07-28-2019, 09:32 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"]cw for violence, hand trauma, blood, etc. v's in a bad place mentally and takes it out on a tree.
The life he's made here was sticks and stones. A shabby hut at best, one that barely protected him from the elements, but Volatile's always been someone that made a life best like this. When he's always gotta crawl his way out of dirt. He likes the scrabble for life, the desperation of creatures about to die, mostly 'cause it's something he knows deep in his stomach and the soles of his feet. V wouldn't say he's afraid of the world, but fear's what's gotten him this far. A deeply ingrained wariness and rage at everything that God'd apparently made. He hates the idea of that, you know. That there's someone in charge of this shithole. They must be as chaotic as he was, if that was the case, and there's no way in hell someone like V should be in charge of anything. He tears shit apart to spite the heavens, makes people bleed because he's always bleeding too. That's just how it goes, that's why he's always been this alone. It's the way it has to be.
Being God doesn't suit him. All this time without Bane's left Volatile wound tight as a spring, the sort'f pressure that'll carve cuts down everyone once the tension shoots out. He's tried to keep it contained, hitting concrete and dirt and Caustic until he's bloody, until everything's so fucking ruined, but this time tearing something else apart doesn't do anything to put Volatile back together. He told himself maybe it was the city. Maybe it was the dogs or Malik or Caustic or just that missing piece of stability Bane gave him  he got out anyway, knocked down one of the skulls from the top of the fence and dragged his claws through tree bark. They catch and they'll dull but he marks them the way a wild animal would, carving lines into his piece of the world as a warning and a claim.
Maybe that's too poetic. He's just fucking angry. Golden hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck with sweat that beads down tanned skin, his heart beats harshly against his ribs and he throws his weight into a punch that sends sparks of white up behind his eyes. Again and again and again until the skin there is mangled and raw and he has nothing left in his chest. V rests his head against the rough bark and tries to breathe deeply. He can feel the dirt sticking to his skin and his shirt sticking to his chest. The sun beating down on his shoulders through the tree branches, the hot blood trickling down each joint of his fingers. Can't close it fully now without stabbing pain, but he keeps trying anyway and breathing through the searing white.
The life he's made here was sticks and stones. A shabby hut at best, one that barely protected him from the elements, but Volatile's always been someone that made a life best like this. When he's always gotta crawl his way out of dirt. He likes the scrabble for life, the desperation of creatures about to die, mostly 'cause it's something he knows deep in his stomach and the soles of his feet. V wouldn't say he's afraid of the world, but fear's what's gotten him this far. A deeply ingrained wariness and rage at everything that God'd apparently made. He hates the idea of that, you know. That there's someone in charge of this shithole. They must be as chaotic as he was, if that was the case, and there's no way in hell someone like V should be in charge of anything. He tears shit apart to spite the heavens, makes people bleed because he's always bleeding too. That's just how it goes, that's why he's always been this alone. It's the way it has to be.
Being God doesn't suit him. All this time without Bane's left Volatile wound tight as a spring, the sort'f pressure that'll carve cuts down everyone once the tension shoots out. He's tried to keep it contained, hitting concrete and dirt and Caustic until he's bloody, until everything's so fucking ruined, but this time tearing something else apart doesn't do anything to put Volatile back together. He told himself maybe it was the city. Maybe it was the dogs or Malik or Caustic or just that missing piece of stability Bane gave him  he got out anyway, knocked down one of the skulls from the top of the fence and dragged his claws through tree bark. They catch and they'll dull but he marks them the way a wild animal would, carving lines into his piece of the world as a warning and a claim.
Maybe that's too poetic. He's just fucking angry. Golden hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck with sweat that beads down tanned skin, his heart beats harshly against his ribs and he throws his weight into a punch that sends sparks of white up behind his eyes. Again and again and again until the skin there is mangled and raw and he has nothing left in his chest. V rests his head against the rough bark and tries to breathe deeply. He can feel the dirt sticking to his skin and his shirt sticking to his chest. The sun beating down on his shoulders through the tree branches, the hot blood trickling down each joint of his fingers. Can't close it fully now without stabbing pain, but he keeps trying anyway and breathing through the searing white.
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