Rain pours down from an angry red sky. Large drops mimic the sound of tiny feet. They slap and crackle in the leaves. The scent of the late autumn downpour permeates the air so strongly, nothing could be detected. That's where their advantage lies. Under the cover of heavy fog, their scent shrouded by the terrible weather, men in riot gear slowly make their way through the patch of trees.
Wolverine stands alone in the gazebo on the mansion roof. He stares out at the horizon through the sheets of rain, watching the crimson storm clouds move slowly toward him, never ending, an infinite downpour that would just keep coming and never stop. Light mist emanates from his nostrils with each breath in the cool evening air. Though his sense of smell is much more intense than the average human, he smells nothing but rain and molding leaves in the muddy grass. He stands barefoot upon the stone in his gym outfit, a white tank and slate gray sweat pants. The cool air is a welcome comfort after sweating like an animal in the attic gym just below his feet.
The bushes below rustle. Easily visible, but barely heard over the storm. Lightning streaks the sky, followed by the loud crash of thunder a moment later. Wolverine unleashes his claws and hops over the gazebo rail into rain. His clothes are instantly soaked, and his claws shimmer with rain drops in the dissipating light of the bloody horizon.
He crouches on the edge of the roof, his toes hanging off and curling around. He stares into the mist below with keen eyesight, just waiting for the brush to move again. Bushes rustle and shake, then part in places. He imagines, or perhaps actually sees several shadowy shapes moving through the modest patch of woods beside the mansion. He sniffs the air, but smells only the scents of autumn, strong and a little smothering. "Friggin' rain," he grumbles. He grins, bearing his teeth, and growls quietly, then in a flash, lunges forward.
His claws slice into the trunk of a tree as if it were foam rubber. He clings to the tree, both sets of claws in the trunk, his feet upon branches on either side. He sits still, silently watching and waiting, like a massive 350 pound cat in the jungle, waiting for the right moment to strike his prey. He sees the group more clearly now, a dozen or more dressed in riot gear, carrying military rifles. The group passes by, a straggler hangs back.
Wolverine drops to the ground, nearly silent. He moves slow, stalking closer, just behind the straggler. At the last minute he strikes, slipping a set of claws into the man's trigger arm, and simultaneously clapping a meaty paw over his mouth. He melts into the shadows several yards away, completely undetected, dragging his prey along. Using the hand over the man's mouth, he slams his head into a tree trunk, full force. The riot helmet cracks loudly. Wolverine reaches out, grabbing the helmet, and yanks it off his head quick as lightning. He looms over his prize, grinning wildly, murder in his eyes. The soldier sits in the mud, obviously dazed. "How's the head, pal?"
His head spins as he stares up at the humanoid animal towering over his bent form. When he speaks, he sounds the way a wolf ought to sound if God had given him the ability to speak. "Hurts," is all he can muster. He allows his body to slump, dropping his weight on the tree behind.
"Well, you're about to hurt a hell of a lot. Start talkin'."
The soldier shakes his head, trying to shake out the stars.
"Tell Magneto," the man spits, "To save me a spot in hell." He grabs his gun, and before Wolverine realizes, he points the gun, and fires. Wolverine takes a bullet in the shoulder, roaring in pain and anger. The berserker rage creeps into his brain and takes over. He feels warm all over, his teeth hurt, and his eyes feel ready to burst, full of pressure. He bares his teeth and roars loudly like an animal whose just been attacked by another. He raises both claws, and slashes downward, quick and fierce. The soldier's head rolls across the leaf covered floor of the woods, leaving a trail of thick, black blood.
The world lies ominous in deep shades of red. His breath comes in thick, ragged puffs. His pulse races, his heart beating much faster and harder than normal. He grunts, deep and guttural with every breath.
Wolverine mindlessly stalks his prey through the trees like a hunting animal following an elusive meal. "I'll get 'em, and tear 'em to friggin' shreds. Ya wanna come to my house lookin' fer trouble? Ya found it, smart ass." He stops and bellows to the sky, roaring loudly, every muscle in his body tensing harshly, his every ligament burning, feeling as if they may snap from the intensity.
He takes off, running full speed, dipping between trees and expertly dodging every trunk. He moves up behind the group, closing the gap. He leaps into the air with all his might, coming down in the middle of the platoon. Before they have time to react, Wolverine unleashes his fury. He tears, slashes, kicks, even bites. Lost in a blissful sea of blood, entirely unaware of anything but murder, Wolverine's rage gets the better of him, causing him to not even feel several bullets bite into his skin.
He grabs the last soldier, pinning him on his back in the mud. Wolverine crouches, carefully balanced on the man's chest. He crouches low, his face merely inches from that of his prey, grunting and growling with every steamy breath. His tongue playfully grinds against his canines, switching back and forth. The soldier feels his powerful hands gripping his shoulders, his thick feet in the center of his chest, his hot breath on his face. He carefully steps off the man's chest, placing each foot on either side in the mud. The soldier coughs and sputters, fighting to regain his breath. "Don't bother tryin' to breathe," Wolverine growls. He raises a massive arm, and swiftly brings it down, claws first, into his face.