The Universe's Mixer

In one breath, he lurched from the twisted bed that trapped him with his nightmares. An ungloved hand gripped the carved bed post at the foot of his bed and held with a brutal grip until Erik was again in control of his breathing.

They were different now. No longer did he dream of blood-soaked floors or wastelands barren of beauty or even of the wife who had been taken by this City that also gave so much. These dreams were heavier. Full to the brim with the ache he denied existed through his days. That ache had a name. Had a voice as clear as glass, as nuanced as the sea.

Erik ran a hand across his face, then started for the shower, knowing from experience that there would be no more rest for him, despite the darkness still holding sway behind the velvet of his chamber windows.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled a suit jacket onto his frame. The comfort of his morning routine had failed to calm him. Restless still, but mindful of the women with whom he shared this mansion, he closed his chamber door gently and moved with well-practiced silence through the corridor leading to the library. He paused just a few seconds beside a certain door, his fingers unwillingly brushing the surface, before pushing himself away.

That hideous longing crept upon him the more he distanced himself, until he was certain it would gnaw his body cavity through and through. Erik leaned heavily on the closed library doors, pressing his face against the wood and swallowing the groan that kept threatening to break the early morning shush over his house.

When he was again out of danger, again somewhat his own master, he turned the handle and stepped into the darkened room. Needing no light to guide him, he went straight for the bourbon, poured a measure amount, and eased himself into the closest armchair.

His mind was a mess. In days past, he already would have had the needle in his vein. To dare seek that bliss again was to betray his young friend Hannibal, but he nevertheless acknowledged that such sweet silence in his mind would have been a deeper comfort than he could say.

He made do with the bourbon.

( Old memories sit idly on the dark water.... )

( A girl can never have too many friends )

Eric gripped the handle of the bag he'd packed, a tote filled with clothes and anything else that could travel which might be useful. He didn't need much, he had never demanded more than what was needed for survival and even then he'd always had exactly what he'd needed to get by. The challenge had been packing. The challenge had been knowing not what lay ahead for him.

Being here at home was distracting. His mood lately had been turbulent at best and he couldn't bear to bring Macklyn down any longer. It was nothing that either of them had done to the other, not like before. That wasn't why he was leaving and he hoped Macklyn would understand. Macklyn usually did. Eric needed space, time to think and distance from the distractions here at the house. Music was a distraction, he'd been avoiding the studio like the plague. It didn't feel right invading that serenity with turmoil and darkness, it wasn't fair to John (if the vampire had even been going, Eric hadn't been around enough to check). But he needed fresh air and new perspective. His mate had always been there when he had hit a low point, but now Eric wouldn't burden the man with this pain, these feelings.

Lee was gone. It hurt more now than it had before. When she'd passed, Eric had known why. He'd felt it and knew it had been inevitable and right for her to go. This time it was without explaination. He'd finally had the courage to tell her how he'd felt about her, finally been able to admit it to her and now she had vanished. It was a deep wound that refused to heal completely and it left him raw on the inside. It was that darkness coupled with the intense desire to obliterate Selina Kyle, the woman whom had put her hands on a lot of things Eric held dear to him. He would get over it in time, but being here surrounded by the things she had tried to claim was too much.

Leaving Saucer behind to be with Macklyn and gathering only the sword perched by the front door to take in addition to the bag, Eric left the small cottage with the lush yard with Bran perched upon a shoulder. He left no note, nothing to tell where he might be headed. He didn't know where he was going or where he would end up, but it couldn't be here. Eventually he would return, but it and to be when his mind was clearer and he could once more face his mate with himself in his entirety instead of being so inwardly divided. Macklyn deserved much more and at the point it was now, Eric was doing him a disservice.

The porch met him. The yard met him. The street beyond the gate was welcoming, and so the Dark Avenger faded into the beginning light of sunrise on a journey he knew that might not ever truly end.

Castiel was staring at a strange sight. Standing on one of the taller rooftops and staring down, the angel was indifferent to the stiff breeze playing with his hair and coat. He was watching an incredibly strange spectacle of one man fighting others. Apparently they were bad guys, and the man fighting them now was dressed.... well, like one of the super heroes. Except not. His costume was very odd, it was an unsettling red. And aspects of it, especially some odd horn fixtures on his helmet, resembled the modern interpretation of Lucifer. Castiel didn't waste time anymore thinking about how off the humans were in their imagery of him and his kin, but he was very confused why a human would dress himself in such a manner with the apparent intent to prevent criminals from succeeding in their acts.

The angel also noted the man's fighting style. He was obviously very well trained, and extremely disciplined. But it wasn't typical for a human. Castiel wondered if he was some kind of mutant, he seemed to be reacting to his environment with senses humans were not meant to have. It gave him an edge in the fight, one he could have used to end it quickly; minimal damage sustained and with several lives righteously taken. But again, he wasn't clear in his intent. He was taking more hits and drawing out the fight, using his weapons to simply knock each thug unconscious. It had to have been draining physically to draw out the fight, but as the last man dropped Castiel could tell, even at this distance, that they would all live.

He vanished from his position high above the scene, reappearing at the edge of the roof where the men were, exactly behind the victorious figure. His arrival didn't disturb the air around him or even the gravel under his feet. He didn't breathe or move, simply staring at the red figure in body armor. He wondered if the man would be able to detect him without turning. His body did not give off many signals mortals usually relied upon; he had no breath or heartbeat. He was able to keep perfect stillness if he wanted, discounting the slight rustle of his garments as the breeze caught them. But he suspected this man used another sense to keep track of what happened around him. And, if he did, Castiel was keen to test it. It may wind up giving him more insight as to the nature of this new encounter.

The ceremony was small. Private. Perfect.

Wayne Manor was picturesque, just the venue anyone with purpose could ever dream of with its rolling, manicured landscape. It would have been ideal to host any party or function where many were expected to attend. And, at first, that had been the idea. But after mulling it over, and after some good advice, Selina decided against a public ceremony. What she did in her private time was hers alone to know, and Bruce was always in the spotlight for something. He deserved some measure of privacy as well.

So with Alfred as thier witness, Selina stated her vows, said her 'I do's' and bound herself fully to the only man that could ever satisfy her in all of the ways she needed.

They didn't need large crowds, they didn't need cameras or fancy things to declare their love to each other. The simplicity was what made it so wonderful. It was a refreshing start towards forever, or at least until one of them was gunned down in the street. Whichever came first. Each had a slew of enemies, here and back in Gotham, but both understood that in spite of anything against them they would always have each other. With that, Selina could finally say she was happy.

After the exchange and the bonding, the couple returned to their home for a quiet "stay-cation" style honeymoon. The house itself provided ample things to keep them occupied, and because of the inability to truly travel to a destination they made the best of what they had, which simply was each other.

With the exception of Peter, it had been months since Evey interacted with another person. Peter needed... not her, not specifically, but an anchor. She knew her course. She built mental barriers to surround her own internal conflicts and then wrapped herself completely around her best friend. Anchor? She was more a bandage. She held him together until his own shock and loss was manageable. After that, she wasn't far from Peter for long - certainly not mentally, but physically as well. It made it easy to stay away from other people. It made it easier to ignore what she'd barred off from her best friend - and herself. Her focus was Peter. And, she told herself, that was where it needed to be.

Somewhere within month three, Peter gave her a look. It was the same look she'd shared with him often enough - the one that said, "I know exactly what you're doing, and I'm not going to call you on it - yet - but you have a finite amount of time to sort it out for yourself. After that, we're going to talk." When one was deeply connected to the consciousness of another, it only took a single look to convey deep amounts of meaning. The next morning, Evey packed the scraps of possessions she'd kept with her - toothbrush, a few changes of clothing - and left Peter's apartment.

Her own apartment was just next door. 1406. She unlocked the door and dropped the keys into the white porcelain bowl sitting atop the Doric column just inside. The door closed behind her and she set her slight shoulders against the back of it. This place felt unreal. Her eyes skimmed the clean, simple surfaces, the streaks of rosy evening sunlight tossed over the tightly-looped beige carpet, the orderliness of all of it. It was a place she might have chosen for herself. The City seemed to know her; that was clear.

She passed her thin hand over her thin face and pushed away from the door. The next hour was slow and deliberate - a shower, the careful selection of clothing, a few minutes tending the hair she'd once been proud of. When she stood in a full length mirror after the time, a stern, grim woman stared back at her. She touched the mirrored glass and the reflection her fingertips met her own. She looked like the Evey who'd survived a dinosaur island and too much loss for exact sanity. It wasn't all of what she was now, but it... it fit. Her hands skimmed down the front of her midnight cotton pants, then she shucked herself out of them quickly. There was a skirt, pencil-thin and knee length, in the back of her closet. When she returned to the mirror again, she adjusted the gray pullover blouse so that the lines were straight, then slid her bare feet into a pair of heels she'd never worn before. They felt like they belonged to the other Evey, the one who'd never lost Aidan, but she had no memory of having seen them before. And yet, they were hers.

The City was a strange place.

This is not what she should be thinking about. She squared her shoulders and finally unlocked the gates of those high stone walls in her mind. And then, she palmed her keys and made her way to the apartment that had been her home for some time. She still had his key. She didn't use it. Instead, she knocked crisply, three times. Her hands went behind her back, then, and she clasped them tightly together around her keys. The palms were moist. Her stomach was twisting. The back of her neck felt hot, as did her face. She cataloged her body's reactions clinically and acknowledged that she was anxious. She focused instead on her breathing.

Behind the door, she wondered if Preston was reaching for a gun.

The nights had not gotten easier. He still slept in the pallet beside Ariel's bed, and only after the night sky started fading into morning. His devastatingly dangerous nightmares were kind enough not to disturb him for the first hour before sunrise, and Ariel was always awake - and safe - after that. Ariel's nightmares kept him busy during the evenings, so it was no waste of time for him to sit up throughout the night, his back against the wall of her bedroom, listening to her breathing.

He had a lot of time to think during the evenings. He thought a lot on his friendship with Steve Rogers, his place in this City, and on the past he'd lived through. Most of his memories were returned now; only rarely did he find gaps that he couldn't account for. There was a relief in knowing just exactly what sort of monster he was. And there was a great deal of condemnation from it, as well.

He sought to unite himself with the delicate innocent creature just across from him, sleeping peacefully (for now) in his presence. That was mostly what he thought about, these nights. He was wholly unworthy of her, and yet she'd still agreed. He thought they should be married very quickly, for propriety's sake alone... but also because he feared she'd come to her senses. He had a plan in place for how to wed the mermaid. Now all he had to do was execute it.

The sunrise caught him through the glass as his thoughts roved. Wearily, he ran his flesh hand over his face and pushed up against the floor to stand. She'd be awake soon. Even now, her breathing was changing. James carefully sat on the edge of her bed and waited.

"Whaddya talkin' about, ya chump?" Harley snapped, hands on her hips as she leaned forward and glared at a man whom easily dwarfed her and outweighed her by two hundred pounds or more at least. "Well?" She demanded.

The large, thick man shifted uneasily from one foot to the other in a way that might suggest either distress or needing to use the facilities quickly. "I, uh...couldn't get ya anything, boss..."

Harley rolled her eyes. "Ya useless. I should feed ya to tha dogs for bein' so dumb. But I'm feelin' generous today. Guess ya in luck. Get back out there and don't come back until ya have something useful for me," Harley said, voice soft and soothing. The large man nodded quickly, before turning. He scurried away from the petite blonde in fear of his life.

"Useless....why is it so hard ta get good help around here? A girl don't want much..." She breathed to herself, folding her arms across her chest as she watched the larger man fade out of sight.

Finally she turned and picked up the baseball bat she'd been using before the interruption. The night was still young and Harley was bored. Taking over the city seemed like a very large task but with an arsenal of lunatics at her disposal, at least it was fun to watch the drama.

She swung the bat and shattered a large display window. The sound of the glass breaking brought the smile back to her painted face. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction and she felt complete amidst the chaos. The siren of the closed shop blared at the night and a few people on the streets began running away from the sound.

Turning away, Harley clutched her bat and skipped down the sidewalk, looking for something else to smash into pieces.

Zoe found herself setting the table. Since Michonne joined her in the night, Zoe had a little more time. Tonight was something of a test in a way.

"You made sure she was--"

"Yes, madame." Zoe was distracted, so she didn't make the usual correction. It was almost a dance the two played. "Her gear is up-to-date. We've made all adjustments, and her desired mode of transportation has been tuned and gassed."

"Thank you, Alfred."

Zoe wasn't excited. She was nervous. She was aggitated, and she didn't know why she was bothering with this particular conversation. There had been a time she'd wanted to bring a little person into the world; she'd hoped that somehow some part of Wash was with her in the form of a child. There were times she wondered what a wee Cowboy Godling would be like, running around and causing chaos much like his...or better yet, her father. They'd never had the talk; they were ones to think too far into the future. Yet...he needed to know.

Didn't he?

Perhaps Jesse did have some say in the future once he knew. Anything was possible through him, wasn't it?

"Keep an eye on her tonight. If she heads into something ridiculously stupid, lemme know." There was a small part of her that hoped Michonne found something ridiculously stupid to get into. Not knowing how the night would go with Jesse was a toe or two on the scary side.

John was not sure how to approach Eric after their last encounter. He'd still been on the rush from the blood, and interacting with Venom hadn't softened him for a while after. Feeling slightly less rebellious, however, his thoughts had returned to his morose friend and he'd felt an inclination to find him again.

Approaching the studio, however, he found his steps getting heavier. He wasn't sure if Eric would want to speak to him. He'd known John was a vampire, of course, but knowing and seeing were different things, and John hadn't been paying attention to the non-prey to see what his exact reaction had been.

Still, there was only one way to find out. Setting his jaw he pushed past the glass doors of the studio, tilting his head slightly to get an idea of where his friend was. His steps carried him towards the recording studio out of habit.

The City Opera blazed with hot light on this night. The opening for Ignite had gone off without a single slip up. It was exactly what he'd wanted, and he'd worked hard to ensure that it was so. He made his appearances, brief though they were, at the masquerade beforehand, and at the gala afterwards. Through it all, he kept his distance from the lead soprano. The woman who pulled at him despite his knowledge that his heart had been reduced to ash in the destructive inferno of Christine's absence.

Yet, he wasn't fool enough to believe that all his heart was destroyed. The music was his blood and breath; it would come regardless of his heart. But the constant tugging he felt when he saw Magdelene gliding over marble floors or through the electric lights on stage... the way he found himself leaning forward in his box when her lips parted and her throat opened... There was something there, and he knew well enough by now to recognize it.

And there was the fact that she hadn't left. Even though there was the excuse of the girl at his manor, that firebrand Arya, Magdelene had very little to do with her now that she was mended. Arya stayed because he had promised to train her when he believed he killed his only friend. Now that Hannibal was returned to them the promise still remained - but it carried far less urgency than before. Not that he would betray his word; he never would. But it seemed that his services were no longer required. And the need for Magdelene's had long ago dissolved.

Yet, they both stayed - she and she. He was a solitary creature, and it was odd to him to find his home filled with life that was not his own alone. That, too, did something to the heart of him. He had not yet found a name for it. But he did not scorn it.

Now, he moved toward the long stretch of black and metal that would take him from his Opera House to his manor. His first thought had been to find Magdelene and bring her with him - but despite taking her on as his lead soprano,she was not his and he knew it very well. After the rush of his blood through the auditorium, he felt raw and worn and too full of wanting to trust himself alone with her. He descended the steps of the Opera House, then, alone - and his attention was focused only on the car idling at the bottom.

When Clarice had been in the Academy, and college before that, and the orphanage before that, homemaking had not been a serious option. Meals were to be found at cafeterias and the occasional friend's house or restaurant. Now, she had spare time, which annoyed her deeply on some level. There was no convenient cafeteria where she could mindlessly take care of food in between classes.

Now, unless she wanted peanut butter sandwiches and cereal for every meal, she would have to cook.

At first, it annoyed her. It was time she could have spent productively elsewhere. But soon she began to find the pleasure in it. Rediscovering meals that reminded her of her childhood with a bittersweet pang. There were several attempts at making old recipes only to realize that they had been intended for a family of six, which resulted in leftover pot roast being taken to the precinct.

Shopping for the week was now less of a grudging act of necessity and more a chance to feel at home, in whatever small way possible. With that vague thought in mind, Clarice strode through the City market, intent on having shrimp and grits for dinner.

"It's time ta give this City somethin' ta smile about. Don't cha think?" Harley inquired with a giggle, casting her attention out at one of her burly guards. It wasn't like she had to protect herself from danger, there was no opposing threat here. But it always did a girl good to have some kind of a brawler at her side. She liked to be prepared.

"Whatever you say, boss," came the grunt of a reply.

Harley's painted lips only grew in excitement, offering the man a Cheshire Cat sort of grin. "I like tha sound'a that. Boss....yeah, I could get used ta that!" She laughed, throwing her head back as she did so, squeezing her eyes shut. It was her turn to step up and take over. There was no one here to stop her. She had plenty of armed men at her disposal, floors and rooms full of guys crazy enough to do her bidding.

And she felt like her Puddin' would be proud of her.

Tilting her head back down, breathing rapid from the laughing, Harleen wiped at her streaming eyes with her fingertips, smudging the paint. "Then whaddya waitin' for, ya lunk? Let's get this place laughin'. I'm talkin' a real good time. Whaddya say? Send tha troops out. Give each of 'em a gun and none of them can come back without some good story ta tell. It'll be beautiful when it's all done..." She said with a satisfied sigh, offering her office a dreamy look. Bordem was not a girls best friend.

The burly, armed guard nodded and with a duck of his head he trudged out of the office to spread the word.

It was time to take over the City, person by person, and Harley wouldn't stop until all of her men were gone. Good thing she had unlimited resources at her disposal. Things could've gotten really sticky if not.

Ariel had been studying relentlessly.

There was so much to the ritual and ceremony she was still unfamiliar with and it seemed that, in all of the studying she had done thus far, there was a basic structure to be ceremony. She wanted to please James, she wanted him to be proud of her. Little did she know that perhaps his knowledge of marriage ceremonies was not much greater than her own. All she considered was that humanity had a way of doing things and she didn't want to get any part of it incorrect.

It had to be perfect, this wedding.

Day after day the mermaid poured herself over the knowledge. Over the details. Over the process and every small thing she could absorb.

Magazines had been gone through. Books and archives. Anything Ariel could get her hands on she read and memorized.

She had a running list of things to remember. After a while her head had begun to ache with the knowledge. It was more than she had ever dreamed but she strived for perfection.

Rubbing her fingers over her eyes, Ariel sighed. The lines of text were becoming blurry. The letters were beginning to run together but she continued to make herself read onward. She couldn't afford to miss a single detail.

Everything had to be perfect. James deserved no less than that.

John inhaled deeply, letting the crisp night air bathe his senses more completely. It still felt a bit strange to breathe intentionally and irregularly, but he was starting to forget what it was like to breathe constantly.

Tonight he was avoiding most everybody he knew. He hadn't spoken to anybody since Eric found him in the alley and then left him to clean up the bodies. The blood had given him power and energy, but no better an outlet for the unhappy thoughts than he'd had before. He was now simply working to avoid the rest of his blooded family, sure that any of them would be able to tell about his large recent meal and probably would disapprove. He'd only fed on the synthetic drink since, but the live blood had left a soft burn in his stomach, and he was still looking for an outlet to spend it on.

The young vampire walked through the park's trees, just off a path that was just off the main road, senses keen and muscles tensed under a the facade of a leisurely stroll. He was just hidden enough here to walk watch the street without being seen too easily. It was a comfortable place to be.

Find her. Make sure she's alright.

Bran caught a wave of air and soared across the expanse of buildings. The destination was a familiar one to him, the sill of an apartment window. It knew already what it would find, the energy was somehow different today than it had been the day previous. Something felt...not wrong per say, but not exactly right either. Different. Empty.

The sill greeted the too large corvid and Bran settled with the flap of his wings. Twitching, the crow peered through the window seeing no signs of life. The darkness was a friend, a companion, but this darkness was void of its usual presence. It could feel Peter's energy, and while it could feel Lee's as well it was fading away like a scent on the breeze.

Strange.

Ruffling it's feathers, Bran pushed from the sill and took in to the air again. It soared through the buildings, searching each wall one after the other. It was following that fading energy, which was even more vacant out in the night.

She is no longer present here. Bran said.

I felt it too... the hybrid replied.

Eric had felt nothing like he had before when she had gone, no death and no finality. He was glad for that. But losing her again was as hard as it had been the first time. He would miss her dearly. Very dearly.

Come back, said the hybrid.

Without a response, Bran turned its wings, circled a building and headed back to their little house to rest.

It was often Beauty's habit to sit on her porch among the fading scent of jasmine and watch the sunrise. This morning was no exception. As the early morning silver faded into shades of blue and violet and orange and pink, a brighter delight slid over her. The stable was back again.

The Here-and-Gone Stable, which is what she'd named it some years ago, sometimes appeared on the hill just across from her cottage. When it did, there were beautiful horses whickering and nickering for someone to come and take them out of their pens. She didn't hesitate when the sunrise lit the rooftops of that stable, but launched herself off the porch and dropped into a sprint. Not much later, she'd picked out a lovely white mare.

Usually she'd take her horse through the park, but this morning, there was a path into the woods. On a lark, she nudged her beast toward the twining trees and stretching vines, and onto the dirt path that slid into the morning shadows.

A few minutes later, it seemed like a mistake. The path had all but vanished, and she was about to turn around and head back -- until the strange crashing sounds came to her. Her mount high stepped and shimmied, and Beauty almost immediately slid off, her palms coming up to sooth the upset horse with soft touches and softer coos. When her horse had settled, she tied the reins to a low-hanging branch, then turned toward the sounds.

From the edges of the clearing, she watched a very familiar figure systematically destroy a huge log cabin. She knew this man. Logan. He had a strange sort of pull on her. When he finally stilled, she waited, then took the few steps she needed to get herself within arms reach.

"Hello," she said gently, her face creased with worry that was clear to see, even in this early morning light.

Something was wrong. He knew it before consciousness had settled in on him. A feeling of loss, of emptiness. It ached, the void, and he found himself reaching for Leeloo, reaching out for the comfort of her, the softness of her.

His hand found cold, empty blankets.

Peter sat up, blinking. He reached out with his mind, expecting to find her not far, maybe up to eat something, but she wasn't there.

She wasn't there.

A cry rose in his throat, and his arm reached out again, desperate. He could feel Evey there, in the back of his mind, he could touch on a half dozen others, and knowing that his powers hadn't suddenly vanished, that it was his heart and love and life that was gone...

Logic tried to intervene. She was the Fifth Element, the Supreme Being. She was needed, necessary to the world - many worlds - being this one.

But his heart was breaking, shoulders heaving with sobs.

How much time has passed before he was able to regain control of himself, to close off his mind and retreat into himself, he didn't know. It didn't seem to matter anymore.

The sheets were far too cold this morning.

Logan inhaled a long, drawn out snap of air and released it just as heavily. Her scents filled him completely and warned his skin more than his blood ever could. Giselle. There was something about her, about that untouched innocence that Logan adored. He didn't let himself fall for anyone so easily, it had taken him a good while to come around to committing to Giselle. How she had managed to tether him to her, he wasn't sure. And he definitely didn't mind. Everything about her was pure gold, her smile was the best part and her laugh came second - a music all on its own with an enchanting sound that captivated his interest instantly. He only ever wanted to keep her happy, to make her promises he could keep.

The idea that she could vanish never crossed his mind. Logan was fully aware that Giselle missed her home, that people came and went here, and that somehow they all managed to cope with the ever unstable terrain. But, selfishly, Logan never guessed it could happen to him.

A shift and Logan's palm glanced the wrinkled sheets of his bed. He buried his face in to his pillow, flexing his fingers against the cloth that was void of body heat.

Curious, the man opened his eyes and tilted his head so he could glance over at her side. Instantly, upon not finding her there where she usually was at this hour, Logan's heart began to race. His ears listened for any small sound of motion, any light footsteps, any humming...any heartbeats...the cabin was void of human sounds. He could hear the structure's natural sounds, the soft groans and creaks, but no familiar human noises.

That struck him as odd.

Frowning, Logan slid out of the bed, pulled on decent clothes that he'd cast off the evening before when everything had been right, and headed for the kitchen. There was no coffee brewing. No breakfast being made. Odd. It was odd.

With a grunt, Logan sniffed the air and found her scent there. It was faded, like scents normally can be, but he could still pick up on it. Eagerly, Logan tracked it outside, following the steadily fading aroma of his heart. In town, he found no trace of her. It was far too early in the morning for any of the shops to be open for business, and anything that was open smelled wrong.

He searched the City, tracking the scent back to the cabin.

Just as he had left it, no lights were on. No smoke cascading from the chimney he'd constructed with his own hands. Nothing.

His shoulders slumped. And then out came the claws. In a flash of fury and rage, teeth and roars of heartbreak and pain, Logan tore the cabin apart bit by bit, nail by nail. He destroyed it, the Berserker taking over easily. When the cabin was entirely demolished, the surrounding trees sitting in various stages of chips, leaving naught but the foundation did Logan stop. He closed his eyes, retracted his claws and sank to his knees amidst the splinters.

Today was not going to be a very good day.