Kate Bishop (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alsohawkeye) wrote2024-01-11 07:28 pm
alsohawkeye) wrote2024-01-11 07:28 pm
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KATE BISHOP
KATE BISHOP
Wow, I had no idea sprinkles were such serious business with you. Are you this hardcore about glitter and confetti, too, or just the edible version?
I guess I'm just a bad judge of people. [ Haha ha ha ha.... ]
I've been busy. Was your comm only one way until now?
Good, I'd hate to think you were sitting around pining for me.
[ Did you chop all the pines down Johanna? Ha ha ha ha. ]
Why?
Why?
Now who's being coy? If your nose is all healed just say so.
So when do you want this fight that you definitely haven't been thinking about but are annoyed I didn't contact you about sooner?
Oh no, how will I manage this crippling fear??
Eight minutes later, her nose nearly as good as new, Johanna strides into the gym with one axe in hand. She doesn't intend to use it on Kate, but she isn't thrilled with the idea of walking without it. Rather than think of that as some codependent weakness, she focuses instead on how good the weapon feels in her hand, solid and familiar. If she thought on a more spiritual bullshit-y plane, maybe she'd call it a talisman or a touchstone or something--but probably not, because fuck that kind of thinking. An axe is one thing: a weapon. Calling it anything else is dressing up something bloody and utilitarian.
No matter what she'd transparently claimed to Kate, Johanna is ready for round two. Her boredom is starting to make her feel cagey. There was a dog in District 7, a stray that lived behind Factory 23. Half dead from mange and madness, it had started to bite at itself, chewing first its own tail and then its hindquarters, leaving behind sores that oozed pus and blood. Trotting down the street, the dog would stop, suddenly, and then twist around with a snarl to begin gnawing at some new strip of flesh.
That's what Johanna fucking feels like: that mad dog. She hates feeling that way. The hallways have an echo to them like water dripping in a cave, falling into some secret black pool. She hates that too.
In the gym, she throws her axe on the floor and stretches her arms over her head, draws one arm across her chest and pops her shoulder, looking around to see if she's beat Kate here or not.
No matter what she'd transparently claimed to Kate, Johanna is ready for round two. Her boredom is starting to make her feel cagey. There was a dog in District 7, a stray that lived behind Factory 23. Half dead from mange and madness, it had started to bite at itself, chewing first its own tail and then its hindquarters, leaving behind sores that oozed pus and blood. Trotting down the street, the dog would stop, suddenly, and then twist around with a snarl to begin gnawing at some new strip of flesh.
That's what Johanna fucking feels like: that mad dog. She hates feeling that way. The hallways have an echo to them like water dripping in a cave, falling into some secret black pool. She hates that too.
In the gym, she throws her axe on the floor and stretches her arms over her head, draws one arm across her chest and pops her shoulder, looking around to see if she's beat Kate here or not.
She has, but not by much. Kate arrives a moment later, soon enough that it's a wonder they didn't end up awkwardly riding the lift together. Thanks, Tranquility, for that small mercy.
She wouldn't go quite so far as mad dog but there's something in that Kate could sympathize with. More like a kicked dog, maybe, one that's been teased and taunted and left for dead and is ready to start lashing out. It's not a feeling she's proud of; she'd gotten past the whole 'only one on the team without powers' thing years ago, come to terms with the knowledge that no matter how hard she trained she'd never be invulnerable or a sorcerer or able to vibrate matter until it exploded. It hadn't mattered. She'd been good enough to make sure it didn't.
But Mitchell threw that back in her face, reminded her how vulnerable she was, how vulnerable she'd always be no matter what she did. And then Johanna, talking about ripping her hair out like he'd almost done. Fuck her. Fuck him. Fuck everyone who thought they could push Kate Bishop around.
She stalks into the gym, minus the swagger she'd left with when Johanna saw her last. In its place is a cold, furious confidence. She tosses her bag aside, strips out of shoes and t-shirt, and steps up onto the mat. With her hair up and no sleeves the new scars are angry pink masses, impossible to miss. "Let's go," is all she says.
She wouldn't go quite so far as mad dog but there's something in that Kate could sympathize with. More like a kicked dog, maybe, one that's been teased and taunted and left for dead and is ready to start lashing out. It's not a feeling she's proud of; she'd gotten past the whole 'only one on the team without powers' thing years ago, come to terms with the knowledge that no matter how hard she trained she'd never be invulnerable or a sorcerer or able to vibrate matter until it exploded. It hadn't mattered. She'd been good enough to make sure it didn't.
But Mitchell threw that back in her face, reminded her how vulnerable she was, how vulnerable she'd always be no matter what she did. And then Johanna, talking about ripping her hair out like he'd almost done. Fuck her. Fuck him. Fuck everyone who thought they could push Kate Bishop around.
She stalks into the gym, minus the swagger she'd left with when Johanna saw her last. In its place is a cold, furious confidence. She tosses her bag aside, strips out of shoes and t-shirt, and steps up onto the mat. With her hair up and no sleeves the new scars are angry pink masses, impossible to miss. "Let's go," is all she says.
Edited (unnecessary edits yay) 2014-08-20 02:25 (UTC)
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