02-21-2020, 03:49 PM
One rock hit another, leaving sparks in its light. Flame hit cloth, and lit up the face of one Revolver, as people came to know him. Wasn't a name he chose, but it was he wore with pride. A badge, almost, of his skills, as a soldier, as an assassin, a teacher. He took a drag, cigarette floating up to his mouth seemingly on its own, the orange light dim, brightening only as he sucked the nicotine into him. It felt good, doing this after so long. His paws weren't shaky and his aim wasn't off or anything, but still, it steadied his nerves. Kept him from going crazy.
Lots of people he knew hadn't been so lucky as he, even the ones that survived. From his point of view, he wasn't really that worse off after everything had ended. Sure, sometimes he had to have a smoke, but that was nothing. Some people he knew, some people he had trained, froze at a loud noise - couldn't shake it out of them for shit. Shell shock, they called it - though there was probably a new name for it now. He called it liable to get you killed. The ocelot looked up at the sky, leaves blocking most of it, but the moon in clear sight. He was seated in the clearing he trained in - a forest for if he needed to practice climbing and jumping, clear space for routine exercises, and he had those logs set up for throwing knives. All he needed were some dummies and he'd be all set. Reminded him of his old HQ, almost, back when he was a major.
A grimace stretched across his face, barely noticeable if not for the cigarette. He probably shouldn't be thinking of old war stories. All that did was get him down, thinking about comrades he'd lost, and he didn't have the luxury of grief. Just keep moving forward until his goals were achieved, and at that point, he could drop dead a fulfilled man, and never even consider mulling over his emotions.
He breathed out smoke from the gap in his teeth, looking over the course, low-light vision kicking in. He still had a knife in one of the boards, he realized - never actually picked it up. Had to remember to get it later, lest someone walked up and snatched it. The knives he carried on him had seen more shit than most people, and he'd be damned if he was letting some smug сука come and snatch it up from him. Another drag. What little anger he had settled into a nice calm. He looked back up at the moon, full tonight. Always up there, looking down, no matter what happened here on earth. He just had to be as the moon was - immovable, yet exerting force on the rest of the world. He just had to have that image in his head.
His meditation stopped suddenly when he heard the snap of a twig from nearby. He jumped up, head swinging to the direction of the noise, waiting with intense eyes. "Who's there?" He asked, voice steely, unrecognizable for any who had talked to his normal self; a brick wall to his normally breezily cocky self.
Lots of people he knew hadn't been so lucky as he, even the ones that survived. From his point of view, he wasn't really that worse off after everything had ended. Sure, sometimes he had to have a smoke, but that was nothing. Some people he knew, some people he had trained, froze at a loud noise - couldn't shake it out of them for shit. Shell shock, they called it - though there was probably a new name for it now. He called it liable to get you killed. The ocelot looked up at the sky, leaves blocking most of it, but the moon in clear sight. He was seated in the clearing he trained in - a forest for if he needed to practice climbing and jumping, clear space for routine exercises, and he had those logs set up for throwing knives. All he needed were some dummies and he'd be all set. Reminded him of his old HQ, almost, back when he was a major.
A grimace stretched across his face, barely noticeable if not for the cigarette. He probably shouldn't be thinking of old war stories. All that did was get him down, thinking about comrades he'd lost, and he didn't have the luxury of grief. Just keep moving forward until his goals were achieved, and at that point, he could drop dead a fulfilled man, and never even consider mulling over his emotions.
He breathed out smoke from the gap in his teeth, looking over the course, low-light vision kicking in. He still had a knife in one of the boards, he realized - never actually picked it up. Had to remember to get it later, lest someone walked up and snatched it. The knives he carried on him had seen more shit than most people, and he'd be damned if he was letting some smug сука come and snatch it up from him. Another drag. What little anger he had settled into a nice calm. He looked back up at the moon, full tonight. Always up there, looking down, no matter what happened here on earth. He just had to be as the moon was - immovable, yet exerting force on the rest of the world. He just had to have that image in his head.
His meditation stopped suddenly when he heard the snap of a twig from nearby. He jumped up, head swinging to the direction of the noise, waiting with intense eyes. "Who's there?" He asked, voice steely, unrecognizable for any who had talked to his normal self; a brick wall to his normally breezily cocky self.
tags - "speech"