Hitting balls.
A month. Marion had been on this goddamn island a month now and had seen neither hide nor hair of Indy, but she sure had seen a lot of Nazis. Okay, two and one of them claimed not to be, but that was two more Nazis than there was Indiana Jones and she didn't like those odds.
At least there weren't any snakes.
Wallowing in self-pity wasn't a thing Marion did well, though. She tried to look on the bright side of every situation - oh, who was she kidding. This didn't have a bright side except nobody seemed to worry about the frequency with which she wore trousers. The clothes box in the basement had tried offering her dresses, all sorts of frilly underwear and other girly accoutrements, but she had absolutely refused to wear any of them. Then had come the combat boots and the trousers. She had about five pairs now.
A lot of the women here seemed completely unconcerned with their appearances. It reminded her of Nepal, where the women had to work just as hard as the men. Marion missed it, and she missed her bar, but the Raven was long gone now and she had to make do with her trousers on this blasted tropical island and wait for Indiana to show up and get her out of here.
She wasn't going to use the word 'rescue'. Not now, not ever. Not after he'd left her tied to that tree.
Marion sighed to herself as she made her way into the recreational room of the Compound. The pool table was unoccupied, so she chalked up a cue and set up the balls and hit the white ball right into the corner socket on the first try.
"Damn it," she said to nobody in particular, and tried again.
There was something seriously therapeutic about slamming a wooden stick into a bunch of balls.
At least there weren't any snakes.
Wallowing in self-pity wasn't a thing Marion did well, though. She tried to look on the bright side of every situation - oh, who was she kidding. This didn't have a bright side except nobody seemed to worry about the frequency with which she wore trousers. The clothes box in the basement had tried offering her dresses, all sorts of frilly underwear and other girly accoutrements, but she had absolutely refused to wear any of them. Then had come the combat boots and the trousers. She had about five pairs now.
A lot of the women here seemed completely unconcerned with their appearances. It reminded her of Nepal, where the women had to work just as hard as the men. Marion missed it, and she missed her bar, but the Raven was long gone now and she had to make do with her trousers on this blasted tropical island and wait for Indiana to show up and get her out of here.
She wasn't going to use the word 'rescue'. Not now, not ever. Not after he'd left her tied to that tree.
Marion sighed to herself as she made her way into the recreational room of the Compound. The pool table was unoccupied, so she chalked up a cue and set up the balls and hit the white ball right into the corner socket on the first try.
"Damn it," she said to nobody in particular, and tried again.
There was something seriously therapeutic about slamming a wooden stick into a bunch of balls.