The crunch of fruit is sweet and crisp and entirely arrogant. A series of warnings whiz by unvoiced, lightning fast: He better pay for it. He better not waste it.
Resisting the urge to grind his teeth, he reminds himself to save it. Save it and just do his job tomorrow. Still against better judgement, he hears himself mutter bitterly at his basket as he retrieves it from the floor.
As much as he disliked the other sniper, he wasnât incompetent. He should know to aim for the upper torso.
Good? Good? Had he missed the part where heâd made fun of him?
Mick almost scoffed at that, but decided against it- pieces of apple were in his mouth, for one, and heâd rather not risk spraying them everywhere like some uncivilised arsehole. He also didnât want to seem sour that Cecil hadnât took the bait in quite the way he wanted, either.Â
Swallowing, he took another bite, thoughtful for a moment as he pondered what his next course of action should be.
âYâknow, if Iâd been usinâ my bow anâ arrah, that arm wouldâve pinned to the wall behind ya.â
Their approaches to this job came down to a certain code of conduct and professionalism, but Mick was less rigid about what constituted as a suitable weapon to have at work. Playing Robin Hood when they were supposed to be taking things seriously had lead to numerous hilarious encounters from every member of Team Fortress, RED and BLU alike.
Bringing up the Huntsman to The BLU Sniper would always guarantee some sort of frustration on his part. Especially as Mick was still a decent crackshot with it.Â
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