all you masters of war
Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump.
The thing is, I know I should probably see a doctor.
I have a cut running clear across my forehead. My stomach is scraped all to hell. There's a bruise on my elbow that's purple enough to match my costume. Nothing major -- just a flesh wound, right? I mean, comparatively speaking, I'm the goddamn picture of health. Sure, I could get an infection or whatever, but I'll see someone before that happens. I'm otherwise occupied, not stupid.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump.
For all that the punching bag is makeshift -- I dragged the mattress out of my hut and leaned it against a tree -- my technique is anything but. I strike with precision, favoring punches but adding the odd kick in for flavor. Good as I am at archery, there's something to be said about hand-to-hand combat, even if the only thing your opponent has to throw at you are branches. And right now, well, I need the release.
I'm going on nearly 48 hours of no sleep, having spent the better part of last night looking for any sign of Steve Rogers -- or even Bucky Barnes. Anyone who could've plausibly had Cap's shield and left it in dino territory. Suffice it to say, I came up empty-handed. Hell, I don't even have the shield itself anymore, thanks to Christian Bale throwing it down a freaking dinosaur's throat to save our asses.
'Eat American,' he said. Idiot.
Fueled by a fresh wave of anger, I spin and land a solid roundhouse kick on the mattress. The tree shakes violently and a pissed off bird squawks loudly as it flies away.
"You and me both, pal!" I yell, gesturing wildly at the damn thing, as though that'll make a difference. Grimacing, I pick up the cleanest end of my scarf -- I never bothered changing out of my costume -- and dab at my forehead. Dammit, I'm bleeding again.
With a frustrated scream, I punch the mattress one more time for good measure.
(Slow tags, late tags, all tags. For reference's sake, Kate's hut is located near the Compound.)
The thing is, I know I should probably see a doctor.
I have a cut running clear across my forehead. My stomach is scraped all to hell. There's a bruise on my elbow that's purple enough to match my costume. Nothing major -- just a flesh wound, right? I mean, comparatively speaking, I'm the goddamn picture of health. Sure, I could get an infection or whatever, but I'll see someone before that happens. I'm otherwise occupied, not stupid.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump. Fwump.
For all that the punching bag is makeshift -- I dragged the mattress out of my hut and leaned it against a tree -- my technique is anything but. I strike with precision, favoring punches but adding the odd kick in for flavor. Good as I am at archery, there's something to be said about hand-to-hand combat, even if the only thing your opponent has to throw at you are branches. And right now, well, I need the release.
I'm going on nearly 48 hours of no sleep, having spent the better part of last night looking for any sign of Steve Rogers -- or even Bucky Barnes. Anyone who could've plausibly had Cap's shield and left it in dino territory. Suffice it to say, I came up empty-handed. Hell, I don't even have the shield itself anymore, thanks to Christian Bale throwing it down a freaking dinosaur's throat to save our asses.
'Eat American,' he said. Idiot.
Fueled by a fresh wave of anger, I spin and land a solid roundhouse kick on the mattress. The tree shakes violently and a pissed off bird squawks loudly as it flies away.
"You and me both, pal!" I yell, gesturing wildly at the damn thing, as though that'll make a difference. Grimacing, I pick up the cleanest end of my scarf -- I never bothered changing out of my costume -- and dab at my forehead. Dammit, I'm bleeding again.
With a frustrated scream, I punch the mattress one more time for good measure.
(Slow tags, late tags, all tags. For reference's sake, Kate's hut is located near the Compound.)