05-08-2015, 06:54 AM
I hit the streets after I had plugged the hole in the chest-piece and otherwise mended the scratches and dings from my armor. Despite wanting to leave the slapdash barrack as soon as I could out of disgust against the stormtroopers, the slow deterioration of my equipment was starting to worry me. Not that I cared for how it looked. I'm not vain and just generally don't give a fuck about my looks, but this armor had been with me since the beginning of the Hell invasion. Although I could just use OM to summon a new one, there was sentimental value in that armor. Still is, actually. There's love put into this armor, and that's more important than an image.
I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry.
I was greeted with the similar tropic breeze and tourist trap theatrics that was worryingly becoming familiar. My wounds stung a bit at the salty air from the sea, but it was nothing I haven't endured before. Besides, the amount of booze I intended to guzzle would have dulled anything resembling pain. The problem would be finding a place more mine taste in "getting plastered" establishments, the more traditional closed bar that one can get drunk in peace rather than the open air party bars. I could head back to the place that Choprot was hiding away in, but I already had enough with the cloak and dagger horseshit for one day and I wanted to do something normal for once.
It took a few blocks away from the front of Costa del Sol until I found a bar on the docks that was going to let me sit down and order a beer. It went by the name of the Wet Sea Cat and still had a very nautical theme with the netting and giant anchor out front. It was the kind of place that sailors went to in order to avoid the general populous and not get in trouble for their drunken revelry. They would not have enjoyed having some outsider, especially some other military outfit, walking into their turf and drinking their beers and might throw me out.
But since when did I back down from a challenge?
The inside had a very solemn and dark atmosphere that smelled heavily of the sea and cigs, the patrons all keeping to their friends and beers. The lights were barely enough to see any fine detail on each other's faces and the various cuts and holes in wall. There was only a glance from the only two people who were bothering with the pool table, and the music was some boring piano and horn piece that made the place sound more classy that it really was. I made a beeline for the bar and wanted ordered the largest mug of draft they had, but the bartender stopped me with an annoyed look her eye (the other had an eye patch).
"Leave the artillery at the door, soldier boy" she said, and pointed out the bin next to the door where there was a few dangerous knifes and pistols placed neatly for retrieval later, which I ruined by dropping my entire backpack into the mix, followed by everything bar my pistol. I got a look from the bartender when refused to give up everything, but she relented when I pulled the mag out and pulled the slide back to show that there was nothing chambered. The pistol also has some sentimental value to it, but pragmatically I didn't want to be left completely unarmed. I dropped a few OM to show I was good for it, and a mug of what was most likely some kind of grog was placed right down in front of me.
I was barely down a few gulps before I heard the creak of floorboards behind me, perhaps from a weight of a few ornery sea dogs invading my personal space with daggers in there eyes. I swiveled around and found exactly that. Sometimes I hate it when I'm right. The one leading in the back was an old captain with a thin, white beard and skin like cracked leather, while his two younger but much more physically intimidating colleagues flanked him. They didn't quite look angry, but they way they looked down on me with just a hint of malice said that they certainly pleased to meet me.
"If you're going to run me out, can I at least finish my drink first?" I dared their show of force, seeing if they'd budge even by a little. They keep the wall of muscle act up, but the old man tapped his chin with his finger in silent contemplation and eventually nodded to the request. I pulled my helmet up and off of my head so that I could actually drink and perhaps show lack of fucks given about their coercion. I expecting nothing, or maybe even a slight falter, but what I got was a twinkle of surprise and joy in the eyes of one of the bigger fellas with a do-rag on his bald head.
"Wait, are you Doomguy?" He asked with a growing smile. Now I was the one who was surprised, eyebrows hitting the bottom of my hair cut.
"Uh, yeah. Why?"
"I'm subscribed to you" The sailor said as he pulled out a smart phone "Can I get an autograph?"
I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry.
I was greeted with the similar tropic breeze and tourist trap theatrics that was worryingly becoming familiar. My wounds stung a bit at the salty air from the sea, but it was nothing I haven't endured before. Besides, the amount of booze I intended to guzzle would have dulled anything resembling pain. The problem would be finding a place more mine taste in "getting plastered" establishments, the more traditional closed bar that one can get drunk in peace rather than the open air party bars. I could head back to the place that Choprot was hiding away in, but I already had enough with the cloak and dagger horseshit for one day and I wanted to do something normal for once.
It took a few blocks away from the front of Costa del Sol until I found a bar on the docks that was going to let me sit down and order a beer. It went by the name of the Wet Sea Cat and still had a very nautical theme with the netting and giant anchor out front. It was the kind of place that sailors went to in order to avoid the general populous and not get in trouble for their drunken revelry. They would not have enjoyed having some outsider, especially some other military outfit, walking into their turf and drinking their beers and might throw me out.
But since when did I back down from a challenge?
The inside had a very solemn and dark atmosphere that smelled heavily of the sea and cigs, the patrons all keeping to their friends and beers. The lights were barely enough to see any fine detail on each other's faces and the various cuts and holes in wall. There was only a glance from the only two people who were bothering with the pool table, and the music was some boring piano and horn piece that made the place sound more classy that it really was. I made a beeline for the bar and wanted ordered the largest mug of draft they had, but the bartender stopped me with an annoyed look her eye (the other had an eye patch).
"Leave the artillery at the door, soldier boy" she said, and pointed out the bin next to the door where there was a few dangerous knifes and pistols placed neatly for retrieval later, which I ruined by dropping my entire backpack into the mix, followed by everything bar my pistol. I got a look from the bartender when refused to give up everything, but she relented when I pulled the mag out and pulled the slide back to show that there was nothing chambered. The pistol also has some sentimental value to it, but pragmatically I didn't want to be left completely unarmed. I dropped a few OM to show I was good for it, and a mug of what was most likely some kind of grog was placed right down in front of me.
I was barely down a few gulps before I heard the creak of floorboards behind me, perhaps from a weight of a few ornery sea dogs invading my personal space with daggers in there eyes. I swiveled around and found exactly that. Sometimes I hate it when I'm right. The one leading in the back was an old captain with a thin, white beard and skin like cracked leather, while his two younger but much more physically intimidating colleagues flanked him. They didn't quite look angry, but they way they looked down on me with just a hint of malice said that they certainly pleased to meet me.
"If you're going to run me out, can I at least finish my drink first?" I dared their show of force, seeing if they'd budge even by a little. They keep the wall of muscle act up, but the old man tapped his chin with his finger in silent contemplation and eventually nodded to the request. I pulled my helmet up and off of my head so that I could actually drink and perhaps show lack of fucks given about their coercion. I expecting nothing, or maybe even a slight falter, but what I got was a twinkle of surprise and joy in the eyes of one of the bigger fellas with a do-rag on his bald head.
"Wait, are you Doomguy?" He asked with a growing smile. Now I was the one who was surprised, eyebrows hitting the bottom of my hair cut.
"Uh, yeah. Why?"
"I'm subscribed to you" The sailor said as he pulled out a smart phone "Can I get an autograph?"
![[Image: oGzCtPC.png]](http://i.imgur.com/oGzCtPC.png)