06-26-2019, 01:48 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ tw for implied drug use and some general violence
He can feel himself starting to itch. Ants under his skin, or maybe nails. They threaten to break through even the toughest of callouses and they crawl and nip and he's back to fidgeting, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, heels jumping off the ground and falling back down with a thump. Both sets of his claws grind against each other, and a few passes end up leaving lines of red on his own palms, but he doesn't care. Can't figure out if he needs a fix or if this is his fix, staring at every person that passes to figure out which ones would be the most satisfying to break. His entire life has been like this, since the day he got wrapped up in this shit. Remembers the day the blackout hit, even if he doesn't want to. Remembers the rioters that picked him out of the mess of glass  still got scars from that broken window, all up his biceps. Remembers the way they laughed and praised him when he smashed through one of his own. Different scars that time, a few reopened.
It's always been about breaking shit.
"Hey!" he finally snaps at someone who's suitably big, someone with that wild look in their eyes. Another addict, maybe. Good. This place is all about family and he won't break that. Couldn't. Bane kept them in line; maybe that's a good thing. Today he just needs to break something. Someone. Anything, maybe.
The fight gets started quick and it feels over just as soon. They're not fighting for their lives and they both know it, but Volatile wants to trick himself into thinking otherwise. Pretend that it's important, that he needs to fight like this for some reason other than the glass under his skin. The piece of rebar swung at his head does it for a moment. He catches it with the palm of his claws, the curves wrapping over it and making the metal screech and scream. "Fuck," he snarls at the noise, head turning like he needs to get away from the sound  he wrenches his hand and kick's the guy's knee; bar goes flying, they fall to their knees, he's left with his head ringing until they tackle him and puts a fist to his face, which is when the ringing gets worse. They're both in the dirt. His head hurts, his nose stings, air's suddenly a foreign object and this poor fucking stranger's probably never going to have kids with how hard V kicks him where the sun don't shine.
They're done, both of them. V pats the side of the guy's head and helps him to his feet with a bloody grin, his nose steadily dripping red. "You're gonna need some ice for that." And you're gonna need a nose job. He laughs and resets it on his own, swaying through the dizziness. Volatile goes back to his spot, perched on a broken wall outside of Los Santos's hotel, but the crawling underneath his skin is gone, at least for the moment. Still looks like shit with blood on his face and hands, but what's new?
He can feel himself starting to itch. Ants under his skin, or maybe nails. They threaten to break through even the toughest of callouses and they crawl and nip and he's back to fidgeting, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, heels jumping off the ground and falling back down with a thump. Both sets of his claws grind against each other, and a few passes end up leaving lines of red on his own palms, but he doesn't care. Can't figure out if he needs a fix or if this is his fix, staring at every person that passes to figure out which ones would be the most satisfying to break. His entire life has been like this, since the day he got wrapped up in this shit. Remembers the day the blackout hit, even if he doesn't want to. Remembers the rioters that picked him out of the mess of glass  still got scars from that broken window, all up his biceps. Remembers the way they laughed and praised him when he smashed through one of his own. Different scars that time, a few reopened.
It's always been about breaking shit.
"Hey!" he finally snaps at someone who's suitably big, someone with that wild look in their eyes. Another addict, maybe. Good. This place is all about family and he won't break that. Couldn't. Bane kept them in line; maybe that's a good thing. Today he just needs to break something. Someone. Anything, maybe.
The fight gets started quick and it feels over just as soon. They're not fighting for their lives and they both know it, but Volatile wants to trick himself into thinking otherwise. Pretend that it's important, that he needs to fight like this for some reason other than the glass under his skin. The piece of rebar swung at his head does it for a moment. He catches it with the palm of his claws, the curves wrapping over it and making the metal screech and scream. "Fuck," he snarls at the noise, head turning like he needs to get away from the sound  he wrenches his hand and kick's the guy's knee; bar goes flying, they fall to their knees, he's left with his head ringing until they tackle him and puts a fist to his face, which is when the ringing gets worse. They're both in the dirt. His head hurts, his nose stings, air's suddenly a foreign object and this poor fucking stranger's probably never going to have kids with how hard V kicks him where the sun don't shine.
They're done, both of them. V pats the side of the guy's head and helps him to his feet with a bloody grin, his nose steadily dripping red. "You're gonna need some ice for that." And you're gonna need a nose job. He laughs and resets it on his own, swaying through the dizziness. Volatile goes back to his spot, perched on a broken wall outside of Los Santos's hotel, but the crawling underneath his skin is gone, at least for the moment. Still looks like shit with blood on his face and hands, but what's new?
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