where's your rage ?

" what? and leave it to your little gang of fuckin' mascots? the bloke with the frisbee and the big green cunt? " he sneers. " bit fuckin' late for that now, ain't it, love? " blood spatters across the concrete when he spits. he rolls his shoulders and feels a sharp protest somewhere beneath the exhaustion. annoying more than anything else, the sort of thing that would've kept an ordinary bloke awake all night. for him, it barely registers now. all it does is feed the rage already boiling through his blood. years. fucking years chasing that cunt wrapped in a cape, years watching the news and seeing the wreckage him and his kind leave behind wherever they go. years hearing the same excuses afterwards: COLLATERAL DAMAGE. UNAVOIDABLE LOSSES. THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS. he can't escape any of it. he can't escape that smug fucking smile and glowing red eyes and every time he closes his eyes, he sees becca. becca smiling at him across the kitchen table / becca laughing at his shit jokes / BECCA BLEEDING IN HIS ARMS. and now these lot reckon they can drop in at the end and take over after all the work he's done. take the kill. not a fucking chance. natasha, shield, her crew, they're all the fucking same as homelander in his book. SAME BLOODY DISEASE UNDERNEATH. " so why don't you lot fuck off back to stark tower, yeah? back to smashin' up half the neighbourhood or whatever other bollocks you lot spend your days doin'. "