[INCOMPLETE]
Who: Church, anyone [open!].
When: a day or so after he arrives; late afternoon.
Where: close to the clock tower.
Rating: PG-13. He has a dirty mouth.
Warnings: CHURCH IS A WARNING ♥
Summary: After... not really doing much since his arrival, Church wanders about town to complain, kick things, and try and get his stupid armor off.
There wasn't a moon.
That was basically the first thing he really noticed. There wasn't a moon. Nope. Instead, there was a giant plate hanging over his head, with bits and pieces of sunlight peaking through it every now and then. And, well, maybe it shouldn't have really phased Church as much as it did. After all, through everything that he had seen, it didn't make sense for him to be thrown off by a plate. He had seen plates before, right? They were everywhere.
But what the hell was one doing in the sky?
To be honest, it wasn't a question he was going to spend hours and hours contemplating over. Instead, he'd glance up to it every now and then, scowl, before returning to fumbling with the switches and locks on the back of his helmet. That was his main concern at the moment -- getting his goddamn armor off. He was fairly certain he wasn't on some alien planet with acid for oxygen. He'd seen people walking out and about with barely anything on (which was surprising, given the snow), and he really didn't feel all that comfortable lugging around hundreds of pounds of armor all throughout the city. Especially not when it had other people edging away from him.
Well, what. It wasn't as if he had been planning this, after all. If he had known something liket his was going to happen, that he was going to be torn from his teammates (okay, he didn't mind that part too much), he might have actually prepared a little bit for it. But it was useless now, and the only other person here that he actually knew was on the opposing fucking team. Which was just wonderful. Amazing. Especially considering that it was that red. What was his name? Grif. Shady fucking bastard, if Church ever saw one.
He figured that Grif was better than Sarge, though. Way, way better. That man was a dose of psychopath, with a side serving of crazy. He generally tried his best to steer way, way clear of him.
"Damnit," he muttered, gloved hands pressing hard against the sides of his helmet. "How the hell..."
After another moment of struggling with his helmet, he finally relented with a defeated sigh, leaning back a bit and letting his head fall against the hard stone of the clock tower with a quiet thunk. Dark eyes drifted up toward the sky overhead -- the clouds, beneath the plate, hung heavy and strong, hinting at the possibility of more snow.
Perfect.
He hated snow.
When: a day or so after he arrives; late afternoon.
Where: close to the clock tower.
Rating: PG-13. He has a dirty mouth.
Warnings: CHURCH IS A WARNING ♥
Summary: After... not really doing much since his arrival, Church wanders about town to complain, kick things, and try and get his stupid armor off.
There wasn't a moon.
That was basically the first thing he really noticed. There wasn't a moon. Nope. Instead, there was a giant plate hanging over his head, with bits and pieces of sunlight peaking through it every now and then. And, well, maybe it shouldn't have really phased Church as much as it did. After all, through everything that he had seen, it didn't make sense for him to be thrown off by a plate. He had seen plates before, right? They were everywhere.
But what the hell was one doing in the sky?
To be honest, it wasn't a question he was going to spend hours and hours contemplating over. Instead, he'd glance up to it every now and then, scowl, before returning to fumbling with the switches and locks on the back of his helmet. That was his main concern at the moment -- getting his goddamn armor off. He was fairly certain he wasn't on some alien planet with acid for oxygen. He'd seen people walking out and about with barely anything on (which was surprising, given the snow), and he really didn't feel all that comfortable lugging around hundreds of pounds of armor all throughout the city. Especially not when it had other people edging away from him.
Well, what. It wasn't as if he had been planning this, after all. If he had known something liket his was going to happen, that he was going to be torn from his teammates (okay, he didn't mind that part too much), he might have actually prepared a little bit for it. But it was useless now, and the only other person here that he actually knew was on the opposing fucking team. Which was just wonderful. Amazing. Especially considering that it was that red. What was his name? Grif. Shady fucking bastard, if Church ever saw one.
He figured that Grif was better than Sarge, though. Way, way better. That man was a dose of psychopath, with a side serving of crazy. He generally tried his best to steer way, way clear of him.
"Damnit," he muttered, gloved hands pressing hard against the sides of his helmet. "How the hell..."
After another moment of struggling with his helmet, he finally relented with a defeated sigh, leaning back a bit and letting his head fall against the hard stone of the clock tower with a quiet thunk. Dark eyes drifted up toward the sky overhead -- the clouds, beneath the plate, hung heavy and strong, hinting at the possibility of more snow.
Perfect.
He hated snow.