Logan (canucklehead) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2014-07-27 22:59:00 |
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Logan's fist slammed into the heavy bag with a loud grunt. He lifted it, bouncing slightly on his toes before he countered it with a solid left hand swing. Again and again Logan let his fist slam into the canvas, each time the grunt getting louder. He wasn't angry, no more so than usual anyway, and had nothing to really drive him to hit so hard. That was just it, there was nothing to hit now, no reason to stay so wound and wired, but that didn't change the facts. Adrenaline was a soldiers best friend at times. It made even the most mundane of people seem capable of anything, and to men like him? Well, it was a feeling that got kind of hard to shake. Even after lifetimes of war, or maybe instead because of them, Logan couldn't ever quite shake it off. Every gun shot, every swing of the sword and swipe of his claws, ever piece of radio static and chatter, they all had memories attached to them. They were memories of wars long ago, but alongside the same men. It was memories of dark jungles and concrete skylines. They were memories of code words, secret rooms, covert experiments and super weapons. They were memories of bad men, doing bad things, and the one worse thing that had been there to stop them. The worst part about it all? Despite his lifetime spent seeking the memories, all these sounds suddenly meant so much more. Again Logan's fist slammed into the bag, and again, and again. His sleeveless, white, T-shirt had begun to collect pools of sweat had begun to gather around the metallic clink of his dog tags, each one sounding off as the man swung on the bag like it might actually bleed for him. Each time he struck, it was for another memory; for someone who he'd lost along the way, for the men who'd used him, for the men who'd turned him into a weapon. Without even a thought, as a quick and clean reflex, the snickt of his emerging claws bounced off the walls of the place. Logan stared at it almost blankly for a moment, before reaching to dislodge himself. He held the bag still while his eyes scanned the room for some sort of tape, grumbling loudly in irritation at himself. Sometimes, adrenaline was also a soldiers worst enemy. |