Aftermath - Mockingbird
The light stung her bloodshot eyes, sharp as knives and twice as bright as they had the right to be. Brighter, even. The sharp smell of cinnamon and sandalwood permeated the air, thick on the steam that lingered in the air long after she’d attempted to scrub the skin off of herself in the shower. Hands braced on either side of the lined and aged porcelain of the bathroom sink, scalded red skin a stark contrast to the ivory, Barbara Morse stares unseeingly at her reflection, as if expecting someone else to look out of the mirror.

She’d have started coffee before, to ensure he didn’t resurface, to stave off the moment she had to close her eyes. . . if she had any coffee in the apartment.

She’d found the one thing Orange Juice didn’t cure.

Her hands don’t shake as she opens the bathroom door again, padding past the alarm clock. Her savior, perhaps, but it had died violently shortly after. At first the blaring sound of the morning radio had been the most welcome sound in the world. And then the news had begun, tawdry stories from Europe, picked up by the US radio news now—she had no problems with telepaths, in her organization her mind had been delved more than once. . . to assure her loyalties, to debrief her, as an instant psychological profile, as a buffer from knowing more than she should. She knew it had been. Her mind had never been completely her domain, it like all of her was ruled by SHIELD.

Nevertheless a phrase hit too close to home. The clock hadn’t seen the boot knife coming, hadn’t flinched away as it was slammed through its smirking, glowing red face. It continued to whine piteously around the blade after her shower as she stood before it looking through her drawers, as if the uncharacteristic display of rage had never happened.

Blue jeans, beaten, worn and simply familiar. The black sweater was out of season, but the sleeves were overlong, a bit too baggy for her frame, and slid down without a trace of the weapons beneath. The polished leather of the forearm bracers, burnished metal of her staves snapped into the quick-release disappeared under soft wool. Butterfly sword. Gun. Communicator—spins the dial of the iPod to crank the volume up high, ignoring the music except as negative stimulation. The boot knife is last, eased out of the clock and eyed against her sleeve for damage, before it’s slid into place as well.

Focus and discipline. Long before Stick had begun working with her, refining it for what in her current state seemed like the distant possibility of The Chaste, she’d had the concept drilled into her mind. As a field agent, she’d been in several difficult situations. They trained for them as well, and it had held true. She’d held, never let herself break, and she wasn’t going to now. Even if she was brittle around the edges.

Dispassionate, ruthless execution of her orders, of the task at hand, wasn’t going to do it now, though. She was going to fucking kill the son of a bitch bastard, again. What remained of him, lingering in her psyche and waiting for her to let her guard down.

And after she’d slaughtered him, she’d go back to spit on his grave.

Snatching her sunglasses and keys from the top of her stereo, Mockingbird activates the alarms on her door, and slips out into the day. She was no one’s victim. And even if she added more weight to her damaged soul by slicing his to ribbons. . .

There were some things worth risking an eternity in hell for. And she’d spend that eternity killing him again, if she had to.

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of deaths construction
In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning