Though he might seem an abomination to some, Fenrir always considered himself a being of nature. He preferred the icy northern wilderness of his birthplace to the hectic and claustrophobic cities that humanity insisted on raising. He would take a birdsong punctuated silence to that chaotic clamour that was passed of as music. Raw meat was the staple of his diet as opposed to meals tainted by preservatives and additives favoured by his peers. Even Star City, one of the few population centre's Fenrir had visited that had any modicum of respect for the natural world, stunk of the decay of humanity's forward progress, progress that seen them grow more and more out of touch with the world all around them.

These cyborgs were merely the latest insult, further proof of the corruption man was willing to visit upon itself and the world around him in a bid for further power. They had a look of one of Grannies enforcers to them, a monstrous mesh of man and machine that she referred to as 'The Tin Man', and as always anything that reminded the Wolfman of Granny sent him into a fearsome rage. He spent his anger on the metal legions of Kendall's forces, becoming a whirling dervish of destruction. No sooner had he despatched one foe before he started on the next, always moving, a constant dynamo of blood letting. 

It wasn't entirely one sided though. The cyborgs were well trained and well armed, with a seemingly endless supply of reinforcements. For every officer that fell two more would leap in to fill the gap, fresh for the fight, while Fenrir was slowly but surely tiring. He still hadn't recovered fully from his fight with the League of Shadows, his reactions sluggy. Twice now he had narrowly avoided streams of plasma, attacks that he usually would have dodged with ease. It was only a matter of time until a more effective attack was scored against him. . .