introduction to the hallucinations of a few other people.
I simply can't come up with any good illusions.
They simply designed some illusions that could make people confront their inner thoughts.
If you have any good suggestions, please leave a comment. If they are helpful, I can make some changes.
The next chapter will begin the main storyline.
A gentle breeze rippled across the farm's meadow.
Lynn and Steve stood side by side, their gazes falling simultaneously on the group still trapped in the illusion, struggling silently in the open space.
Tony leaned back in his recliner, closed his eyes, and tried to catch his breath. The heaviness in his chest hadn't dissipated; he was still slowly processing the despair he had felt earlier.
The rest of the people, their brows furrowed and bodies trembling, were all lost in the abyss of illusion, without exception.
Everyone's weaknesses are different and unique.
The scene shifts, devoid of smoke, ruins, carnage, and bloodshed. Instead, a warm, clean, and softly lit living room appears— Lynn's residence within Stark Tower, a tranquil place where she has lingered countless nights, a place she cherishes and longs for.
Warm yellow light filled the room, the dining table was clean and elegant, and several steaming home-style dishes were neatly arranged, their aromas wafting out as if from a dream. These were the dishes she had personally prepared, the kind of "home" she had imagined countless times.
Natasha stood by the dining table, the warmth of the cooking still lingering on her fingertips. Her brows were gentle and relaxed, and her eyes held a ease and contentment she had never shown to outsiders.
Click.
The door lock clicked softly, and the door was gently pushed open.
Lynn pushed open the door and walked in, dressed in clean casual clothes, his eyes carrying his usual gentle smile. The evening breeze and sunlight fell on his shoulders, soft and just right. He looked at Natasha at the table and spoke softly, his tone lazy and indulgent. "Were you getting impatient? I passed by a newly opened dessert shop, it looked nice, so I bought some. You can try some later."
The scene was so perfect that it made Natasha's heart ache.
She stood there, stunned, her eyes seemingly filled with starlight. All her hardness, coldness, and pretense had vanished, leaving only pure tenderness. She took a small step, tiptoed, and gently raised her hand, wanting to lightly touch Lynn's cheek, to feel the peace and warmth she had been yearning for her entire life.
My fingertips were only a hair's breadth away from that warmth.
Just as they were about to touch, the world suddenly distorted.
The soft light suddenly dimmed and shattered, and the cozy living room crumbled inch by inch. The gentle smile of the boy in front of me peeled away layer by layer, distorted, and quickly replaced by pale and lifeless faces.
There were targets she had personally eliminated during her missions, innocent people she had deceived and exploited, and comrades who had fallen during training in the Red Room. Their faces were lifeless, their eyes empty, staring intently at her, silently accusing her.
The gentle voice vanished completely, replaced by a cold, indifferent whisper devoid of any warmth, echoing in my ears again and again:
You never deserve these things.
" Natasha, you are just a weapon."
"Weapons need no home, no gentleness, no favoritism; they only need to identify their target and carry out the killing."
The chill instantly seeped into my limbs and bones, and the warmth was completely Oblivion.
A ruthless, menacing female figure suddenly appeared beside her—the instructor who had personally trained her and crushed all her hopes in the Red Room. Her eyes were sinister, and she stared intently at the trembling Natasha, her words like knives, piercing to the bone:
"Who are you fooling? Are you fooling us, or yourself?"
"Has a fleeting moment of tenderness made you lose your way? Admit it, Natasha. You are a cold-blooded weapon at heart. You don't deserve stability, you don't deserve favor, and you certainly don't deserve such a warm home."
The illusion of tenderness shattered completely, and the naked fear in her heart tore away all her pretense, laying bare her deep-seated inferiority, anxiety, and self-denial.
The vast, cold exhibition hall was blindingly white, and the huge space was deserted except for a single, cold spotlight that fell straight down and focused intently on him.
Ivan, dressed in old, faded work clothes, covered in dust and grime, stood forlorn and forlorn in the center of the lamplight.
In the empty exhibition hall, footsteps slowly rose, steady and cold.
Anton Vanko slowly walked out, clutching a thick stack of blueprints tightly in his hand. His eyes were arrogant and cold. He never looked at his son. He raised his hand and unfolded the blueprints, proudly introducing his life's work and design to the empty exhibition hall. His tone was full of arrogance and pride.
"Look closely, these are all my top-notch designs, masterpieces far ahead of their time."
As soon as he finished speaking smugly, Anton abruptly stopped.
He abruptly turned his head, his gaze instantly turning cold, all the arrogance in his eyes transforming into chilling contempt and disappointment, fixing his gaze on Ivan under the lamplight, his voice icy and piercing:
"And you, my son."
"You're not even as good as a cunning thief. You acknowledge Stark's technology, help him build armor, put aside your hatred and family honor, and simply hide in someone else's shadow."
Tell me, what about you truly belongs to you?
"What have you truly done for me, for the Vanko Family, and for yourself?"
His eyes grew increasingly ferocious, each word piercing to the heart, utterly shattering the last vestiges of pride in Ivan's heart. "You're not even as good as a little bird in the forest. At least a little bird knows how to sing. But you, all you do is howl, imitate, and wallow in depravity, living a complete joke."
The next moment, Ivan Vanko also shattered his illusions.
Banner's fantasy world is an endless, lonely laboratory.
The pure white, sterile space was empty and deathly silent, with rows of sophisticated instruments neatly arranged—all the equipment he knew best and had been with day and night. But at this moment, every set of data and every curve flashing on the screen filled him with panic.
Heart rate, mood, cell activity, gamma value... all indicators are off the charts, all pointing to a terrifying fact: he is only one step away from the Hulk going berserk and completely transforming.
Suppression, panic, and instinctive resistance instantly enveloped Banner. Years of fear of the Hulk and rejection of his own power surged into his heart.
Just as he was on the verge of collapse, a deep, calm, and incredibly familiar voice slowly drifted from a dark corner of the laboratory.
That was his own voice, yet it was calmer, more insightful, and more indifferent than he actually was.
Look at you.
"No, you should look at me."
"Every time he awakens, every time he goes berserk, you cower in a corner of your consciousness, cowardly, escapist, and afraid to face him. You've always longed to destroy him, spent your whole life rejecting this power, but you've never truly understood him."
" Bruce, it's him who has pulled you back from the Extremis time and time again. He's the one who has taken all the hurt and all the crises for you."
"You think you're suppressing him? Trying to get rid of him? How ridiculous! You're just a docile mask he wears to avoid a big scene."
"Make sure you see the Destroyer over there."
In the void, images of Hulk rampaging through cities and destroying the world with his bare hands appeared.
The voice continued to drift over, shattering all his self-deception. "Does it sound familiar? That's you, and that's him. You're the one who destroyed everything, who ruined everything. And you're the one who cowers in the corner, running away—that's you too."
"You always want reconciliation, you always want destruction, but you never understand. Power doesn't need reconciliation, it only needs coexistence. The prerequisite for coexistence is acceptance."
"Face your heart, Bruce Banner. You're not running away from the Hulk; you're running away from the you who has the power to protect yourself."
Thor's illusion took place in the magnificent banquet hall of Asgard.
The city was brightly lit, with fine wine flowing freely. People were laughing and talking, raising their glasses in celebration, creating a scene of peace, prosperity, and tranquility.
Odin stood with his back to him in the center of the hall, his figure as majestic as a mountain, exuding the aura of a god-king. In the entire noisy banquet hall, only he was surrounded by deathly silence and stillness.
" Thor."
Odin spoke slowly, his voice deep and resonant, carrying a sense of profound understanding and disappointment. "I bestowed upon you divine power, I bestowed upon you Mjolnir, I bestowed upon you the throne and future of Asgard. I gave you everything."
But what did you retain?
As soon as he finished speaking, he pointed.
Countless illusory figures appeared out of thin air in the middle of the hall, swirling and flickering. There was Jane's gentle profile, Loki's mischievous youthful appearance, the tragic scene of Asgard collapsing and burning, and the desperate moment when his mother fell into a pool of blood.
Each scene was a regret of his life.
"You can't protect anything, my son."
"You pride yourself on your power, wielding thunder, yet you've never understood how to protect. You only know how to charge recklessly with brute force, wantonly unleashing your power."
"You are not God of Thunder, you are merely Destroyer. Wherever you go, conflict erupts, and ashes spread."
As Odin finished speaking, a gentle yet sorrowful female voice softly sounded behind Thor.
It's Frigga.
Gentle, soft, and embracing, yet tinged with an unyielding sorrow and regret, she softly whispered in his ear, " Thor, my child."
It's not fate that brings us destruction, it's that you've never learned restraint and protection.
"All the disasters, separations, and pains stem from your recklessness. My child, true protection is not about brute force, but about restraint and responsibility..."
Her gentle voice carried an endless sense of regret.
On Frigga's dress, streaks of crimson blood slowly spread and diffused, soaking through her magnificent gold and white robes and gradually staining the entire garment. Her gentle eyes and brows gradually paled, and her life slowly faded away.
Witnessing all of this firsthand, Thor's last shred of stubbornness completely crumbled.
Bucky's hallucinations are cold and stark, devoid of any warmth, only chilling judgment.
The laboratory was dimly lit and enclosed, the metal tabletop gleaming coldly, the air icy and biting.
Bucky sat quietly in the chair, his body tense and his limbs stiff. Across from him, Hydra researcher in a white lab coat, his eyes cold and sinister, his voice mechanical and mocking, whispered repeatedly in Bucky's ear, tearing open his past that he had desperately tried to suppress:
"You think that breaking free from brainwashing will wash everything away?"
No matter how hard you try or how much you restrain yourself, you can't change the fact. You don't deserve freedom, you don't deserve stability, and you certainly don't deserve Steve's pure and sincere friendship.
"Your hands are stained with the blood of innocent people; countless lives have been lost because of you. Even Howard Stark died at your hands."
"Why should the blood-stained Winter Soldier be given a new life? Why should he be redeemed?"
On the side of the illusion, Steve stood quietly, without making a sound.
He showed no anger, no rebuke, only a complex mix of helplessness and regret in his eyes. Then, without a word, he slowly retreated, walking further and further away.
Those retreats, step by step, were like a silent severing, completely crushing the last bit of confidence in Bucky's heart.
Finally, there's Sam's illusion.
On the solemn and dignified trial platform, the lights were piercingly bright.
Sam stood alone in the defendant's dock, surrounded by empty space, yet countless cold gazes fell from the void, fixed intently on him.
From the void came a chilling voice of judgment. "You do not deserve Steve Rogers ' friendship."
His deceased comrade-in-arms stood beside him, his face solemn, clutching the long-forgotten retirement application tightly in his hand, looking at him with complicated eyes.
The camaraderie they once shared, the sacrifices on the battlefield, the regrets of retiring—all weighed heavily on him, making it hard to breathe.
Self-doubt and self-denial completely overwhelmed his mind and tormented his soul.
Time passed slowly, and the farm meadow remained silent.
Finally, the first crimson fragment shattered and dissipated.
Sam opened his eyes and exhaled a long breath. The confusion, cowardice, and self-doubt in his eyes had all faded away, replaced by openness and determination. He had completely faced his ordinariness, accepted his shortcomings, and recognized his responsibilities and true self. He was no longer afraid of criticism or apprehensive about passing on his legacy, and calmly accepted the path that belonged to him.
Bucky slowly came to his senses.
He no longer succumbed to self-loathing and escapism; the gloom in his eyes slowly dissipated. He understood the judgment of the illusion and finally learned to face his sins and accept his dark past. The past cannot be changed, but the future can be reborn. He was no longer bound by blood and shackles and truly let go of his obsession.
Thor, Banner, and Ivan awaken one after another.
Thor shed his impetuousness and brute force, fully understanding that power is not a means of destruction, but rather that protection is the true meaning of Thunder.
Banner no longer merely reconciled with the Hulk. He finally understood that the Hulk was his most primal strength and protector. When he opened his eyes again, a faint, eerie green light belonging to the Hulk flashed deep within them, fleeting yet carrying an unprecedented peace and acceptance.
Ivan laid down the shackles and prejudices of his father, accepted his failure, embraced his imperfections, and stopped living in his father's shadow and the hatred of his family. The way he looked at Tony changed subtly; it was no longer a pure comparison, but rather a sense of relief.
Natasha slowly raised her eyes and looked at Lynn, who was standing quietly not far away. All the coldness and aloofness in her eyes had faded, and they were filled with tenderness, dependence and burning emotions. Her gaze was gentle, almost tearful, and she had only him in her heart and eyes.
At this point, everyone had regained consciousness.
Everyone looked tired to varying degrees and seemed listless, but their minds were clear and calm, and each person had completed their own unique transformation.
Lynn watched quietly as everyone shed their restlessness and settled down, a gentle smile in his eyes. He slowly stepped forward and settled everyone in place to rest and recuperate.
After everyone had calmed down a bit, he looked at them, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips, and said in a relaxed yet slightly irritating tone, "So, everyone? How about we try a different script and do it again?"