When I Was Older

Permission granted to PP @Daighre, lest he just leave, lol.

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Hank kept moving south, putting more and more distance between himself and Northfall with every step. He'd caught glimpses of a seemingly-endless watery expanse, but it was in full view now where he tread, jagged cliffs to his right flank. There was no obvious pathway down to the... sand. Why was there sand here by so much water? Sand belonged in deserts, not wherever the hell this was.

He noticed someone just up ahead, right by the cliffside. Wordlessly, he strode over to them. Out of habit, he moved as quietly as possible, so it wouldn't surprise him if he spooked the other man. Hank just had that effect on people, though his appearance now was leagues less foreboding.

When he stopped, his eyes were drawn to the waterfront again like metal to a magnet. What... was this? The word for this... this... plane of water wasn't in his vocabulary. He'd lived his entire previous life in a desert, and so had everyone else in that world. No one knew what was beyond Nevada, if anything. Stuff got weird once you went far enough in any one direction. Incomprehensible, even. Maybe water was this world's equivalent to Nevada's 'boundary'.

Hey, this guy probably knew. “There a word for all this water?” He peered at the blondie from the corner of his red-tinted eye.

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What?

He startled.

Some fucking weird, overgrown creep suddenly at his side, staring at him, and—

What the fuck was on his fucking face?

The fucking—

The fucking, black and red shit.

The fucking—

The fucking thing.

It was over his fucking eyes, and shit. Wrapped around his head. Digging—pressing—into his fucking fur, all the way around. How could he even fucking see?

And what the fuck did he fucking ask him?

“Fuck if I know.” He grunted.

His ears matted back, back against his head.

He sidestepped to the side of him, to put more space between him and the fucking freak from outer space.

He glowered.

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His reaction made Hank nostalgic. Except he knew by how he was gawking at his goggles– the one remnant of his past which he held dear– that they were the source of his fear, not his bygone infamous reputation.

"Fuck if I know."

He didn't know, either. Hank felt his ire rising like bile in his throat. He was sick of being in this place that made no sense, sick of not having thumbs, sick of no one knowing what he was even talking about half the time. Why the fuck was he even here? He missed the Madness.

He missed it.

“What?” Hank snapped irritably, looking fully at the blonde bitch boy now. He knew what his issue was. He just wanted him to spit it out.

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Agonizingly slow did Hank's head lower. He did not bare his teeth, did not furrow his brow, did not utter a sound. If this kid wanted to act tough... well. Hank was never one to deny a fight.

He lunged.

His fangs sought purchase on Blondie's throat, and they would not be gentle. Talk the talk, walk the walk.

Let's dance.

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He lunged first—

And he lunged second.

Their muzzle and teeth clashing—colliding—midair, and misdirection. His weight hitting his like a brick wall falling. His face already fucking bruised where it bounced and collided with fucking his.

He aimed for the stupid fucking shit on his ugly fucking face, open-mouthed and snarling.

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He was actually surprised Blondie retaliated so quickly, intercepting Hank's attack with his own in a violent, bloody kiss. Though the damage to his own gums was minimal thanks to spending so much time tearing up trees like some kind of demented beaver.

Blondie grabbed his goggles in his jaws, stretching the elastic band. Hank dipped his head down, letting it slip from his skull and snap back in his face unless he dropped it like it was hot. While his pitiful excuse of an opponent was ideally distracted, he'd rise up to try and grab him on his neck right below his jawline. In Hank's mind, it was as close as he could get to strangling him. And without arms, Blondie would have limited options from there.

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His teeth caught the elastic banding, bitter fabric, sweat, and oil from his fur on his tongue. The metal and plastic rebounding, slapping him in the face—

And his teeth caught his throat. High, on his windpipe, just below his jaw.

He wheezed.

His airway cut off.

His neck between his teeth.

His paws braced against his body; his weight pinned below his, on his back—

And he twisted.

He twisted.

His head thrown back. More of his neck open and exposed. Like a pelican struggling to swallow, except he wasn't about to fucking swallow. His jaws working, working, repetitive movements until—

He felt the taste and texture of bitter, chemical, worn elastic banding give way to something harder between his teeth. Something metal and plastic and glass.

Black dots swirled and danced in the peripheral of his vision.

And he bore down.

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The banding was piled—awkward and thick—in the back of his jaws. Pressed against his tongue and his gag reflex screaming.

Teeth wrapped around his throat.

His own teeth punctured and broke the red glass of his lenses.

Glass raining—crunching—between his jaws, cutting the inside of his cheeks, his gums, his lips.

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Blondie was easily barreled over and onto his back, a highly vulnerable position. Blood pooled in Hank's mouth, coating his tongue and slithering down his throat. The metallic tang was oh-so familiar, though not entirely welcome. He wasn't used to having so much of it in his mouth at once.

The stubborn bastard, instead of dropping his goggles to fight back like he expected, tossed them back into his jaws like some kind of fucking crocodile with a slab of meat— exposing his throat further and allowing Hank to further tear his flesh dangerously close to a main artery while crushing his windpipe. And for what?

Crunch.

His hazel eyes went impossibly wide. Blood dripped down past the black curtain that was Blondie's lips. He was slicing himself open, taking life-threatening damage just to destroy the one remnant of Hank's past.

The past he fiercely clung to.

A growl ripped through his throat, muffled by the fur and flesh and blood of this bitch.

No thoughts crossed Hank's mind, not even the desire to decimate this pathetic excuse of a dog. He just acted, fueled by his anger; the very same thoughtless anger that led him to becoming the most wanted man in the world.

Dammit, Wimbleton. How many times do you have to die before you learn? A voice. It was warm, even as it chided him.

He missed it.

In the throes of his blind fury, Hank swung his head. They were right by the cliffside. If Blondie didn't do something, he was going to take a mean tumble. But at least that would spare him from Hank's wrath, which would absolutely get him killed.

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The grip around his throat went slack—

And he wheezed.

Gasped.

Scrabbled.

Broken skin around his neck.

Broken skin inside his mouth.

He moved. Motivated—driven—by instinct. The need to breathe.



He threw him.



Threw him down the short, rocky cliffside to the sands below. His body caught in freefall. Ragdoll. Loose, limp, slackened limbs. He hit the jagged stone. A shrub, stubborn and sea-wind blown, slowed his descent. Crashed and rolled and collided into his shoulder, his ribcage.

He laid—beaten, bloodied, winded, and dazed—at the bottom.

The blood pooled in his mouth.

Festered, by the broken glass in his mouth. His tongue bitten on the way down. Gums cut by metal edge.

His breath whistled and wheezed, and he panted.

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It all felt like victory—

And he smiled, bloodied, tired, and pained. His sides struggling to rise and fall.

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He hadn't even realized what he'd done until he heard Blondie crashing against the rocky slope. Peering down at where he lay in a heap, Hank was tempted to slide down there and finish him off, wipe that stupid grin off his face so he'd never be able to emote again.

But he was too... frustrated? Well yes, but that wasn't why he stayed put. He took out his frustration on his enemies, so why wasn't he going down there, no questions asked? Hank had never felt like this before, the crushing weight of despair on his chest. Grieving the life he'd lost; utterly insane and hellish as it was, it was home to him.

Hank had never grieved before.

Overcome by his anguish, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his skull against a boulder nearby. He wanted to scream. Pressure built behind his eyes, but he refused to let the inner pain spill over. Sinking to the ground, Hank flopped onto his side and simply laid there to marinate in the agony, the perpetrator all but forgotten.

He would not move for quite some time.

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