He growls irritably, the hunger having already began dominating his (rather ragged) mind. Star spangled footsteps echoed along the pavement, magnified tenfold by the dead city of New York.
Practice was necessary, he knew that well enough ; but living death (and all it's….disadvantages) put a kink in his activates, plus it ruined the aesthetics of the whole damn thing ! What was the point ?
Perhaps it would work though ? He asks himself, even in his current state he still had an air of authority around him ; perhaps the others wouldn't notice a fewer inaccuracies within his 'action'.
Turning towards what remained of his 'friends' (Note : inedible competitors) he let loose another growl before pointing towards his forehead, righteous indignation obvious
"You think this letter on my forehead stands for France !"
"Uhh Colonel , there ISN'T a letter on your forehead ; at least, not anymore"
$!ing Magneto !