i'd rather be a hammer than a nail...
He didn’t like it, but that didn’t mean he had any place to say.
Hobbes was on the beach, reminding himself of this over and over again, mantra-like. Down by where the surf was breaking, he’d set up jars and bottles stolen from the kitchen on a few boulders. They made good targets. All of them were small, bent, some broken. No one would miss them.
When he came to the island, he’d had a full clip in the glock and four extras scattered around. He hadn’t fired more than a few shots in sixth months, and then usually hunting. Now, he was letting himself enjoy a little recreation. Bullets here were probably more valuable here than they’d been in the Realm, but he could allow himself a little indulgence, for once.
Recreation or stress management…whichever. Didn’t matter. Hobbes lined up a shot and fired, a tin can disappearing over the side of the boulder seemingly simultaneously.
Pinocchio had left a few days ago, wading out to the canoe with a rucksack full of ammo and food, ignoring Hobbes’ quietly disapproving stance on the beach. It was how they worked, sometimes. No kiss, no goodbye. Just a hand getting his gear to the boat and one last look over his shoulder. Four days. A week until he could really justify going after him.
Idiot, Hobbes thought to himself and squeezed off a round, shattering an empty coke bottle fifty feet away, not exactly sure who he was more angry at, Pinocchio or his own, worrying self. A lot had changed in the past few months, but a lot had stayed the same, too.
[he’s firing shots at the ocean, so your pup has no danger of being hit. Feel free to admire his shooting or get a lesson or just to talk. Actually a good time to meet him! Tag at will.]
Hobbes was on the beach, reminding himself of this over and over again, mantra-like. Down by where the surf was breaking, he’d set up jars and bottles stolen from the kitchen on a few boulders. They made good targets. All of them were small, bent, some broken. No one would miss them.
When he came to the island, he’d had a full clip in the glock and four extras scattered around. He hadn’t fired more than a few shots in sixth months, and then usually hunting. Now, he was letting himself enjoy a little recreation. Bullets here were probably more valuable here than they’d been in the Realm, but he could allow himself a little indulgence, for once.
Recreation or stress management…whichever. Didn’t matter. Hobbes lined up a shot and fired, a tin can disappearing over the side of the boulder seemingly simultaneously.
Pinocchio had left a few days ago, wading out to the canoe with a rucksack full of ammo and food, ignoring Hobbes’ quietly disapproving stance on the beach. It was how they worked, sometimes. No kiss, no goodbye. Just a hand getting his gear to the boat and one last look over his shoulder. Four days. A week until he could really justify going after him.
Idiot, Hobbes thought to himself and squeezed off a round, shattering an empty coke bottle fifty feet away, not exactly sure who he was more angry at, Pinocchio or his own, worrying self. A lot had changed in the past few months, but a lot had stayed the same, too.
[he’s firing shots at the ocean, so your pup has no danger of being hit. Feel free to admire his shooting or get a lesson or just to talk. Actually a good time to meet him! Tag at will.]