Fill me with rage and bleed me dry WHO:Michonne & Logan & Rosalind Lutece & Clint Barton WHEN: Friday; late afternoon into early evening WHERE: Town Square, Sheriff's Station then Lutece Labs WHAT: Michonne is looking for something to unleash her rage on, Logan is passable for a while, but then a wrathful Michonne goes in search for better prey; she finds Rosalind. WARNINGS: Violence, wrath, blood, swearing, character death STATUS: Complete
Michonne had passed the point of irritation, she’d passed the point on aggravation too. The idiots that she’d put up with on a semi-regular basis, the sheer volume of ridiculousness that this place dealt in had finally snapped her last nerve. Michonne was just utterly done with anything and everything that went on here.
Beyond a little damage to the station, Michonne skulking around the square like a caged animal, fists clenching and unclenching around the handle of her katana. She’d been more than ready to just smack Beth upside her stupid little head when she’d started her constant droning on and on.
Hell, she’d smack the bunch of them if they didn’t shut their dumbass faces.
Seething, Michonne just carried on through the square, looking for some outlet to this anger.
Marrowood had always been a little off its rocker, but the latest turn of events, with it changing some of the residents in the town, was sadistic to say the least. The people relied on one another for support because living in this shithole took a lot out of folks. But Logan supposed even that could be shaken, that trust and caring, and turned into something ugly.
It was true that he didn’t know Michonne that well, but he knew enough about her to know that she wasn’t the type to just fly off the handle the way she had been lately. There were a handful of other residents that were acting strangely, and Logan attributed it to something the town had done.
He had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on Michonne because he had a feeling that it was only a matter of time before she snapped. He knew those words and feelings too well; his feral nature sometimes got the better of him, and all he could see in that state was red. He didn’t want anyone caught in Michonne’s sight that couldn’t protect themselves, and if necessary he would take action. He wouldn’t hurt her, no, but he’d stop her until she returned to normal.
Logan saw Michonne stalking through the square. He could smell her rage even from his distance, and it was all he needed to confront her.
“Michonne,” he said from behind her. “Why don’t we go somewhere to talk.”
Michonne was poised for a fight, muscles wound tightly and tense, much more than her usual readiness for something to happen, much more akin to making something happen. Her ire was usually much more controlled, Michonne keeping a tight reign on all of her emotions. But right then, every pore just leaked rage.
Eyebrow raised, half in a glare of Michonne’s unique way, half in amazement that he actually thought she wanted to talk, or that he could in any way make her, Michonne turned towards Logan. “Are you really that dense?” Normally, Michonne wouldn’t have her sword out unless there was a threat, but right now she was the threat, and the katana was removed from its sheath instantly.
“The only conversation we’ll have won’t be in your favour.”
Snikt.
It was instinct that drew out Logan’s adamantium blades at the moment Michonne unsheathed her sword. He hadn’t come out to kill her or even hurt her, but to prevent her from harming any one of the innocent people that might have crossed her path. He recognized the look in her eyes because he had experienced it himself so many times. All someone needed to do was look at her the wrong way (in her mind) and they’d be dead from a single swipe of her katana.
He let out a small chuckle at her, and arched a brow. “Well, you know I’ve been told that I’ve got a hard head,” he answered nonchalantly. A part of him was egging her on, and wanted to continue doing so. Logan wanted to force more of her rage to the surface. Better against him than anyone else.
“Now I know you remember what I did to the demons,” he said with a smirk. “I ain’t saying that I’m gonna hurt you, but I am saying that you don’t have a chance against me. We need to figure out what’s goin’ on with you and some of the others in town. Because you’re not actin’ right.”
Acting right? Didn’t they know? Didn’t any of them know about the beast that lurked in Michonne’s skin? The violent energy that warred with her cool calm to get to the surface. She was more herself now than she’d been in a long time, since she’d watch her own world crumble and that reason to smile vanish from her life. Her little boy was all the reason she’d ever had to be happy, and that was long gone.
No, all that was left now was the rage and the anger and the bloodlust, and Michonne had spilt so much blood by now that she should’ve been swimming in it. “You think I care? Your little garden rakes aren’t my concern.” So he could slice up a few demons, they were directionless monsters with no drive, no real care, no thought. She was a true monster; calculating and vicious. After all, it wasn’t his head she’d be hitting.
Drawing her blade around in front of her, Michonne just smirked at Logan, “There’s a difference between you and I,” leveling out her stance, muscles ready for action, “you don’t want to hurt me,” more the fool him really, “I really want to hurt you.”
And oh but she would.
Logan’s claws glinted in the sunlight as he clenched his fists, and raised them to eye level. She was right, he didn’t want to hurt her, but he would if he had to. To protect himself and to protect the people of the town. He knew she was no stranger to bloodshed, but what she had done in her life could never compare to his. The amount of lives he had taken, innocent and otherwise. They would haunt him forever. Michonne could never know just how good he Logan actually was. He sighed a little and shook his head.
“It’s gonna take a little more than your sword to hurt me,” he said to her. “But that don’t matter really. You’ll find out soon enough.” As much experience as Michonne had in her world, Logan had three times as much. The man’s age and war experience, and the fact that he was a mutant, gave him the edge. He’d get her going enough to wear her out, and then he’d knock her on her ass. Just a tap really, enough to render her unconscious. Logan just wanted her to sleep off whatever drug or shit the town spiked her water with.
Michonne didn’t bother waiting for another witty rejoinder, what was the point. All she wanted in that moment was to paint the walls with his blood, possibly prop bits of him up against the town hall as a warning. She could get a little dramatic if she needed to.
Pouncing wasn’t Michonne’s style, not really. She was fluid and controlled, each movement measured and contemplated very carefully before she would act. But this wasn’t every day, and this wasn’t the same Michonne that littered streets with walker corpses. No, this Michonne was all anger and fury, moving quick but without control or care, just swiftness and strength. Where her technique was flawed she put in quick and jarring movements, slices meant to deal damage more than to counter anything.
Michonne was never usually the offensive force until pressed into it. In this case, she was the driving attack.
It was easy for Logan to dodge her attacks, movements with her sword deflected with the back of his adamantium claws. He wasn’t going to destroy her weapon as he sensed that she was attached to the blade. He was familiar with that attachment, but he couldn’t recall the memory of that feeling. He just understood it, and knew it all too well.
A master tactician when it came to attacks Logan could normally tell where a person was going to strike next. But in Michonne’s rage there was a marked lack of control, angry swings that were hoping to strike flesh wherever it could. The Wolverine kept on the offensive, though, and he was more than fast enough to keep his body away from Michonne’s blade. He had strafed to the left, and then the right quickly enough that it could have been hard to follow. He then jumped over Michonne and landed behind her.
“You don’t wanna do this, bub,” Logan said with teeth bared. Sharp fangs that were beginning to hunger for blood as well. “Let’s get out of the streets before anyone gets hurt. This ain’t you, and you don’t wanna do this.”
It didn’t really matter what anyone wanted though, did it. Because Michonne didn’t want to listen to all these idiots and their whining. She didn’t want to skulk around bored in this hell hole. She didn’t want to pretend she was just being friendly. No, she wanted a hell of a lot more and if the only way to get it was to let a little of the anger out, then she’d do it.
“Stop telling me what I want,” no one knew what she wanted, she never told anyone what she wanted, “What I want is for you to die.” And yeah, she was sloppy and uncoordinated with her blade, knicking it here and there on his stupid claws, swiping instead of being smooth in her actions. She was poorly battling, and it was truly no wonder she wasn’t getting where she wanted.
It didn’t burn of any of the rage however, it just fanned the flames, stoked them to a higher level, built the aggravation and violence. And maybe if she didn’t spill his blood, she’d still spill other blood.
This was the sort of rage that was completely irrational. She was blinded by it, and no amount of rationalization from anyone (especially someone as poorly equipped to rationalize as Logan) would clear the red from her gaze. But it worked to his advantage. There was very little skill or thought in her moves, and he dodged them easily. He really didn’t want to hurt her, and it took everything in him to keep his own rage from rising to the surface. He knew she wasn’t acting herself, and he knew that all she needed was to be locked away until whatever it was that had taken over her to subside. It was just a matter of getting there.
“You ain’t the first person to want me buried six-feet under,” he said to her with a laugh. “But it hasn’t happened yet, and it probably never will,” he said despite the feeling that if anyplace could kill him it would be Marrowood. He rolled to the left to dodge one of her attacks, and was in a position to place a kick aimed at her gut. It would be enough to double her over, at least he hoped it would. And once she was there she’d be incapacitated enough for him to knock her out completely. That was the goal, after all, the least amount of damage to Michonne despite the hatred she had toward him.
Oh, she didn’t need him buried, she just needed him to shut up and she’d be halfway towards happy. In her rage fuelled heat of the moment, she didn’t care too much for being logical, nor did she care too much for operating smartly or even fighting efficiently, she used a lot of energy in attacks that were haphazard at best and sloppy at worst, missing the mark and simply clanging against his own metal.
The kick to the gut jarred her grip on her sword just as much as it doubled her over, the wind knocked out of her and leaving Michonne momentarily disoriented. By far not her best battle.
That moment was all Logan needed. He lunged toward her, grabbed the sword from her loosened grip, and used its hilt to knock the back of the woman’s head. He reckoned that he hit her hard enough to keep her unconscious for a good hour or so. At least that’s what he hoped. The truth was that Logan had no idea what the spell on Michonne would do to her endurance, and for all he knew she could be out for all of five minutes.
With that in mind he quickly wrapped his arm around Michonne’s slender waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder. Logan practically sprinted to the sheriff’s station, his hopes of finding Rick dashed when he discovered it empty. He sighed, and went to an empty cell and planted Michonne carefully onto the cot. He closed the door behind him, and moved quickly to look for the keys to lock it. Thankfully he found a spare in a drawer, and locked the cell.
He set Michonne’s sword in one of the closets, and set out to find Rick and Daryl, people who knew Michonne and could possibly talk some sense into her. Not that there was much talking that could be done to someone that was clearly taken over by some kind of magic. All they could do was wait out the storm, and hope that no one got hurt in the process.
Normally, a collision like that with a man like Logan would put any human person out for a few hours at least. Luckily for Michonne she wasn’t currently herself, as was pointed out fairly regularly. What would’ve had her out, possibly until morning, lasted just an hour, maybe less. Which was too much time in her opinion, as she roused with a headache and yet more anger, her rage only furthered by the fact that we was in a cell.
Yelling did little to draw attention, the residents of the town apparently busy elsewhere and the Sheriff Station irritatingly quiet for now. First time for everything, wasn’t there. It took almost five minutes before Michonne was able to fashion herself a lock pick. The good news being that Marrowood had outdated everything. With a very poor job, Michonne had the cell open almost one hour and thirty minutes after Logan had left her there in the station. She had to move quickly if she wanted to avoid whatever cavalry the man was bringing back, which didn’t afford her time to hunt around for her katana, assuming that Logan even left it.
No, Michonne lacked the patience for that, slinking out of the station and keeping the shadows as she moved through the square. Those science freaks, they were playing around with some interesting things, weren’t they? Maybe some weapons that could do more than just slice, she could use a thing or two to really make a dent in this hell hole.
Working her way through the street, Michonne slipped into the labs quietly, eyebrow raised as she took in the setting. This wasn’t a place she’d bothered to visit recently, or at all, but clearly she should’ve. Moving carefully from the door, avoiding any where the might alert someone to her presence, Michonne tried to see if anything stood out to her as destructive.
The lab had been fairly cleaned out of anything useful since Ariel went on her hoarding rampage. Rosalind didn’t mind so much, not really, since Ariel lived just upstairs. Besides there were still plenty of other pieces lying about, parts for their devices, and Rosalind could always find something to make with the odds and ends. She knew that eventually Ariel would come to her senses and return the televisions and toasters and other working devices. She wasn’t so dense that she did not notice that the mermaid was acting oddly, much in the same way that other residents had been as well. It was just another assault the town decided to put upon its residents, and Rosalind was sure there was nothing they could do about it.
She emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand, and stopped short when she saw Michonne. There was a wild look in the usually calm woman’s eyes, and Rosalind remembered that she too had been behaving uncharacteristically aggressive over the network. There was a sudden stillness in the air, and Rosalind took a deep breath, a fear clenching her heart unlike anything she had ever felt before. She cleared her throat to alert the other woman of her presence. “Ms. Michonne,” she said calmly. “How lovely to see you today. Is there anything I can help you with?”
It looked like the place had been stripped, barely anything left that would be in any way helpful, or at all what Michonne was looking for. She’d have been better in the damn diner with the knives. “The weapons you’ve made,” surely they weren’t lying out for just anyone to pillage, dangerous as that was. “Where are they?”
She could make do with what she found, Michonne was versatile like that, but ideally, she wanted something that could maximum damage with minimal effort. The good scientist would just need to give them up so that Michonne could go and deal with Logan, and whoever else got in her way.
Rosalind swallowed the lump that was growing in her throat, fear gripping her unlike anything before. It wasn’t as if this were the first time she had someone threatening her life, but for the first time ever she felt as if she had something to lose if she were to perish. The fact that she would be brought back to life did not assuage her fears. She took another deep breath, her steady hands around her tea cup betrayed the trepidation in her heart.
“The weapons?” She had, of course, promised Clint and Natasha that they could stay in their storage room until they had a more secure location for them. They had yet to find one, and in truth they were still there in the lab. Not more than twenty feet from where Rosalind and Michonne stood. “I’m afraid that Clint and Natasha have already moved them elsewhere,” she lied with a steady voice and gaze. “If you require one of those weapons you should speak with them.”
She lifted the cup her lips, and took a sip. No good could come from her displaying her fear as she was sure that would only provoke the already crazed woman.
It wasn’t that Michonne didn’t believe Rosalind, it was simply that the answer wasn’t satisfactory, which just further infuriated the woman, Michonne never had taken well to being told ‘no’, but in her more lucid and controlled moments she dealt with it rationally and logically, right then, rationality was not something she was prone to.
Eyes narrowing at the scientist, Michonne curled her lip in a growl. “But I’m speaking to you.” It could’ve been the petulant whine of a child, but the tone set it apart, the rage of a beast denied it’s winnings. Michonne wasn’t looking to go elsewhere and deal with another idiot to get what she wanted. She was here, with this imbecile, she would get what she wanted.
“There has to be something around here,” there were pieces of everything littered around, half made devices, tools and trinkets, things that obviously might be useful but might be worthless. The classic epitome of a laboratory mid-use. “Something worth my while to waste breath in your presence.” Because really, every where here was a waste of breath and these utter fools weren’t worth a moment of Michonne’s time.
With what could only be described as a prowl, Michonne stepped towards Rosalind, inspecting the objects on the tables and work tops as she went. “Are you sure there’s nothing I’m looking for here.” There was a hint of warning to her tone there, almost as Michonne reached that last of her patience.
The pit in Rosalind's stomach grew as the seconds passed. She thought this could end well if she only remained calm; however, Michonne's current state told Rosalind the exact opposite. There was no reasoning with the other woman especially when she insisted on acting like a petulant child, a very dangerous one.
"I understand your frustration," Rosalind said as she moved to set the cup down on a nearby table. "And you are welcome to anything that you see here." She motioned to the various pieces that were lying about. The way Michonne moved caused the hair on Rosalind's neck to bristle, but she was an obstinate woman that would not be scared into doing something she did not want. She let out a sigh, and nodded.
"Of course I'm sure," she said. "This is my lab and I know of every piece I have in here. I have told you that there is not anything here for you other than what you see. So you can either take what you want, or you can leave." Perhaps it wasn't smart to provoke Michonne, but Rosalind was prepared to do whatever it took to get her to leave.
It was the last straw, really. The final push in a short and simple series of nudges that really just snapped what might’ve remained of Michonne’s rationality. Before the world changed, before her life fell apart, Michonne wasn’t overly violent; she was driven and serious, strong and independent, but never violent. Afterwards, violence was a crutch. Around this place she’d managed to find that narrow ledge between necessity and release, that place where she could relieve her stress as needed, without going too far.
This was entirely different. She was already going through scenarios in her head, her amped up rage giving her all kinds of ideas, wondering if she’d be able to throttle the pretty little scientist with her bare hands, or if it’d be more satisfying to crack open her head on the table? It would be energetic and messy, but Michonne was largely okay with that right then. She didn’t have her preferred blade, Logan’s attempt to contain her, but like she needed it when this whole place was just a treasure trove of weapons to use with the right direction.
But there was just something inside her that wouldn’t be satisfied with that, and a part of Michonne knew it. No, there was a beast in her skin right then, lurking underneath, craving so much more destruction and grief. And it’d be a show, wouldn’t it? It would show Logan that he didn’t know her, couldn’t contain her. With a devilish smirk, one that was uncomfortably at home on Michonne’s face, the woman curled her hand around the nearest object; a slim piece of metal with a jagged edge and bent tip. Perfect.
“I would say you’ll regret this but…” But she wasn’t going to live to regret it, was she? There was no real distance between them, and Michonne was quick, agile, trained. She knew how to take down an enemy quickly and efficiently, not that she was going for efficiency right then.
With practised force, Michonne grabbed Rosalind’s shoulder tight, her arm swinging upwards in a driven thrust to stab the metal blade into her gut, slicing through muscle and organ with surprising ease, Michonne’s fury bleeding into her strength to overcompensate of the crudely improvised weapon. The hot blood was near instant, staining over Michonne’s curled fist as she jerked her hand, smirking at Rosalind from just to her side, still holding the woman upright.
“I really hope the Wolverine smells you, blood and bile on the floor,” Michonne would display the woman if she’d had more time, left out a little gift, but her patience was already waning and her bloodlust was in no way sated with this pathetic waste of breath. Twisting the object, tearing and mauling the woman’s insides past the point of survival or repair, Michonne gave a last yank to rip out the makeshift shank, practically gouging at Rosalind’s torso. “Maybe then he’ll think twice.”
And that’s all Rosalind really was. An opportunity, wrong place, wrong time. A lesson for someone else. An afterthought.
With a shove, Michonne pushed Rosalind away, dropping her weapon to the blood stained floor, before turning and walking away, calm and composed as she went in search of something else to sate the fury, not even bothering to wipe the blood off her hand.
There were only seconds in between Michonne picking up the makeshift weapon and then ramming it into Rosalind’s gut. The scientist inhaled sharply feeling more as if she had been punched rather than stabbed, initially at least. If Rosalind hadn’t even seen the blade she would not have thought she was stabbed. But her mind filled in the blanks, and it took a few moments before the actual pain started to set it, the feel of the crude blade tearing at her insides. Her body leaned against Michonne’s as her strength left her body, and she knew that the only thing that was keeping her standing was her killer.
Michonne’s words barely registered with Rosalind as all her mind was focused on was the pain, and then on how in the world she was going to survive this. She knew she wouldn’t, a sinking feeling told her as much, but that didn’t stop her from thinking of ways to help herself once the woman let go. But the yank of the weapon from her body was jarring, and the push forced her back like a rag doll. Rosalind hit the table behind her, was able to grab onto it for a moment before she sank to the floor. She pressed her right hand against the wound, the blood spilling out without pause. She looked up at Michonne with blurred eyes. The pain had brought forth involuntary tears, and she let out a shuddered breath as the other woman walked away.
And then she was alone.
Her brother was somewhere else, probably with Natasha or at the pub with Killian, and Ariel was upstairs blockaded in her room with all of the devices she had decided she needed. Rosalind remained slumped against the table, mind racing as she felt the warmth leaving her body. She had to do something… had to try to survive, didn’t she? She couldn’t let anyone find her like this, in an inglorious manner. She tried to stand, but there was no strength left in her legs and so she remained in her spot. Rosalind even let out a laugh at how utterly ridiculous all of this was. How could she die like this?
It wasn’t her first death, but it was the first where someone physically caused her pain rather than just sabotaged a machine. That death was more more pleasurable, an instance of being transferred into another state rather than experiencing death itself. This was new, and frightening, and Rosalind wished she wasn’t alone. She thought of Clint then, and her eyes brimmed with even more sadness. Despite the fact that she knew she would return she did not want to leave him in the first place. When had she grown so fond of the rugged man? She swallowed the lump in her throat, and took a deep, ragged breath. Rosalind could actually feel her heart beat slowing in her chest, her blood pressure dropping as she bled internally, and out.
Her hand dropped to the side of her body, and she relaxed when she accepted her impending death. Nothing could save her now, and by the time anyone found her she would be gone.
Searching the town for Loki was oddly difficult; Clint was possibly the most familiar with the town by now, the little places that appeared and disappeared notwithstanding, but he’d observed it all more than enough to know where the ‘hot-spots’ were. Of course, not finding Loki in any of those places and being unable to get a hold of him via the network just meant that he had, in all likelihood, been killed. Since all of his belongings were still where they were meant to be, that was the only conclusion Clint could really draw.
With part of the town going more than a little bit crazy, Clint figured it was another side effect of Marrowood, something that was becoming all too familiar itself. Really, it’d be better to avoid it all, hope that it just stopped, and reverted to normal. Clint would give it a few more days before he bothered about panicking, and Natasha was looking for answers, so that was enough, surely.
He hadn’t been joking about looking for a way to get a tracker on Loki though, and while people were acting strange, it seemed like the best time to bring it up with Rosa. It had nothing to do with him just wanting to check up on her at all. Taking a trip to the lab after having searched the town square itself for Loki only made sense anyway.
Walking into the lab was like wanting into the result of an indoor tornado. He hadn’t known the twins to keep this place so messy and disorganised, and then he noticed that it looked like a majority of the place had been ransacked too. “Looting, great.” Because everyone needed a riot on their hands, right? At least he hoped it was just televisions and radios, not anything that Rosa or Robert were devising that could’ve been used to hurt anyone. “Rosa!” More often than not, either Rosa or Robert would’ve been around to at least greet a visitor. They seemed very firmly set in their ways, and politeness -even when it was somewhat mocking- was something they were both very prone to. “Anyone around?”
There should’ve been someone, because Rosa told him they sort of synchronized themselves so that one was always working, which was cute in a way. Hand shifting to his waist, just over his hand gun, Clint edged around the lab, listening for any movement or signs of life, before he stepped around a work table to find Rosa, a large blood stain and a littered mess around the floor.
“Fuck, Rosa, hey,” dropping to his knees beside the woman, automatically going for a pulse while checking her over, the rather evident blood at her gut the reason for her lying prone on the ground, Clint was jarred by just how cold she was. It was like a punch to the gut, the level of stinging resignation that settled around him, the way his throat caught just a little. He wasn’t a stranger to death, wasn’t a stranger to losing people or finding bodies, not really. It happened, you moved on. It just knocked him for six just how small and destroyed she looked, her torso torn and bloody, skin paler than her usual soft porcelain.
Grinding his jaw, Clint had to take a few steadying breaths, shifting to pick Rosa up from the dusty cold floor. He wasn’t sure how this resurrection thing worked, if she would remain where she was found and wake up, or if her body would just heal and whatever. That was if she just woke up, or maybe she’d be like Natasha’s first and second deaths, vanishing somewhere between resurrection and coming back entirely different. For some reason, that was just a little more cloying a loss. Clint just knew he couldn’t leave her lying on the floor like a ragdoll.
Carrying her to the back area of the lab, finding the sleeping quarters, laying Rosalind out on the bed carefully. If he ignored the sheer mess of the blood, it would be easy to pretend she was sleeping, but Clint had stopped deluding himself like that years ago. All it did was leave him wondering, what happened? How did it happen? Why the hell hadn’t Rosa called for someone? It made Clint pull out his device, fire a quick and private message to Robert to let him know what he’d be coming home to, and Clint turned to leave before stopping short.
On a spur of the moment, Clint whirled around and leaned over to place a soft, quick kiss to Rosa’s forehead, hoping that despite the gut wound, her death hadn’t been too painful, before quickly leaving the lab to return to his and Loki’s empty apartment.