#eelhawk

It only lasts a moment, however; she's accustomed to straightening out physiological malfunctions herself (and she's had her share, having perfected her dual mutation alone and with precious little room for helplessness) and so in a rather grotesque display of self-reliance a single black tendril extends from her mutated hand and is shoved, a little roughly, down her own throat to dislodge the cause of the episode.

She snatches it out again with something very like disgust for a creature who has seen many horrific and mutated things and is rather frightening-looking herself; something small and black and twitching smacks with a plasticky sound against the concrete and when the gun light of the silent Apex beside her falls upon it, the harsh blue-white beam glints off the feebly scrabbling legs of what is undeniably a very sickly young Plaga -- as strange as the notion that such a thing can be sickly might be. Its tiny, chitinous body is burned and malformed in places, as if Uroboros sought to consume it before ultimately rejecting it.

Sixteen's boot is upon it almost as fast as it can be identified, the force of the driven heel enough for Chris and Leon to feel even at their distance. His expression as he looks at Hawker is unreadable behind his mask, but must resemble concern to her, because she spits, laughs uneasily, and remarks,

"Wrong neighborhood, Jiminy Cricket."

Her own goggles are pushed back, and it is clear she is avoiding Leon's eyes as she retracts the tendril, resumes the normal use of her support hand beneath the triple barrel of the Hydra, and presses forward.

They both see it—both nearly feel it—as the thing is extracted and crushed with extreme prejudice. The way Leon’s body tenses is something else they both feel, though he is reticent to admit it. He feels a steadying hand on his lower back, but nothing more than that, as Chris nods to him ‘you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ comes the silent response, communicated with eyes only, ‘let’s get moving.’

It’s clear from his expression that Leon wants to laugh. Sarah Hawker is a comedy genius, even at the darkest of times, but this thing… this is something else. Still, it cannot stop him a few yards down the corridor.

The match doesn’t seem to be over; her habitually white-clad opponent drags her bodily nearly up onto the hood before she puts a stop to it by hooking her heels into the grill guard. There is a minor scuffle, a staredown laden with palpable tension, and then the two are at each other again, only it is with significantly less textbook grappling technique and far more judiciously-applied teeth and hands. Here they are, two living weapons, exhibiting the gleeful, delirious energy of unsupervised teenagers in a decrepit bunker in the middle of a war zone, in utter defiance of their cruel purpose.

They are unaware they aren’t alone, in fact, because those sharp senses are completely and utterly preoccupied.

Sandman watches from the shadows, arms crossed, leaning against a doorway. They’ll see him if they look, sense him if they feel like it, but they are occupied with each other. It’s good to see her smile, to watch her enjoy herself. He is glad the one called Sixteen has come out of his shell, as well. Martin Thorne is the alias he has used in the past for undercover work, so perhaps he will take that up again, but for now, the man is, ironically, learning to be human.

“They grow up so fast.” Agent Kennedy is quiet in comparison to the volume of his personality. The old soldier had been so occupied with the play fighting across the vehicle bay that he, like the Apexes, had not heard Leon approach. Then again, isn’t that one of his… features? Something about Kennedy’s infection renders him nigh-invisible to bio-organic weapons of all kinds these days. It hadn’t always been that way and he has the scars to prove it, but the more creatures he encounters, the more his body seems to adapt to something they can’t or don’t want to see, Sandman included. He nods.

“It’s good to see ‘em that way,” agrees Sandman, “both of ‘em.”

Leon and Chris listen, stunned into silence, eyes wide, glad Sixteen is too far into his cups to see the idiotic looks on their faces. When he concludes with the threat, they look at each other, then at him—Chris is a little the worse for wear, but Leon could keep going a few more rounds—and, half-unfocused, decide this will be quite enough for one night.

“C’mon big guy,” says Leon, moving to pull Sixteen away from the counter. Chris has one side and, with a little coaxing, Leon works his way under the other arm. “Why don’t we ah… sleep on this.”