AN: And now, back by popular demand..... Wolf! Also, a No Prize to the person who guesses what game line I'm crossing this story over with.
Boris Olafsen was not a happy man. Not that he really counted as a man anymore. Not with all that he'd allowed Xanatos to do to him. He looked down at his claw tipped hands, at the dark grey pelt that covered his skin. He could still remember the days when he'd dreamed of being the owner of such a pelt, but now they seemed a lifetime away. That had been before the Pack. Before the gargoyles. Before Xanatos. Before being locked in this damned cage.
He let out a low growl, which the creature in the cell beside him ignored. Fang had long since grown used to the growls of the wolfish mutate that occupied the cell across from him. The winged creature just rolled over with a stretch and a yawn.
Wolf ran his hand through his hair, trying to put the messy white locks into some kind of order. He could hear them talking in their quiet voices, with their little signals. They knew of him, and he knew of them. They were the only reason he hadn't tried to escape from the cells of the Labrynth. In the cell, he was safe from them... for now.
He's tried so hard to be like them. It was all he'd ever wanted. It was why he had given his body over to Xanatos. And that was what had condemed him, in the end. He knew that given the chance, they would rip him apart as an abomination.
Wolf closed his eyes. He'd known from the moment he'd woken up with this pelt, in this mockery of a body, that he was damned to die by the hand of his own family.