[ By way of contrast, it's a regular morning for Venom: a slam-two-cups-of-coffee morning, a put-on-some-music morning, a do-mountain-climbers-until-his-lungs-burn morning. The best way to combat the hazard of a wandering mind is to occupy it with the certitude of mundane activities, so he takes to his daily workout with the pragmatism of a finely-tuned automaton. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But, like most good things, his monotony comes to an end with a knock at the door— a sound as unexpected as it is rare. His first instinct is to break his plank and reach for the firearm that he always keeps just within arm's reach, but he breathes, levels himself, and makes a mental reminder that the normal binary of threat or nonthreat doesn't apply here.
Might be that someone just ran out of milk for their cereal, after all.
So when he answers the door, finally, after a good minute or two of dead space, he's not kevlar-clad or armed to the teeth with rifles and combat knives; if anything, he's as innocuous as a six-foot man with scars mapping his face and torso can be, even if a quick scan of his thoughts speak to the inherent caution he's sporting just under his placid surface.
He tips his head. The shrapnel in his forehead glints dully in mid-morning light. ]
...Might have the wrong door.
[ He doesn't recognize her, is what he's saying. He's pretty sure he'd remember if he ran across a young woman who looks like she's walked right out of a PMF. ]
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But, like most good things, his monotony comes to an end with a knock at the door— a sound as unexpected as it is rare. His first instinct is to break his plank and reach for the firearm that he always keeps just within arm's reach, but he breathes, levels himself, and makes a mental reminder that the normal binary of threat or nonthreat doesn't apply here.
Might be that someone just ran out of milk for their cereal, after all.
So when he answers the door, finally, after a good minute or two of dead space, he's not kevlar-clad or armed to the teeth with rifles and combat knives; if anything, he's as innocuous as a six-foot man with scars mapping his face and torso can be, even if a quick scan of his thoughts speak to the inherent caution he's sporting just under his placid surface.
He tips his head. The shrapnel in his forehead glints dully in mid-morning light. ]
...Might have the wrong door.
[ He doesn't recognize her, is what he's saying. He's pretty sure he'd remember if he ran across a young woman who looks like she's walked right out of a PMF. ]