[Rumlow had grown up on bad eighties movies and effects; he'd had a stint of rebellious young adult boredom flipping through a monster manual for Dungeons and Dragons role-playing once or twice. Both had been gloriously lame, especially compared to some of the stuff he had been exposed to here and there that were real horrors on what men could do to one another, generally making horrible creatures to give people nightmares.
This wasn't quite like that. For one, there was generally more screaming and arm waving in the movies. For two, there were always some pimple-faced asshole shouting about a natural twenty in the other that deserved more than a kick to the groin over midnight pancakes.
Like any good soldier who had seen their share of the badness - take the Battle of New York for one - he knew when to stand back and observe. The thick gelatinous creature was fast, seemed to strip flesh and melt bone at an alarming rate. It also apparently had no cephalization as a weak point. In fact, it didn't appear to have a weak point at all. That left one option by his measure.
Fire. Where were the necessary body shields to keep it entertained and a gas station when one needed it?]
Match or flint would be nice. Dynamite? C-4? Anyone? [Useless tits the lot of them.]
Rage
[This was nothing like Creutzfeld-Jakob disease. This was so much better than any nerve protein-tainted agony on the nature documentaries, so much more focusing. It also didn't actually affect his equilibrium regardless of the loss of his sight, which had always been a matter of pride. Now it seemed like a stupid sense to focus so much on when his hearing could locate a scuff of a boot or even the sound of a small stone being stepped on. His nostrils flared to drink in the scents around him as he tipped his head slowly to one side and then the other to zero in on the sounds around him, normal or otherwise.
Kill. That gentle beat in his veins was almost as strong as the hunger which clawed its way through his guts. Together, the two concepts were all encompassing to his attentions. Hunting was a beautiful adventure, especially now when the reward was full of warmth and momentary struggling, maybe even a scream or two.
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and eased forward, throat working as his vocal cords lengthened and then shortened experimentally. He tipped his head back, lifting a hand to touch the cool wall on his left for association and went very still. Then he parted his thin lips and called out.]
Help... please help! [It wasn't his voice, not deep and smooth. It was to lure prey to him for a short-lived chase. Come out, come out wherever you are.]
Hope
[Rumlow had done this sort of thing before on more than one occasion, though it seemed a bit strange to him to suddenly wake up with a bunch of carnations in his hand already pre-tagged. For one, he preferred roses or lilies over carnations, but it seemed to him that these were intended to specific people.
Almost everyone liked flowers. Those that didn't were either allergic or so full of bah-humbug that it was better to shove them stem first where the sun failed to shine. Flowers could open people up, bring a smile to their face but best of all, they were a great way to poison someone. It was tricky to keep it where it should be for the target he found, but it was possible and even more, it was delightful to watch their faces mottling with reds and purples as it took effect.
A little exposure never hurt anyone. Not permanently anyway.
He fingered through the bunch of multicoloured carnations in his grip, perusing the goods before he pulled out a knife from his belt and gently put a slit into each stem. He stood intent on his business as he fed one stem into a hole and then the next and the next until he was binding the stems together with little name tags sticking out every which way but a crown of carnations built and ready to hand off.]
Brock Rumlow | MCU
[Rumlow had grown up on bad eighties movies and effects; he'd had a stint of rebellious young adult boredom flipping through a monster manual for Dungeons and Dragons role-playing once or twice. Both had been gloriously lame, especially compared to some of the stuff he had been exposed to here and there that were real horrors on what men could do to one another, generally making horrible creatures to give people nightmares.
This wasn't quite like that. For one, there was generally more screaming and arm waving in the movies. For two, there were always some pimple-faced asshole shouting about a natural twenty in the other that deserved more than a kick to the groin over midnight pancakes.
Like any good soldier who had seen their share of the badness - take the Battle of New York for one - he knew when to stand back and observe. The thick gelatinous creature was fast, seemed to strip flesh and melt bone at an alarming rate. It also apparently had no cephalization as a weak point. In fact, it didn't appear to have a weak point at all. That left one option by his measure.
Fire. Where were the necessary body shields to keep it entertained and a gas station when one needed it?]
Match or flint would be nice. Dynamite? C-4? Anyone? [Useless tits the lot of them.]
Rage
[This was nothing like Creutzfeld-Jakob disease. This was so much better than any nerve protein-tainted agony on the nature documentaries, so much more focusing. It also didn't actually affect his equilibrium regardless of the loss of his sight, which had always been a matter of pride. Now it seemed like a stupid sense to focus so much on when his hearing could locate a scuff of a boot or even the sound of a small stone being stepped on. His nostrils flared to drink in the scents around him as he tipped his head slowly to one side and then the other to zero in on the sounds around him, normal or otherwise.
Kill. That gentle beat in his veins was almost as strong as the hunger which clawed its way through his guts. Together, the two concepts were all encompassing to his attentions. Hunting was a beautiful adventure, especially now when the reward was full of warmth and momentary struggling, maybe even a scream or two.
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and eased forward, throat working as his vocal cords lengthened and then shortened experimentally. He tipped his head back, lifting a hand to touch the cool wall on his left for association and went very still. Then he parted his thin lips and called out.]
Help... please help! [It wasn't his voice, not deep and smooth. It was to lure prey to him for a short-lived chase. Come out, come out wherever you are.]
Hope
[Rumlow had done this sort of thing before on more than one occasion, though it seemed a bit strange to him to suddenly wake up with a bunch of carnations in his hand already pre-tagged. For one, he preferred roses or lilies over carnations, but it seemed to him that these were intended to specific people.
Almost everyone liked flowers. Those that didn't were either allergic or so full of bah-humbug that it was better to shove them stem first where the sun failed to shine. Flowers could open people up, bring a smile to their face but best of all, they were a great way to poison someone. It was tricky to keep it where it should be for the target he found, but it was possible and even more, it was delightful to watch their faces mottling with reds and purples as it took effect.
A little exposure never hurt anyone. Not permanently anyway.
He fingered through the bunch of multicoloured carnations in his grip, perusing the goods before he pulled out a knife from his belt and gently put a slit into each stem. He stood intent on his business as he fed one stem into a hole and then the next and the next until he was binding the stems together with little name tags sticking out every which way but a crown of carnations built and ready to hand off.]