OTA
((Yeah, I'm clutching at straws, here. I swear, all Logan does is eat and brood and smoke and sleep - and not much of the latter.))
Logan wasn't a patient man, but there were some things that he had a remarkable tolerance for. Most of them were related to army life. He never bitched about the food. It was food, and they weren't going hungry; no need to whine. He didn't complain about the cold. It was Russia, what the hell did people expect? That was what clothes were for - and they had clothes. Logan had known a lot worse.
But even Logan was getting bored. The endless snow, being cooped up with a bunch of people of which the majority was grating on his nerves... (At least he hadn't seen Ric and Martini in a while. Maybe they'd finally learned their lesson.) He needed a change. There were too many memories here, none of them good - not even the good ones. He felt trapped, and he needed to move on. Literally.
Unfortunately there wasn't much he could do about that. So he leaned against a tree and smoked, his second to last cigar already; he'd been smoking a hell of a lot. He was almost desperate enough to talk to Stryker, ask what they were doing here, even request a mission. But not yet. For now, smoking provided enough of an outlet to let him hold on to his last shred of dignity.
Logan wasn't a patient man, but there were some things that he had a remarkable tolerance for. Most of them were related to army life. He never bitched about the food. It was food, and they weren't going hungry; no need to whine. He didn't complain about the cold. It was Russia, what the hell did people expect? That was what clothes were for - and they had clothes. Logan had known a lot worse.
But even Logan was getting bored. The endless snow, being cooped up with a bunch of people of which the majority was grating on his nerves... (At least he hadn't seen Ric and Martini in a while. Maybe they'd finally learned their lesson.) He needed a change. There were too many memories here, none of them good - not even the good ones. He felt trapped, and he needed to move on. Literally.
Unfortunately there wasn't much he could do about that. So he leaned against a tree and smoked, his second to last cigar already; he'd been smoking a hell of a lot. He was almost desperate enough to talk to Stryker, ask what they were doing here, even request a mission. But not yet. For now, smoking provided enough of an outlet to let him hold on to his last shred of dignity.