02-10-2010, 11:29 PM
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Perhaps it was just dumb luck that Snake just happened to be in town. He had, weeks ago, come here with several other Inferni coyotes. He had come in search of a new gear for his gun, and he had found one. Unfortunately, it was the wrong size. He came back today on a mission to get one that was the right size, so maybe—just maybe—his beloved 1911 Custom would work. He entered the gun shop that he had found those weeks ago and found where the smaller gear was, pocketing it and leaving the store. He felt somewhat nervous and guilty for leaving Inferni for these hours, but he realized that he wouldn't be able to do much even if he was there. He was a warrior in recovery; one couldn't rush into a battle so close on the heels of an injury, of course. He knew that.
Vacation—that was it, he was on vacation. Hiatus, leave, though without leaving at all. His thoughts were scattered like this as he drew a cigarette from a pack he kept in one of his back pockets, lighting it with a flick of a lighter. Snake personally did not partake in mind-altering drugs—he found the idea of purposefully clouding his thoughts repugnant from a soldier's point of view. Tobacco, on the other hand, was something he found himself enjoying. It was a bit of a paradoxical thing, calming him down and working him up sometimes at the same time. The day was still young, so he felt no need to go running home just yet. He wandered the streets, measuring time by the rate that the cigarette wasted away. But before it was used up, he heard an oh-so familiar call rising above the worn buildings. Curious to see what Daisuke was up to, the coyote wandered in that direction.
He stood near an entrance to some building, guitar in hand. Snake approached in a nonchalant manner, looking like the quintessential wounded soldier—his torso was completely wrapped with coarse linen, his left shoulder bandaged similarly. The dying cigarette was held in the corner of his mouth, his olive eyes flat as he asked,
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Perhaps it was just dumb luck that Snake just happened to be in town. He had, weeks ago, come here with several other Inferni coyotes. He had come in search of a new gear for his gun, and he had found one. Unfortunately, it was the wrong size. He came back today on a mission to get one that was the right size, so maybe—just maybe—his beloved 1911 Custom would work. He entered the gun shop that he had found those weeks ago and found where the smaller gear was, pocketing it and leaving the store. He felt somewhat nervous and guilty for leaving Inferni for these hours, but he realized that he wouldn't be able to do much even if he was there. He was a warrior in recovery; one couldn't rush into a battle so close on the heels of an injury, of course. He knew that.
Vacation—that was it, he was on vacation. Hiatus, leave, though without leaving at all. His thoughts were scattered like this as he drew a cigarette from a pack he kept in one of his back pockets, lighting it with a flick of a lighter. Snake personally did not partake in mind-altering drugs—he found the idea of purposefully clouding his thoughts repugnant from a soldier's point of view. Tobacco, on the other hand, was something he found himself enjoying. It was a bit of a paradoxical thing, calming him down and working him up sometimes at the same time. The day was still young, so he felt no need to go running home just yet. He wandered the streets, measuring time by the rate that the cigarette wasted away. But before it was used up, he heard an oh-so familiar call rising above the worn buildings. Curious to see what Daisuke was up to, the coyote wandered in that direction.
He stood near an entrance to some building, guitar in hand. Snake approached in a nonchalant manner, looking like the quintessential wounded soldier—his torso was completely wrapped with coarse linen, his left shoulder bandaged similarly. The dying cigarette was held in the corner of his mouth, his olive eyes flat as he asked,
What's the occasion?It was not really surprising that Snake would have forgotten, even if he had been told before—this was the coyote, of course, that had forgotten his own birthday only a few months ago.