Hugo had been walking along warily himself, all too aware that something in the air tonight made him feel tense and uneasy. He hadn't known what, precisely, but had trod more carefully even than he usually did-- Especially as his stores of ammo were beginning to run out. He didn't have cause for worry, yet, but he counted every shell carefully.
He lost track of his thoughts as the now-familiar sounds of growling filled the air, bringing his formidable gun up to firing height as he rounded the corner, nerves on a hair trigger.
It didn't particularly help when he noticed the swearing man under the hound. It was just another enjoyable night in the house.
He shouted sharply, hoping to gain the attention of the hound before the other man lost his throat to it.
The sharp shout from the new man caught Murdoc's attention immediately. "Oi! Help me out you tosser!" He was lying on his back with his hands wrapped around the Hellhound's throat. His scrawny arms were the only things keeping the beast from ripping at his beloved throat. "You got a gun. Point and shoot! Point and shoot!" Murdoc wiggled his legs beneath the hound and managed to get enough leverage to kick the dog-thing off.
Scrambling to his feet, Murdoc grabbed El Diablo from his back and was ready to swing it if the military man didn't kill the thing.
Murdoc pressed himself against the wall and clapped his hands over his ears. Even his time spent fighting pirates hadn't gotten him used to the sharp, loud sounds of gun fire. It was still a beautiful sound to his ears though, 'specially now.
"Fanks," Murdoc muttered once the shooting stopped. The man who had helped him looked angry (and a little constipated but Murdoc wasn't going to say that to his face)
"Well it's a good fing I can run innit? In my shoes," Murdoc said the last three words in a growl. "I don't like you," He added just to make it known that he, Murdoc Nicalls, did not, in fact, like the angry Nazi guy who saved his life.
"Cheers mate," Murdoc gave Hugo a cheeky salute and turned on his heel. Part anger and part annoyance, Murdoc stomped away, the direction he had originally come from.
Comments 17
He lost track of his thoughts as the now-familiar sounds of growling filled the air, bringing his formidable gun up to firing height as he rounded the corner, nerves on a hair trigger.
It didn't particularly help when he noticed the swearing man under the hound. It was just another enjoyable night in the house.
He shouted sharply, hoping to gain the attention of the hound before the other man lost his throat to it.
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Scrambling to his feet, Murdoc grabbed El Diablo from his back and was ready to swing it if the military man didn't kill the thing.
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As soon as the hound fell, he looked around for more hounds-- Or anything else that was stalking the halls.
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"Fanks," Murdoc muttered once the shooting stopped. The man who had helped him looked angry (and a little constipated but Murdoc wasn't going to say that to his face)
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