Martini threw himself at the door once again, nails scratching along the metal as he scraped his fingers over them. No one would hear him. It was the middle of the night. Stryker had decided to punish him for destroying the camp in Africa, putting him in one beyond all other for him. Solitary confinement. His fingernails had been mostly ripped off
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He reached up to his mouth, relief washing over him as he realised his fangs were still there. But his facial hair - that was receding, the same process that had affected his hands reaching other parts of him, too. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but he felt more lively, more invigorated, almost as if he were ten years younger. Which, perhaps, he was. Younger, more virile, his body more toned that it had been before; he immediately wondered where Emma was right now. Because if he was ten years younger, and she was ten years younger, than...
...he failed to see how any of this could possibly be a problem.
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A small voice of a young child chirped from beneath the table, at the height he was at Scion could barely see over it. Blue eyes were blinking up to much MUCH larger man that was Victor. The boy had used his towel in to a make shift toga to cover himself, blue eyes looking a bit more with life as he stared up at Sabretooth. It was odd, to have a child at such a young age to look so stoic and like a toy soldier. His voice was higher than normal, the voice of a child as he pulled himself up on the seat across from Victor, sitting up straight as his legs dangled off the side and he winced slightly at the headache building in his mind, his arms still folded over the top of the table. The table top came to his chin.
"Do you think the entire camp was infected? This could be an attack on the base."
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