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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Forge pushed his face into his pillow and made a spectacular effort toward not screaming, too-small fingers clenching at his sheets with enough force to turn his knuckles white. When it was over he lay there face-down, panting, sweating, just thankful that whatever had just happened had been at least short.
What had happened?
Still shaking, Forge made himself sit up. His eyes immediately found the metal limb laying on the floor, wiring at the top torn and a little bloody. He had to stare at it for a moment before he yanked at the sheet and shoved his right leg outward. His skin-covered right leg. His very thin skin-covered right leg. Forge jerked his right hand up and found more of the same. Without having to move far (and better that because he felt off-balance and tottered around like a newborn colt), he found a small sheet of bunished scrap metal and held it up.
Oh. He touched his nose. No. His short hair. No, no.
There was a moment of silence before Forge put the metal down and carefully tottered back to the bed. He laid himself down, pulled the covers over his head, and tried his very hardest to mediate this away.
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Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, however, she almost had a heart attack. She hadn't looked like she did in the mirror since she was a teenager. Her jaw opened and she ran her hand over her cheek, examining herself. She opened her robe and looked down at her body, squeaking. "Oh my God." She was lean, the curves she'd picked up in college gone.
Shutting off the water, she pulled her robe closed and went to the only sane person she knew. Knocking on Forge's door, she bounced as she waited, biting her lower lip. What the hell had happened?
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It was like he was fifteen again.
The knock opened his eyes and Forge sat up straight, knocking the covers off his face and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. He glanced at Manuel's bed--the man had obviously spent the night with Allison. Better, maybe. He stood up and yanked the drawstring of his sweatpants tighter, tying it anew before padding to the door. This couldn't be just him. And if it was, well. Then any one might be someone who could help. He opened the door, ignoring the way he smacked his hand on the handle that was just a little too high.
At least his right hand and leg had stopped aching.
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"Forge?" she asked. He looked like Forge, just a much younger version. "Can I come in?"
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Had he ever actually realized that she was beautiful?
Forge stared at her for a moment before blinking, realized that she'd spoken to him. Clearing his throat he nodded and stepped back, leaving the door and tottering unevenly away as he realized something--and pushed the bloodied metal leg and hand under his bed. "Manuel's not here, don't--"
Gods, his voice. Forge tried clearly his throat again. "Don't worry."
It didn't really help.
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It was strange seeing him young with short hair, but then, it was strange seeing herself young too. He was cute, but she tamped down that instinct. She glanced around, looking back at Manuel's side of the room, completely missing whatever it was that Forge was doing.
Turning back around, she looked him over again and gave a brief smile. "Um. So. Why are we teenagers?" she asked, her brows furrowing inward before she laughed. "I mean, this is really totally awkward."
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Totally awkward?
A laugh left his lips before Forge was even aware enough to stop it. He clapped a hand over his mouth and then tried to shift the motion into something more natural, pushing fingers (real fingers!) back to card through his hair. "I don't know." He sat on the edge of his bed and absently rested his hands on his right leg, tapping. "My first guess would be that it's one of the mutants on base. Unless someone's developed some sort of aging machine... I suppose..." No, Bradley probably couldn't. "I don't know," Forge said again, shrugging.
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"Seriously? There's someone who can do that here? That's so weird!" she rubbed her forehead and then reached her own hand back through her long blond hair. "Well. This is super weird." She leaned back against the wall, sighing and folding her arms, a pout on her lips.
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Teenaged or not, there was a little of the 'too serious' around Forge. It was simply natural disposition.
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Glancing over at him, she raised an eyebrow at the way he was working his fist. "Is your hand okay?"
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It occured to him then for all the meditation training they'd been doing, the defense lessons, for all that Olivia had confided in him about her nightmares and troubles--Forge had yet to return that confidence. His cheeks flushed under his natural tan. "Let's take a walk, Olivia. See if everyone else is okay. I should probably tell you a story."
Standing again, Forge stuffed his feet into his boots and sighed. They weren't too bad but definitely about a half a size too big. He laced them, quick and tight, and headed toward the door.
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