11-30-2009, 10:30 PM
I was tempted to have him say "it's not the size, but what you do with it", but I thought that'd be out of character. >_> Also, the gun is a 1911 Custom.
[html]
[html]
http://i187.photobucket.com/albums/x242 ... ssnake.png); background-color:#000000; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; text-align:justify;">
The moment he heard ‘go’, Snake lashed out with a front kick that, combined with Daisuke’s, made the rotting door pale in comparison. In a shower of dust and splinters, and with a decently calamitous crash, the door fell in. Feeling just as accomplished as anyone is when they’ve conquered some sort of barrier, Snake allowed himself a half-smile, glancing over to Daisuke to catch the goofy grin on his face. Without any more congratulations, the two bandits entered the abandoned store.
Truth be told, things were pretty well-preserved, minus the dust. It covered everything, and Snake was almost willing to bet it was an inch deep in places. His face screwed up a bit—he wished he had a mask or something, so he wouldn’t be sneezing for days… Oh, wait! He removed the bandanna from his forehead (which happened perhaps once or twice in a year for him), unfolded it so that it looked more like an oversized handkerchief, and tied it around his face. With his makeshift dust-mask, he felt a little more confident.
He followed Daisuke to where the knives were (as he, too, was attracted by shiny, sharp things) and watched as the golden wolf leaped behind the counter and pulled something from there. When asked what they were, Snake gave a noncommittal shrug—he had seen a lot of blades before, but nothing quite like those. Daisuke tried them out and tried them out, though his mirth was mostly lost on Snake. The coyote was busy searching himself. He ducked behind the counter, as he knew from experience that the best stuff was locked behind there. He drew his knife and put it to the lock of one of the taller, locked drawers. He didn’t bother with finesse when he knew that time had rusted them out. He merely placed a palm on the other end of the knife and gave it a firm hit. The lock busted and the small compartment fell open.
Snake’s eyes, for a moment, livened up, and he gave a small cackle. Taking two of the bottles, he placed them on the counter. The dust was so thick on them that he couldn’t guess what they were, but, seeing as though they were locked up, he guessed they were alcoholic. “More where that came from,” he mentioned before moving onto the next lock.
He broke he lock much as he had the first time. This was a smaller drawer, towards the top of the counter. When he pulled it out, his eyes lit up again, though this time they remained glimmering for a while afterwards. He knew exactly what these were. Patriot had had three—a Colt Single Action Army (“the best gun ever”, the wolf had said), a Desert Eagle, and a P90. None of them had worked, and Snake doubted that any of these did either. It didn’t mean that he didn’t want one, though.
One stood out to him more than the rest—a handgun, and one that seemed to shine despite its coat of dust. He picked it up, wiped it off, and gave it a scrutinizing eye. “I’ve found something to one-up your blades,” he said softly. He shifted the gun to where he held it in his right hand, aiming it towards a wall. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Parts didn’t even move. Lack of repair had disabled it. Snake was disappointed, but not totally. He looked at the silver side of the gun again and, to his surprise, found something etched into it. It wasn’t professional—looked like someone did it with a small blade. Most of it was indistinguishable, but he could read out one word— “‘Hayter.’”
The moment he heard ‘go’, Snake lashed out with a front kick that, combined with Daisuke’s, made the rotting door pale in comparison. In a shower of dust and splinters, and with a decently calamitous crash, the door fell in. Feeling just as accomplished as anyone is when they’ve conquered some sort of barrier, Snake allowed himself a half-smile, glancing over to Daisuke to catch the goofy grin on his face. Without any more congratulations, the two bandits entered the abandoned store.
Truth be told, things were pretty well-preserved, minus the dust. It covered everything, and Snake was almost willing to bet it was an inch deep in places. His face screwed up a bit—he wished he had a mask or something, so he wouldn’t be sneezing for days… Oh, wait! He removed the bandanna from his forehead (which happened perhaps once or twice in a year for him), unfolded it so that it looked more like an oversized handkerchief, and tied it around his face. With his makeshift dust-mask, he felt a little more confident.
He followed Daisuke to where the knives were (as he, too, was attracted by shiny, sharp things) and watched as the golden wolf leaped behind the counter and pulled something from there. When asked what they were, Snake gave a noncommittal shrug—he had seen a lot of blades before, but nothing quite like those. Daisuke tried them out and tried them out, though his mirth was mostly lost on Snake. The coyote was busy searching himself. He ducked behind the counter, as he knew from experience that the best stuff was locked behind there. He drew his knife and put it to the lock of one of the taller, locked drawers. He didn’t bother with finesse when he knew that time had rusted them out. He merely placed a palm on the other end of the knife and gave it a firm hit. The lock busted and the small compartment fell open.
Snake’s eyes, for a moment, livened up, and he gave a small cackle. Taking two of the bottles, he placed them on the counter. The dust was so thick on them that he couldn’t guess what they were, but, seeing as though they were locked up, he guessed they were alcoholic. “More where that came from,” he mentioned before moving onto the next lock.
He broke he lock much as he had the first time. This was a smaller drawer, towards the top of the counter. When he pulled it out, his eyes lit up again, though this time they remained glimmering for a while afterwards. He knew exactly what these were. Patriot had had three—a Colt Single Action Army (“the best gun ever”, the wolf had said), a Desert Eagle, and a P90. None of them had worked, and Snake doubted that any of these did either. It didn’t mean that he didn’t want one, though.
One stood out to him more than the rest—a handgun, and one that seemed to shine despite its coat of dust. He picked it up, wiped it off, and gave it a scrutinizing eye. “I’ve found something to one-up your blades,” he said softly. He shifted the gun to where he held it in his right hand, aiming it towards a wall. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Parts didn’t even move. Lack of repair had disabled it. Snake was disappointed, but not totally. He looked at the silver side of the gun again and, to his surprise, found something etched into it. It wasn’t professional—looked like someone did it with a small blade. Most of it was indistinguishable, but he could read out one word— “‘Hayter.’”
table credit goes to jacoby
[/html]