A foul temper

[vile]

Pop! A noise that can be cheery or chilling depending on the application. In this case it's the latter. Blood, meat and bits of other gore shower the garden, speckling ripe tomatoes with flecks of bone shards and brain matter. The scene is one of carnage, the aftermath of a lawnmower striking down a family of bunnies. The remains are somewhat identifiable: sections of brown fur lay on the ground, a long ear hangs from the top of a basil plant. The remaining creatures, a handful of cats, pause to look up, curious what the noise and resulting explosion was about.

A large man, one who clearly spends quite a bit of time outdoors: skin dark, save for the scars running over his face and throat, looms close enough that his jeans are stained with a portion of the massacre: red matter clings to the fabric, a larger piece falls down to plop on one of his shoes. The look of horror upon his face is testament enough, making it clear the slaughter was completely unintentional.

Minutes draw out, time passes by, long enough for the remains to dry, cloth to clean to his leg. Finally he turns, leaving the felines to clean up the gore, and retreats inside the small cottage. A glass door framed with white painted wood is drawn open long enough for him to enter. And long enough for a cat the size of a German Shepard to slink in, faithfully trailing after the stricken man.

The first thing he does is fetch a bottle of scotch out of a wooden cabinet, pop it open as lumbering strides carry him to a leather chair. There he sits, black eyes staring off into the distance, watching the stuffed coyote there with an unrivaled intensity. This interest, of course, has nothing to do with this particular dead animal, the coyote that is. Instead, a traumatic experience from years ago plays through his head over and over.



Long after the bottle is emptied, some time late that night, he finds himself with a tablet of paper between his hands, a letter written across the lines. A moment is taken to look it over: a resignation. Without any control over his deadly powers, no dampener to rely on, and the accident replaying itself once in real life, he is left without hope.

But the letter won't find itself mailed in just yet. Folded, stuffed in an envelope with no postage, it's tucked into the rear pocket of his jeans after a long, hot shower. A white t-shirt is tossed on, a grey button-up quickly following it. Boots are tugged on to his feet, stains from the dead rabbit forever burnt into the leather. The keys to his old pickup are snatched off a hook beside the front door and out he goes.

The destination is the only one he can think of: the Academy. More specifically: the simulators there. To find some way to shut his power off without the use of a dampener. Or, if that isn't something he can find so easily, the designs to make an illegal dampener of his own.