There's fresh blood and gore and it came from somewhere. Someone kidnapped from town? People went missing all the time. Wild animals in the woods is what they always say. Is this what's happened to some of them?
The two goons bodily drag him closer, as he drags his feet, yelling and stumbling as he tries to push against their grip.
There's a part of him that almost wants to stop fighting.
Maybe you deserve this. Maybe he deserves to die suffering. Maybe you deserve to die like they did.
But there's something about all this that starts to ring familiar. At first, it's just the familiar adrenaline surge from when he used to be in combat. But as he works his hands against his bindings while fighting against them, sloughing off skin until his wrists are sticky with blood, there's something else.
Something about the feeling of blood dripping down his hands.
Like that day at the burn pit when the explosion happens and shrapnel ripped through his hands. The soft skin between each knuckle had been full of metal, sticking out like morbid, malformed claws.
"You were an animal then and you're an animal now. I just gave you claws."
His mind starts to flash to endless battlefields - but not just ones in the desert. When the fuck had he ever stormed a beach? Fought a giant robot?
The cage...A tank. Straps. Metal piercing his skin. An agonizing burning so deep it reaches the bone.
"We're going to make you indestructible - but first, we're gonna have to destroy you."
His ragged breaths start to change to something courser, something closer to growling as something starts to awaken inside him. Something partly inhuman. Something that growls and snarls and snaps with far sharper teeth than that of a sad, old drunk. Muscles twitch on his fore-arms to spring claws that currently aren't there.
It is a testament to a life so often lived badly that this is what wakes him up. This. Dancing close to death. This feeling. He'd been lost. Lost and bitter, and even now he is lost and bitter, but he is also something else. He's always something else.
I'm the Wolverine.
This place is a place where deadly ballerinas dance in the night, in a world build on Belief. There are many stories about people transforming to beasts in an explosion of murder and rage. So what if the transformation is just in his head? There is an explosion of adrenaline and instinct, even now, even in this body.
The animal that sometimes looks out from behind his eyes is unleashed. He roars as he purposefully dislocates a thumb and rips most of the flesh off his hands where the bindings touch, in his rush to slip out of them. Hands still slippery with blood, he turns and punches one of the men in the throat, then kicks the other in the junk.
There aren't really any weapons to be found, but there are rocks, so he picks one up and bodily slams the first of the mooks face first into the chamber wall, pinning him there with an arm bar as as he slams the rock into the back of his head over and over. Blood and gore splatters over his face. It's familiar. It's even more of a wake up call, like splashing water on your face first thing in the morning.
He lets the body drop, then turns back to the other, first bashing him in the face with the rock to stun him, then bodily throwing him into the iron maiden and kicking the door shut.
Then he turns towards the door, back in the direction of hole in the ceiling and lets out another roar, one that nearly vibrates the walls of the chamber.
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There's fresh blood and gore and it came from somewhere. Someone kidnapped from town? People went missing all the time. Wild animals in the woods is what they always say. Is this what's happened to some of them?
The two goons bodily drag him closer, as he drags his feet, yelling and stumbling as he tries to push against their grip.
There's a part of him that almost wants to stop fighting.
Maybe you deserve this. Maybe he deserves to die suffering. Maybe you deserve to die like they did.
But there's something about all this that starts to ring familiar. At first, it's just the familiar adrenaline surge from when he used to be in combat. But as he works his hands against his bindings while fighting against them, sloughing off skin until his wrists are sticky with blood, there's something else.
Something about the feeling of blood dripping down his hands.
Like that day at the burn pit when the explosion happens and shrapnel ripped through his hands. The soft skin between each knuckle had been full of metal, sticking out like morbid, malformed claws.
"You were an animal then and you're an animal now. I just gave you claws."
His mind starts to flash to endless battlefields - but not just ones in the desert. When the fuck had he ever stormed a beach? Fought a giant robot?
The cage...A tank. Straps. Metal piercing his skin. An agonizing burning so deep it reaches the bone.
"We're going to make you indestructible - but first, we're gonna have to destroy you."
His ragged breaths start to change to something courser, something closer to growling as something starts to awaken inside him. Something partly inhuman. Something that growls and snarls and snaps with far sharper teeth than that of a sad, old drunk. Muscles twitch on his fore-arms to spring claws that currently aren't there.
It is a testament to a life so often lived badly that this is what wakes him up. This. Dancing close to death. This feeling. He'd been lost. Lost and bitter, and even now he is lost and bitter, but he is also something else. He's always something else.
I'm the Wolverine.
This place is a place where deadly ballerinas dance in the night, in a world build on Belief. There are many stories about people transforming to beasts in an explosion of murder and rage. So what if the transformation is just in his head? There is an explosion of adrenaline and instinct, even now, even in this body.
The animal that sometimes looks out from behind his eyes is unleashed. He roars as he purposefully dislocates a thumb and rips most of the flesh off his hands where the bindings touch, in his rush to slip out of them. Hands still slippery with blood, he turns and punches one of the men in the throat, then kicks the other in the junk.
There aren't really any weapons to be found, but there are rocks, so he picks one up and bodily slams the first of the mooks face first into the chamber wall, pinning him there with an arm bar as as he slams the rock into the back of his head over and over. Blood and gore splatters over his face. It's familiar. It's even more of a wake up call, like splashing water on your face first thing in the morning.
He lets the body drop, then turns back to the other, first bashing him in the face with the rock to stun him, then bodily throwing him into the iron maiden and kicking the door shut.
Then he turns towards the door, back in the direction of hole in the ceiling and lets out another roar, one that nearly vibrates the walls of the chamber.