She don't breathe. Ticker in her chest bits ain't got its motherfucking tock. He knew this day would come, but not this early. Not this fucking soon. Eventuality as with the dawn but not an eye's blink. His whole life stretches out like empty horizon and he would give anything now for the scream just to fill it so there'd be something fucking there. His jaws open wide with the want of it but he ain't got nothing, just a building ache in his chest and clawing at back of his throat and the noise about him don't motherfucking stop.
There's blood on his hands. It's cool and sticky and it coats his fingers. The light shines open it to make it bright and make it dark, narrowing down the pretty day-sky color into one or the other and only one side is going at to win.
He hears the desperate cry of another fucker taken down, followed quick by more silencing noise.
He shakes her. He shakes her and begs wordless, he can't do this, he can't do this alone, he can't do this without her, he needs her, he can't, he can't. Please come back, come back, come back, come back, please. No, no, no. It's a whole bunch of noiseless howl from him. All howl and no fucking how for the making happenstance of. She's gone. She's... she's motherfucking gone.
The gun shots and shouts and clash of weaponry keeps raining on.
No. No, not gone, right here, right motherfucking here and his girl, his sweet and precious little Pyrope, bitty sister's all done and perished but that don't mean no overness. He lifts her little body up and he finds his shaking hand can steady some when they're holding onto her. He sets her up and cups her jaw, staring into them eyes so blind, so FULL with the knowings of things and the knowing of him. He pulls her close and he kisses her then, hard and desperate, claws poking for first and for once cause she owned his gentle and she gone to take it with her. It is such a brief sweet thing. Just as she. Just as his little teal.
Her fear-tinged words keep echoing in his head. She was so scared. His best girl, she didn't want to go.
He lets her down and lifts his blood soaked hands up into his hair, pulling and digging claws in, awaiting revelation. They'd been quiet, the Messiahs. So so so quiet as to leave him without paltry whispering though even that from them would have been worth a million treasures. They'd been quiet but he is never, not ever alone. So the scripture said. So the angels themselves spoke into his pan when they gave his paint, his duty, and then some. He stares down with trembling form and he prays again, please, please, please, please, fix this, he ain't want this no more, please. Bring it to end.
Bring them to end.
His eyes start to shift, soft gold going deeper and deeper into the red what's wanted for. Oh Messiahs, he asks as he rocks and weeps and his breath pulls in fast and so he recieves. He is their voice. He is their hand. He is their blood descended. Even the best of angels exist for justice.
MAKE THEM PAY.
He rises up. His fingers trail over his paint, painting over top with a miracle color as almost as holy. His hands fall down and back, fingers spreading as he readies his claws. He's got voice, not tongue what to speak with, but he's got all the fang what tear with. He stalks forward, starting slow, letting his claws rake on the metal of the building's wall so it snarls for him. The wall ends. The war really motherfucking starts.
And it starts with the resounding scream as Peacekeeper is ripped out of a run and thrown back, leapt upon clawed. The limbs rip off easy as breathing, just like he remembers. Arm, head, guts. The flesh shreds so smooth and beautiful under his claws and the howls don't mean nothing to him except a call for what his name used to mean. He darts, leaps, and ploughs through the next just as quick. He stops only to make a club of that heavy gun, spinning it once in the air bringing it around with a violence at another. Like lightening, he moves until he reaches his... inquisition quest.
He doesn't see the people he shreds through for who or what they are. As far as he's concerned, anyone in the way of his mission is in the way of him. He deals accordingly.
For Derek, Clint, Albert, then Sam (and Albert returning with Jet) CW:Death, extreme violence + MORE
There's blood on his hands. It's cool and sticky and it coats his fingers. The light shines open it to make it bright and make it dark, narrowing down the pretty day-sky color into one or the other and only one side is going at to win.
He hears the desperate cry of another fucker taken down, followed quick by more silencing noise.
He shakes her. He shakes her and begs wordless, he can't do this, he can't do this alone, he can't do this without her, he needs her, he can't, he can't. Please come back, come back, come back, come back, please. No, no, no. It's a whole bunch of noiseless howl from him. All howl and no fucking how for the making happenstance of. She's gone. She's... she's motherfucking gone.
The gun shots and shouts and clash of weaponry keeps raining on.
No. No, not gone, right here, right motherfucking here and his girl, his sweet and precious little Pyrope, bitty sister's all done and perished but that don't mean no overness. He lifts her little body up and he finds his shaking hand can steady some when they're holding onto her. He sets her up and cups her jaw, staring into them eyes so blind, so FULL with the knowings of things and the knowing of him. He pulls her close and he kisses her then, hard and desperate, claws poking for first and for once cause she owned his gentle and she gone to take it with her. It is such a brief sweet thing. Just as she. Just as his little teal.
Her fear-tinged words keep echoing in his head. She was so scared. His best girl, she didn't want to go.
He lets her down and lifts his blood soaked hands up into his hair, pulling and digging claws in, awaiting revelation. They'd been quiet, the Messiahs. So so so quiet as to leave him without paltry whispering though even that from them would have been worth a million treasures. They'd been quiet but he is never, not ever alone. So the scripture said. So the angels themselves spoke into his pan when they gave his paint, his duty, and then some. He stares down with trembling form and he prays again, please, please, please, please, fix this, he ain't want this no more, please. Bring it to end.
Bring them to end.
His eyes start to shift, soft gold going deeper and deeper into the red what's wanted for. Oh Messiahs, he asks as he rocks and weeps and his breath pulls in fast and so he recieves. He is their voice. He is their hand. He is their blood descended. Even the best of angels exist for justice.
MAKE THEM PAY.
He rises up. His fingers trail over his paint, painting over top with a miracle color as almost as holy. His hands fall down and back, fingers spreading as he readies his claws. He's got voice, not tongue what to speak with, but he's got all the fang what tear with. He stalks forward, starting slow, letting his claws rake on the metal of the building's wall so it snarls for him. The wall ends. The war really motherfucking starts.
And it starts with the resounding scream as Peacekeeper is ripped out of a run and thrown back, leapt upon clawed. The limbs rip off easy as breathing, just like he remembers. Arm, head, guts. The flesh shreds so smooth and beautiful under his claws and the howls don't mean nothing to him except a call for what his name used to mean. He darts, leaps, and ploughs through the next just as quick. He stops only to make a club of that heavy gun, spinning it once in the air bringing it around with a violence at another. Like lightening, he moves until he reaches his... inquisition quest.
He doesn't see the people he shreds through for who or what they are. As far as he's concerned, anyone in the way of his mission is in the way of him. He deals accordingly.