Work Text:
They’ve let you out. The urge bubbles out of your skin and into your claws, every fibre of your being. You’re a volcanic explosion, unstoppable and wild. You’re an uncontained monster.
All you are is rage.
You cannot feel pain, even as blood seeps down your skin, intermingling with that of the corpses. You do not notice the mud as it sticks and claws at your legs. All you know is destruction, violence, and death.
Eventually, the shock enraptures you, and you wake up. You and your anger alone.
Then she comes. She’s an angel, where you are a creature of death. You are the hunt, she is the feast. You cannot truly see her, all you see is the faded red mist of blood and death.
She wipes you clean, stripping mud and blood away with soft strokes of a cloth. You feel more uncomfortable than when bodies fall around you. You do not know why she cares. You aren’t a human. You are a weapon, a tool.
But. Seeing her makes you feel better. It lets you see more than the rage. You don’t think you should be able to feel better. All you should feel is rage.