BLU's Happy Place
Who: BLU Sniper bye_to_yer_head and YOU!
Where: Welcome t' Australia mate! And you didn't even have to get up.
Rating: PG at the most. (shockingly)
Summary: BLU may be a miserable alcoholic, but somewhere, locked away in his mind, is something far, far better. The man he used to be.
In the mind of the BLU mercenary a pleasant day was just getting underway. The sun was barely over the ridge of the horizon, reflecting brilliantly off the placid lake in front of him and the weather was still cool. A small grove of trees surrounded this water source, providing shade from what was going to be a fairly hot afternoon. Propped up against one of those trees was the Sniper, wearing boots and jeans and a black plaid shirt open to his white undershirt, wearing that trademark hat of his, but with only two teeth in it. Next to him rested a fishing rod in a holder, the line as silent and still as the water of the lake.
Patiently the Sniper sat beside it, his shiv, pre-rust, in one hand and a chunk of wood in the other, carving away at something that was taking the vague shape of a bird. A little ways off was a muddy green truck with a dented fender and missing bumper, a crack spreading the full distance of the windshield. In the open truckbed was a duffel bag, a rack with a couple of bows on it and a long thin rifle case locked to the side. He'd sit there for hours, just carving away and waiting for a fish to take the bait.
Where: Welcome t' Australia mate! And you didn't even have to get up.
Rating: PG at the most. (shockingly)
Summary: BLU may be a miserable alcoholic, but somewhere, locked away in his mind, is something far, far better. The man he used to be.
In the mind of the BLU mercenary a pleasant day was just getting underway. The sun was barely over the ridge of the horizon, reflecting brilliantly off the placid lake in front of him and the weather was still cool. A small grove of trees surrounded this water source, providing shade from what was going to be a fairly hot afternoon. Propped up against one of those trees was the Sniper, wearing boots and jeans and a black plaid shirt open to his white undershirt, wearing that trademark hat of his, but with only two teeth in it. Next to him rested a fishing rod in a holder, the line as silent and still as the water of the lake.
Patiently the Sniper sat beside it, his shiv, pre-rust, in one hand and a chunk of wood in the other, carving away at something that was taking the vague shape of a bird. A little ways off was a muddy green truck with a dented fender and missing bumper, a crack spreading the full distance of the windshield. In the open truckbed was a duffel bag, a rack with a couple of bows on it and a long thin rifle case locked to the side. He'd sit there for hours, just carving away and waiting for a fish to take the bait.