Mercer narrowed his eyes. He was trying very, very hard to not physically rip the poor, innocent circle from its moorings. He was also trying very, very hard to not kill and consume every human in a half-mile radius. Mercer hated crowds, damnit, but unfortunately killing people would not ease his problem. In fact, he'd probably make it worse. He gritted his teeth angrily as yet another gaggle of people walked carelessly in front of his car.

Alex Mercer was stuck trying to drive a car during rush hour.

If he had been driving a tank, there would've been no need to wait. Those damn pedestrians would've had their blood painted all over the streets. But no, Dana wanted him to learn-well, relearn, he supposed-how to drive a car. He still didn't understand what was wrong with taking shortcuts over buildings or driving a tank through the streets. They had damn good firepower and armor too, while the best thing about a car was that it could ram things at high speed.

Which he couldn't do in this damn traffic anyway.

The car in front of him finally nudged up another two inches. Mercer snarled. He could walk faster than this. Hell, he could've been to the store and back twice already, if he hadn't been stuck in this damn car.

Suddenly, a blaring car horn startled him. He jolted. Then looked down at the steering wheel in his hands. "...Fuck." Mercer glared at the now-detached wheel, then at the asshole behind him (who continued to honk his horn like an idiot). He knew damn well the rules and etiquette of the road, thanks to the many many people he had eaten, and he was certain that honking at a sociopathic mass murderer with a tendency towards road rage was not at all polite, particularly during a traffic jam.

Fuck driving.

Mercer jumped out the window and threw the useless steering wheel to the side. With his trademark scowl, he stomped over to the idiot who was still honking his horn.

There was someone just asking to be murdered.