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Sometimes on a SaturdaySometimes a man has nothing better to do than sigh out some old sad story to a piano player at a bar. He'll talk to me about a place he used to live, or a place he used to work, or a car he used to drive, or a woman he used to love. This fellow in particular doesn't usually see much difference between the first three, and has never had interest in the last. He comes down to L'Ombre Bleu every Saturday telling the same tired old tale, hoping it'll finally stumble into the right person's ear.Sometimes on a Saturday by ~louderthanthemelody
The place is always some godforsaken desert in the middle of nowhere, and the job is always death. When he tells the story, he brushes over the death, li
Cold Hard Heart, Chapter OneThe Sniper liked to think of himself as adaptable. He had to be, really, for all the different places and situations his job landed in him. And so far, he thought he'd done a pretty commendable job of adapting to this particular turn of events. He'd adjusted to the idea of robots after a day or two, even the ones that looked too much like him. And working with the other team was easier to get used to than he'd feared--the BLUs and the REDs turned out to be fairly similar. The only difficulty was having two of everyone now; two Soldiers got frighteningly loud, two Demomen got dangerously drunk; two Scouts were headache-inducing; two Heavies maCold Hard Heart, Chapter One by ~louderthanthemelody
Sta.sh
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