[ well, toto, erik thinks to himself, we're not in kansas anymore.

it felt like a completely different town. the change was instantaneous. the buildings shifted, the area became decrepit. if it wasn’t for the architecture, erik would connected it to the boroughs and neighborhoods he spent his childhood weaving in and out, always toeing the line of abject poverty. it feels a bit like robbing graves as he casually breaks down a few doors and starts canvassing for necessities. he didn’t find much in the way of food, but there’s enough clothing to be used as layers for the oncoming cold.

he manages to scrounge up needle and thread and mends a few, keeping them in a pile. whoever passes by, erik gestures to them. ]

Better grab some now. It’ll be a cold night.

[ slipping into the gold jaguar suit, erik starts collecting the scrap and using the vibranium claws and strength-enhanced features to start fashioning out crude knives and little sacks with gunpowder. he has some which he usually carries whenever he goes into missions. moscow rule 2: technology will always let you down.

like with the clothes, he has them out in piles, grimacing as he sharpens a knife from a cutlery draw. ]

It ain’t perfect, but it’ll do. I recommend the smoke bombs. Better for a quick getaway. Not everything needs to be a blood bath.

[ normally, this is his element.

go in, dismantle, get out. the threat of pulsefire is unnerving, but erik’s worked in warzones. every fight is a potential ending. competence makes a difference but so much of a battle can be luck. you can do everything right and still end up dead. he died from a lucky move, after all. that’s all it took.

but also . . . he finds his appetite for a fight has dwindled. it’s not as appealing or . . . worthwhile anymore. he sees it in the eyes of the other station folk and he doesn’t like it, how quick and feral they get. how badly they seem to want blood. so he doesn’t race in, but he’s not a fool. a single person can tip a victory. he remains in the fringes, watching, waiting . . . and there, a break in formation as one of the bouldersnakes slips around, trying to corner the others. in his gold jaguar suit, erik launches at him, taking him by surprise and with a quick flick of his claws, erik tears out his throat. the bouldersnake gurgles and dies, quietly. erik stares at his hands for a moment, as if unsure of himself. ]

[ got a different prompt you’d like to do? ping me on timmtams / pm this journal / hit up my plotting comment ]