Snake
Characters: Erol (psychoticracer), Zelda (oblique_wisdom) and Link (hylian_courage)
Location: Arcade
Date: Now-ish
Rating: PG for creeper
Erol scowled as he stalked through the arcade. The idea had been chewing at the back of his mind ever since he took a patrol through here and noticed the military-oriented games. Normally he would never stoop so low as to pretend at shooting, but Mar knew how long it would be until he had a real gun in his hands. Better to swallow a little pride now than to be completely off his game when the ideal opportunity arose. Besides, with a broken arm and gut still healing from those lovely claws of Jak's, his physical activity was a bit limited. Few would be up and walking around with such injuries, but Erol rarely paid attention to such nonsense. The pain he pushed to the background, used it to keep himself sharp.
Curling his lip at the plastic imitations, he tossed a few tricks around the trigger-guard, feeling the weight (laughable) and balance (also ridiculous). It was almost bad enough for him to abandon the entire idea, not wanting to form any bad habits he would have to unlearn later. Almost.
Assuming a one-handed position - even though he couldn't bend his casted arm to the small of his back, neither could he hold the weapon with that hand - he told the program to do its worst and set about shooting fake targets with a fake gun. Rusty at first, he soon self-corrected, and the score climbed rapidly.
How the mighty have fallen.
Location: Arcade
Date: Now-ish
Rating: PG for creeper
Erol scowled as he stalked through the arcade. The idea had been chewing at the back of his mind ever since he took a patrol through here and noticed the military-oriented games. Normally he would never stoop so low as to pretend at shooting, but Mar knew how long it would be until he had a real gun in his hands. Better to swallow a little pride now than to be completely off his game when the ideal opportunity arose. Besides, with a broken arm and gut still healing from those lovely claws of Jak's, his physical activity was a bit limited. Few would be up and walking around with such injuries, but Erol rarely paid attention to such nonsense. The pain he pushed to the background, used it to keep himself sharp.
Curling his lip at the plastic imitations, he tossed a few tricks around the trigger-guard, feeling the weight (laughable) and balance (also ridiculous). It was almost bad enough for him to abandon the entire idea, not wanting to form any bad habits he would have to unlearn later. Almost.
Assuming a one-handed position - even though he couldn't bend his casted arm to the small of his back, neither could he hold the weapon with that hand - he told the program to do its worst and set about shooting fake targets with a fake gun. Rusty at first, he soon self-corrected, and the score climbed rapidly.
How the mighty have fallen.