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@the-trapper-talks
Meet The Trapper.
Blog Rules. || Trapper’s Info. || Lore. || Lore short & no triggers.
Trapper’s Rock Playlist. || Trapper’s Cumbia Playlist. || Trapper’s Misc Playlist.
// block the "#tw everything" and "#triggering content" tags to filter out angsty and gorey stuff.
// Follows from @jersey-devil-speakz but my “main blog” is @vsc-art .
being piercing buddies w/ her bestie ( @vsc-art 's trapper) !! 🫶
May I offer a collab during these trying times (waiting for votes)?
Miss Kimiko just checking in! Totally for no reason! And definitely not because she can see the cameras! What exactly is going on anyway?
Feel free to add in something silly or serious on the other side!
Blank under the cut
// I fear he doesn't like being bothered on the field too much. You're lucky he even picked up the phone.
hiii sorry for the ask i adored your contract lines you did for trapper before and am HOOKED on your writing sooooo could i ask for 🗄️ for my oc trapper again? i’ll link the blog below!!! no pressure ofc!! if you have questions im happy to answer teehee :}}}
- @the-trapper-talks
trapper!! happy to write more stuff for this guy!
[start of recording]
"Ah, Trapper? Hm...yes, that file I know of."
The rolling of a chair is heard first, followed by the familiar opening of a file cabinet, with the usual riffling of dividers taking an almost noticeably shorter amount of time - if barely.
"I will be honest - the files of those whose mental health I am...I will say, uncertain of, are ones I often look over. Moreso to reassure myself I accounted for such a case."
The file is placed on her desk, with it quickly being opened and seemingly turned to a specific page.
"Now, performance wise, there is nothing to complain or note about. At least, compared to the others on his team. He has been one of the easier contracted to write for. Clear demands upon asking, and a fairly easy one to provide for at that, along with no wish to change personal information. Those are a surprising headache to organize."
She seems to hesitate, lingering on the page she was staring at before eventually turning to the next.
"As for...concerns. There are many that I have - many professional and performance related concerns, but a few personal ones I should not state on record. In summary...I would have sent someone to give him a mental evaluation a while ago, had I not been worried the evaluator may be murdered in the process."
Her sigh echoes clearly through the room, followed by the faint sound of her elbow being placed atop her desk as well, as if she were supporting her head on her a hand.
"Obviously, many in this profession will be mentally unstable, and I would like to believe that I have become accustomed to such cases, what with the people I work with near daily. And without a noticeable effect on his work, there is no mandated reasoning for intervention. Yet, this particular case, being in this profession can only..."
She suddenly goes silent, before clearing her throat, and the file is closed with a sharp snap.
"...well, as I have already said, it is far more personal than I am allowed to say on record. That is all."
[end of recording]
Hello. The following is a message from the Teufort Census Bureau.
How would you rate your current employment?
Thank you for your co-operation.
@tf2-data-collection-agency
“Current emple- employment?” The Trapper scrunches his nose and scowls, furrowing his eyebrows sternly. “Terrible. This job is bad. Zero out of ten.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms.
“Pero… it has good pay. Good money.”
// Feliz San Valentin, Happy Valentine’s day.
ififififififiif-
all my stuff from the @tf2occontest magma board :] vvv characters below cut
Modern Trapper,,, come home the kids miss you
🪤
@meet-the-net :-)
// @meet-the-net
Reading the directions he was given by Miss Pauling, he hesitantly stepped over enemy lines. It was a ceasefire day after all, he would be fine… he hoped. Trapper head been told there was a store around here that sold fish and other seafood items, and boy did he love seafood. Barely even reading the sign on the store when he spotted it, he opened the door and walked in, tense but very hungry as he eyed the food.
“You are… the fish guy, yes? Do you have sales?”
Ned looked up from his newspaper – an old issue, re- and re-reread to death – not really expecting any customers at all since the beginning of the war. It'd been three weeks since the hail of bullets and rumbling of explosions started piercing his almost every day life. The near constant loop of dying mortifyingly painful deaths and somehow reawakening inside that room unscathed had become nearly routine, and though the death was a philosophically challenging concept to swallow, the hardest part might remain the feeling of his bones shattering and his lungs pooling with blood. He squinted at the figure, a familiar looking man. Whenever he'd encountered him on the field, he'd been a real menace. Not quick, but a stalking heap of immense force that'd overwhelmed or captured him in one of his razor sharp bear traps more than once. Though this time around, in the designated time for the teams' truce, the stranger looked less intimidating. More curious, a bit like someone who'd gotten lost. His instinct to serve his customer kicks in, though only half way, wary enough of the situation. Ned lowered and folded his newspaper in his lap, and with a skeptical expression responds "Yes. I sure am the 'fish guy'." He made air quotes, then gestured to the fish display cases – very little seafood scattered across the ice, Ned hadn't had the time nor motivation to fish much as of late, for arguably good reason – and continues "All you see is all I have. Eight kroner per kilogram. No sales. Though I will accept the haggling, if it is reasonable."
Trapper listened as he walked around, arms tense and by his side. He didn’t have his usual tranq dart belt on at least, or any sorts of weapons on him. Though, it was debatable if his own leg was qualified as a weapon, seeing how he used it in desperate times on the field.
“Eight kroner…” He repeated back, mimicking the pronunciation of the words. With a firm nod, Trapper looked around at the fish. It wasn’t really him deciding what looked good, more him deciding how much he could haul back to his base without getting complaints on the smell.
Though, promptly deciding he didn’t care about complaints, he simply decided on which display case he could almost empty out. “Two of each fish in this- this case.” Trapper stated plainly, settling on an emptier display case with a good variety of fish laying in it. It wasn’t like TFI didn’t pay him enough to buy out the whole store if he felt like it.
Newspaper rolled up in his fist, he stood up to understand which case he was talking about and with a nod uttered the usual "Right away." before he frowned at his automatism, briefly befuddled on how deeply rooted it was. He stepped towards the case, always keeping an eye on the slightly shorter stranger, never really turning to face away. And keeping his narrowed gaze fixed on him – now a mere meter apart at best – his practiced hands did the work for him; he ripped the newspaper in half along its fold, separated the sheets from each other until he held one in one palm and the rest in the other. For the next step he had to tear his eyes from the man, so begrudgingly, he let his eyes flick between the wares and his enemy customer as quickly as he managed without dizzying himself. From this close he almost looked... hinged. Saner than he'd witnessed out there. As he began retrieving the seafood with the single sheet and wrapping it on the paper pile in his palm, he let his mind overtake function of his mouth as he asked "Do I not know you from somewhere? Practically- no... *Particularly* from out *there*? You are the man with that trap, are you not? Or... traps, rather."
Trapper eyed the man as he stood and packed up his order, his eyes more focused on practiced hands than the face of his supposed enemy. He had to make sure there were no quick reaches for weapons after all. Though, he nodded at the question, quite casually at that. “Yes, I work for the RED team. You have prob… probably died to me.”
It was… almost too casual, how he stated it. But, the Trapper didn’t seem like a man who really cared about what his words sounded like to others. “It is more than one trap, yes. It is nice to know they do the job.” Crossing his arms, he let his eyes finally look up at the BLU team member, furrowing his brows in concentration.
Hm. He couldn’t quite recognize that face. The Trapper never could remember much from battles, but the smell of seafood and those brown eyes did seem just a little familiar. Just a little. But, he looked away soon enough, instead patting his pockets for his wallet. “How much is the total? For the fish.”
Ned squinted even harder at the comment, but decided to let go of the expression through a sigh. Not only because he was his customer for the time being, instead of a threat, but because he was usually such an unstoppable, instantly punishing threat, that angering him off the battlefield was too high a risk. He could feel it in his hands first, the slight tremor of nervousness as his mind painted all the possibilities of being ripped apart by him right then and there. Then in his legs as he made his way back to the counter to ungracefully deposit the small newspaper wrapped packets of seafood on the surface. From below the counter he retrieved a small scale that he laid them onto, one by one. He looked up, nose scrunched and brows furrowed in thought. Not even years of running a store would train him in mathematics, difficulty increased tenfold without his trusty notepad that laid cozily on his nightstand. His intimidated silence was only broken by the sound of tapping the total into a rusty, sea-salt-sticky cash register. A small copper flag shot up inside the glass corpus above the buttons, the number '240' painted onto it. With a ding, the cash drawer flew open, hungry for that sweet sweet currency. As was protocol, as it was ingrained within Ned, his flat voice announced "240 korner please, sir." followed by a small sigh, a bit disgusted at his serviceability. Just to pick up the shattered pieces of his self worth – and foolishly assuming that everyone sent all their earnings to their family, or even had a family to send it to – he added with a bit of a sly grin "It is okay if you are not willing or able to afford it. You may return at the beginning of next month, when we get our pay. I might even have more wares for you to browse then."
With a blank stare at the register, awaiting the numbers, he held a worn black leather wallet in his hands. The small ding made him jump slightly, a barely noticeable flinch that he turned into the motion of opening up his wallet. Though, the Trapper paused at being told it was fine if he couldn’t afford it. He knew what he was getting into, and they were paid much more than a measly 240 Kroners.
Slightly annoyed by the slight smugness he could almost feel in the words, he flipped through dull colorful bills and handed over three individual hundreds, with many more to spare. “Do you have change?” The man mused back, his face held stern although quietly hoping to see that slight grin disappear. The Trapper never did like when people tried to mock him.
Unable to hold his tongue, one that usually said very little words, he snipped back. “Or do you need it?” It was a little mean, and he knew he had been once raised to not say such words. But frankly, he was working as a mercenary now, talking with a man he had killed countless times on the field. A few stern words wouldn’t hurt the fisherman as bad as steel teeth.
A realization hit him (or was it a delusion?) that this might be the same type of friendly mockery his teammates liked engaging in, especially at his expense – how silly of them. The small smirk dropped, as did his eyebrows, into an exaggerated frown before he rolled his eyes and scoffed. "And give you the power to report me to the authorities for stealing your money? Pah! Nice try, trap guy." he half joked, half recalled multiple instances where exactly that situation had taken place, an agonizingly long process between customer and the town 'sheriff', so to speak. Really, it was just the mayor, but he wore a big hat for the occasional correctional undertakings. A look into the register made him widen his eyes however. "Oh." he muttered. It must've been a while since he'd had a customer pay him with any coins; all the register contained were three 1kr coins and approximately five 200kr bills. He nervously glanced back up at his client, head slightly tucked between his shoulders. "You would not happen to have... smaller money?... Or I can give you extra fish that is worth the three hundred kroner- uh, crowns. Maybe you people can freeze it, keep it fresh for longer, if you cannot eat it all tonight." he suggested, under the assumption Trapper was shopping for the entire team.
Report him? Now, why would he do that? The fisherman sold his favorite type of food, probably the only vendor of seafood for miles. If this guy got in trouble… where would he go get seafood? It would be stupid to report him. Though, the mention of extra fish made him nod. Trapper wasn’t one to say no to more food.
“More fish is good.” He stated, placing the money on the counter and stuffing his wallet back into one of his pockets. The Trapper stared at all the fish he had already bought. Hm, that was going to be a little difficult to carry. “Do you have a… a bag? For the fish.”
A bag would be good. He didn’t feel like looking like an idiot trying to haul 300 Kroners worth of seafood back to base in just his hands and pockets. Plus if he dropped one, Trapper was pretty sure it’d take him a few minutes to be able to pick it up. And he didn’t feel like having to do that.
The register's bell chimed weakly when he placed the money into the drawer and shut it. "Right away, sir." the customer service demon within Ned replied in the usual flat voice. He'd learned quickly not to give the vendee power over the joy in his voice; if it was neither cheerful nor annoyed from the very beginning, they couldn't accuse him of being rude, nor find some sick satisfaction in hearing his glee dwindle. Under his breath, he grumbled "Do not get used to this language." as he reached under the counter and blindly retrieved a little paper bag. Held up to eye level, his eyes switched from the paper packed fish, to the bag, to the packets and to the bag again. With another trained movement he pulled another- no, two other bags out – just for good measure –, retaining a more than healthy amount of eye contact with his customer and started carefully placing the packets into them. With the amount of time it took him, the silence had gotten so heavy, his mouth decided to fill it without much of his control. "So. How are you going to prepare it? What culinary delicacies will RED Team have this fine evening?"
He couldn’t understand whatever was mumbled, but didn’t really want to know either. He just wanted to get back to base and eat- or maybe he could eat on the walk back. What an idea! It wasn’t like there was anyone to scold him on enjoying a delicious whole fish. Unfortunately, Trapper was snapped out of his thoughts as he was spoken to again.
Prepare? Well… he could technically cook them. He wasn’t a very good cook though, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn the fish… “I am not sharing, and I do not know what you mean by… prepare.” What a stupid thing to do. Trapper could just eat them how they came! There wasn’t anything wrong with it.
“The fish taste fine how they are.” The man nodded, approving of his own words. Sure, many years ago he had gotten a little sick from doing such a thing, but he had learned to savor and enjoy the taste of raw fish over the years. It was good. He liked the lingering taste of he sea. Food was food.
Ned's facial expression returned, more violently than he'd anticipated. A look of sheer terror. He halted every movement, as if he was being observed by a prey animal. And in a sense, he'd be right. "What... do you mean? You are not REALLY eating it RAW, right? You could get really, DEATHLY ill." And after a shocked pause, another realization hit him like a tidal wave, increasing the worry in his face and the volume of his voice. "What do you MEAN you are not sharing???? You are joking with me, right? You are not HONESTLY eating around thirty kilograms of fish...on your OWN? RAW? ...ON YOUR OWN?" he inquired, way louder than planned, while nervous hands continued packing the bags as quickly as possible. When the last packet disappeared inside the last brown paper bag a couple seconds later, Ned laid both hands over them, sort of protectively. He squinted at the customer, whose well-being he felt was in his hands now, as if he was selling heroin instead of herring to the man. "Promise to freeze it throughly-, uh, thoroughly before prep-... eating? If its core is frozen, its parasites will die... Salting it works too, kind of, if you really will not cook it."
The Trapper furrowed his eyebrows sternly, lips twitching into a frown. He was being serious, why was he being questioned? "Yes, I am eating it... raw. I will not get sick." He grumbled back, not enjoying being practically scolded and lectured on how to eat a type of animal he had eaten so many times before. He wasn't a kid. He knew what he was doing.
Shifting on his feet, he ignored the creak of worn metal, only beginning to scowl a little deeper. "No, I do not share my food. I bought it, and only I will eat it. It is not that much, do not be dramatic." The man snipped back, eyeing how the fisherman seemed to guard the bags of seafood he had already paid for.
He didn't appreciate his food being kept from him. Uncrossing his arms, Trapper set his hands on the counter, finally looking up at the other's eyes with his own dark ones. "I will eat it how I like. Can you give me the bags now?" He tapped on the desk, tilting his head slightly and fighting the urge to simply grab the bags and take them himself.
Ned’s own brows furrowed in response, apprehensive but more bothered by the man’s stubbornness. The brown pupils meeting his own only made him persist in the intense staring, though internally he noted that the Trapper, too, was one of the few people on either team that didn’t have those eerily steel blue eyes the rest of them had. He took his hands off the goods and raised them in a way that conveyed meaning no harm, and after a small scoff replied “Fine. Yes. Take them. It will only advantage me if you cannot fight because you are bound to the bed with a horrible fever.” With the terribly brave act of asserting a nonchalance he really didn't possess, his pounding pulse urged him to leave the situation as quickly as possible and he scanned his shop briefly. After the short pause, he silently made his way to the door that leads to his private corners, and when the door was ajar, he announced “Now, if you will excuse me. I have approximately thirty pounds of fish to catch. Have a splendid day, sir.”, with a feeling in the pits of his stomach that told him he'd be a recurring, well paying customer.
With calloused hands, he dragged the bags towards himself, picking out a random packaged fish to unwrap. He held back the urge to roll his eyes, only grumbling to himself under his breath in a language he was sure the fisherman wouldn’t understand.
“I will not get sick.” Trapper snarled out, stuffing the bags in one arm and pushing the head of the now unwrapped fish into his mouth, almost as if to prove his point. With a solid crunch, he finally stepped away from the counter, making his way to the door.
Chewing, and satisfied with the taste of the fish, he finally left the shop, with plans to return very soon to spend another ungodly amount of money on seafood he would eat in the span of a day or two.
Ned winced at the crunch, remaining frozen in his footsteps by the door, widened eyes watched him leave. Little did he know the memory of a fish's head bloodying between sharp teeth will bury itself in his mind like a parasite.
Fin.
@meet-the-cyborg 🪤
“Hey, I like your piercings, man!”
// @elliotbizarre
Without smiling, the Trapper nodded and reached a hand up to touch at the piercing under one of his eyes. “Eh… Thank you.” He hesitantly spoke, eyeing the Cyborg up and down. And he thought his missing leg was a lot of metal… But, he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t want to offend a man he could only assume probably could overpower him.
“Name’s, uh…” he momentarily debates between which name to introduce himself as, “…Cyborg. But you can call me Cy. Always good to meet a fellow Red, y’know?”
Noticing Trapper’s eyes on him, he placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head slightly. He seemed to be trying to show off all his metal rather than hide it.
"Cybo... Cyborg." Trapper repeated back, struggling with the last two letters pronunciation. Usually he wouldn't stick to nicknames, but he didn't feel like struggling with a name over and over again. Trying to be polite, he extended a hand, taking his gaze to the floor.
"I am Trapper. Nice to meet you." He mumbled, not as show off-y about his appearance as this half man-half robot person was. Unfortunately, he did have to at least attempt to be polite to his fellow teammates. It didn't go very well when Trapper was rude to them before.
They took Trapper’s hand and shook it. The metal of their hand was smooth and cold, and they had a tight grip. But fortunately, they let go after a second or so without crushing his bones.
“Trapper, huh? I guess that means you, well, make traps? Hm, that’s pretty cool… kinda like Dell with his sentries… or, well, I guess it depends what kinda traps they are.”
They seem a little distracted whilst thinking about their favourite Engineer.
Trapper tensed a bit at the tight handshake, clenching his fingers by his side once he was released. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t going to try and upset this strange person. “I do not make them, I just use them.”
He tilted his head curiously as the Cyborg spoke about the Engineer. He didn’t recognize the certain emotion or tone, but he figured it wasn’t a bad one. Maybe Cyborg admired the Texan that had built his leg. “I mostly use bear traps.”
“Bear traps, huh? Bet that’d work well against the BLU team’s Heavy!”
They laughed a little. The sound, distorted by their artificial voice, was not particularly pleasant to the ear.
“Good thing I don’t have to worry about getting my legs stuck in one. Sounds like it would hurt.”
“It does. He gets caught many times.” Trapper hums back, although wincing at the weird laugh. It sounded strange, and hurt his ears a bit. What a strange person.
Trapper shakes his head, glancing down at the Cyborg’s metal legs. Yeah, traps would definitely not work on this person. “Yes… you do not have to worry since you are… mostly metal.”
@meet-the-cyborg 🪤
“Hey, I like your piercings, man!”
// @elliotbizarre
Without smiling, the Trapper nodded and reached a hand up to touch at the piercing under one of his eyes. “Eh… Thank you.” He hesitantly spoke, eyeing the Cyborg up and down. And he thought his missing leg was a lot of metal… But, he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t want to offend a man he could only assume probably could overpower him.
“Name’s, uh…” he momentarily debates between which name to introduce himself as, “…Cyborg. But you can call me Cy. Always good to meet a fellow Red, y’know?”
Noticing Trapper’s eyes on him, he placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head slightly. He seemed to be trying to show off all his metal rather than hide it.
"Cybo... Cyborg." Trapper repeated back, struggling with the last two letters pronunciation. Usually he wouldn't stick to nicknames, but he didn't feel like struggling with a name over and over again. Trying to be polite, he extended a hand, taking his gaze to the floor.
"I am Trapper. Nice to meet you." He mumbled, not as show off-y about his appearance as this half man-half robot person was. Unfortunately, he did have to at least attempt to be polite to his fellow teammates. It didn't go very well when Trapper was rude to them before.
They took Trapper’s hand and shook it. The metal of their hand was smooth and cold, and they had a tight grip. But fortunately, they let go after a second or so without crushing his bones.
“Trapper, huh? I guess that means you, well, make traps? Hm, that’s pretty cool… kinda like Dell with his sentries… or, well, I guess it depends what kinda traps they are.”
They seem a little distracted whilst thinking about their favourite Engineer.
Trapper tensed a bit at the tight handshake, clenching his fingers by his side once he was released. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t going to try and upset this strange person. “I do not make them, I just use them.”
He tilted his head curiously as the Cyborg spoke about the Engineer. He didn’t recognize the certain emotion or tone, but he figured it wasn’t a bad one. Maybe Cyborg admired the Texan that had built his leg. “I mostly use bear traps.”
🪤
— @wastelandtherapist
// @wastelandtherapist
“…Hello, who are you?”
The Trapper speaks hesitantly, staring at this woman. Had he met her before? She looked a little familiar… but he couldn’t remember. All he could do was stare quietly, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned to a small frown. But, he doesn’t attack. Not yet at least.
“Oh, hello!”
Helena smiles
“Trapper, right? I’m Helena, the one from the party”
She explains, noticing some confusion on his face
At the mention of the party, Trapper seems to relax just a bit. He nods, now being able to remember more. “Yes, from the party.” He could recall the memory now of the nice woman. It was a brief, but nice memory. “I remem… remember you now. You are the woman who had very good cooking, yes?” He questioned, giving Helena a brief look over.
It was rare he met someone who was kind to him from the start. Trapper would have to make sure he could remember this lady a little better now. He could be mean, but he was taught to be kind to woman. Plus, he had been shown nothing but respect by Helena, so he had no reason to be mean.
She nods
“I’m glad you found my food tasty, yes it was me”
Helena seems to light up at the kind words of Trapper
“How have you been? Doing anything fun?”
She asks kindly, showing real interest on what he has been up to since last time they talked
Trapper listens along, crossing his arms comfortably. “Just working. I am okay.” He replies blandly, though tilting his head curiously at Helena. “And you? How have you been? Doing anything fun?” He mimicked the words back, doing his best to pronounce them how Helena had. Though, his accent still shines through. He hoped he was being nice enough.
“Well, a little tired I must admit”
She chuckles
“The paperwork feels endless sometimes, but it’s alright, was able to enjoy the fireworks on the New Year’s Eve, right now I’m trying to clean my office to start the new year on a good pace”
She explains, trying to not speak super fast even if she was quite agitated from moving around furniture and deep cleaning her office
Tired. He could relate to that, in whatever way the woman had meant. Trapper supposed he was also quite tired. But, he stays quiet, just listening. The mention of fireworks makes him frown and shake his head. He remembered staying in his room trying to muffle the loud bangs and booms from outside. A quiet New Years celebration would’ve been better.
But, Trapper perks up a little at the mention of Helena cleaning her office. The woman had allowed him to eat some of her cooking before… and he was hired to do work. “Do you need help?” He offered, trying his best to be nice. The best he could do was offer some help.
“If I need help?”
She stopped a bit, processing the question, she actually didn’t consider asking for help, even if the lifting and dragging furniture is difficult, she he simply forgotten she could’ve simply asked
“It’s fine— actually, no… I do need help, specially with the bookshelves and file-cabinets, could vou please help me with those? If it’s not too much trouble”
The Trapper waited patiently, having nothing but time. As soon as she took his offer, he nodded, ready to help. “Yes, of course. I will help. It is no trou- trouble.” He furrowed his brows at the weird sounding word, but Trapper was sure Helena wouldn’t embarrass him for his bad pronunciation.
“Do you need help now? Or… more late? Later?” He questioned, a little hesitant on his wording. Directly translating his mother tongue didn’t sound right… but the second word was a bit strange as well. Oh well, hopefully Helena understood.
🪤
@meet-the-net :-)
// @meet-the-net
Reading the directions he was given by Miss Pauling, he hesitantly stepped over enemy lines. It was a ceasefire day after all, he would be fine… he hoped. Trapper head been told there was a store around here that sold fish and other seafood items, and boy did he love seafood. Barely even reading the sign on the store when he spotted it, he opened the door and walked in, tense but very hungry as he eyed the food.
“You are… the fish guy, yes? Do you have sales?”
Ned looked up from his newspaper – an old issue, re- and re-reread to death – not really expecting any customers at all since the beginning of the war. It'd been three weeks since the hail of bullets and rumbling of explosions started piercing his almost every day life. The near constant loop of dying mortifyingly painful deaths and somehow reawakening inside that room unscathed had become nearly routine, and though the death was a philosophically challenging concept to swallow, the hardest part might remain the feeling of his bones shattering and his lungs pooling with blood. He squinted at the figure, a familiar looking man. Whenever he'd encountered him on the field, he'd been a real menace. Not quick, but a stalking heap of immense force that'd overwhelmed or captured him in one of his razor sharp bear traps more than once. Though this time around, in the designated time for the teams' truce, the stranger looked less intimidating. More curious, a bit like someone who'd gotten lost. His instinct to serve his customer kicks in, though only half way, wary enough of the situation. Ned lowered and folded his newspaper in his lap, and with a skeptical expression responds "Yes. I sure am the 'fish guy'." He made air quotes, then gestured to the fish display cases – very little seafood scattered across the ice, Ned hadn't had the time nor motivation to fish much as of late, for arguably good reason – and continues "All you see is all I have. Eight kroner per kilogram. No sales. Though I will accept the haggling, if it is reasonable."
Trapper listened as he walked around, arms tense and by his side. He didn’t have his usual tranq dart belt on at least, or any sorts of weapons on him. Though, it was debatable if his own leg was qualified as a weapon, seeing how he used it in desperate times on the field.
“Eight kroner…” He repeated back, mimicking the pronunciation of the words. With a firm nod, Trapper looked around at the fish. It wasn’t really him deciding what looked good, more him deciding how much he could haul back to his base without getting complaints on the smell.
Though, promptly deciding he didn’t care about complaints, he simply decided on which display case he could almost empty out. “Two of each fish in this- this case.” Trapper stated plainly, settling on an emptier display case with a good variety of fish laying in it. It wasn’t like TFI didn’t pay him enough to buy out the whole store if he felt like it.
Newspaper rolled up in his fist, he stood up to understand which case he was talking about and with a nod uttered the usual "Right away." before he frowned at his automatism, briefly befuddled on how deeply rooted it was. He stepped towards the case, always keeping an eye on the slightly shorter stranger, never really turning to face away. And keeping his narrowed gaze fixed on him – now a mere meter apart at best – his practiced hands did the work for him; he ripped the newspaper in half along its fold, separated the sheets from each other until he held one in one palm and the rest in the other. For the next step he had to tear his eyes from the man, so begrudgingly, he let his eyes flick between the wares and his enemy customer as quickly as he managed without dizzying himself. From this close he almost looked... hinged. Saner than he'd witnessed out there. As he began retrieving the seafood with the single sheet and wrapping it on the paper pile in his palm, he let his mind overtake function of his mouth as he asked "Do I not know you from somewhere? Practically- no... *Particularly* from out *there*? You are the man with that trap, are you not? Or... traps, rather."
Trapper eyed the man as he stood and packed up his order, his eyes more focused on practiced hands than the face of his supposed enemy. He had to make sure there were no quick reaches for weapons after all. Though, he nodded at the question, quite casually at that. “Yes, I work for the RED team. You have prob… probably died to me.”
It was… almost too casual, how he stated it. But, the Trapper didn’t seem like a man who really cared about what his words sounded like to others. “It is more than one trap, yes. It is nice to know they do the job.” Crossing his arms, he let his eyes finally look up at the BLU team member, furrowing his brows in concentration.
Hm. He couldn’t quite recognize that face. The Trapper never could remember much from battles, but the smell of seafood and those brown eyes did seem just a little familiar. Just a little. But, he looked away soon enough, instead patting his pockets for his wallet. “How much is the total? For the fish.”
Ned squinted even harder at the comment, but decided to let go of the expression through a sigh. Not only because he was his customer for the time being, instead of a threat, but because he was usually such an unstoppable, instantly punishing threat, that angering him off the battlefield was too high a risk. He could feel it in his hands first, the slight tremor of nervousness as his mind painted all the possibilities of being ripped apart by him right then and there. Then in his legs as he made his way back to the counter to ungracefully deposit the small newspaper wrapped packets of seafood on the surface. From below the counter he retrieved a small scale that he laid them onto, one by one. He looked up, nose scrunched and brows furrowed in thought. Not even years of running a store would train him in mathematics, difficulty increased tenfold without his trusty notepad that laid cozily on his nightstand. His intimidated silence was only broken by the sound of tapping the total into a rusty, sea-salt-sticky cash register. A small copper flag shot up inside the glass corpus above the buttons, the number '240' painted onto it. With a ding, the cash drawer flew open, hungry for that sweet sweet currency. As was protocol, as it was ingrained within Ned, his flat voice announced "240 korner please, sir." followed by a small sigh, a bit disgusted at his serviceability. Just to pick up the shattered pieces of his self worth – and foolishly assuming that everyone sent all their earnings to their family, or even had a family to send it to – he added with a bit of a sly grin "It is okay if you are not willing or able to afford it. You may return at the beginning of next month, when we get our pay. I might even have more wares for you to browse then."
With a blank stare at the register, awaiting the numbers, he held a worn black leather wallet in his hands. The small ding made him jump slightly, a barely noticeable flinch that he turned into the motion of opening up his wallet. Though, the Trapper paused at being told it was fine if he couldn’t afford it. He knew what he was getting into, and they were paid much more than a measly 240 Kroners.
Slightly annoyed by the slight smugness he could almost feel in the words, he flipped through dull colorful bills and handed over three individual hundreds, with many more to spare. “Do you have change?” The man mused back, his face held stern although quietly hoping to see that slight grin disappear. The Trapper never did like when people tried to mock him.
Unable to hold his tongue, one that usually said very little words, he snipped back. “Or do you need it?” It was a little mean, and he knew he had been once raised to not say such words. But frankly, he was working as a mercenary now, talking with a man he had killed countless times on the field. A few stern words wouldn’t hurt the fisherman as bad as steel teeth.
A realization hit him (or was it a delusion?) that this might be the same type of friendly mockery his teammates liked engaging in, especially at his expense – how silly of them. The small smirk dropped, as did his eyebrows, into an exaggerated frown before he rolled his eyes and scoffed. "And give you the power to report me to the authorities for stealing your money? Pah! Nice try, trap guy." he half joked, half recalled multiple instances where exactly that situation had taken place, an agonizingly long process between customer and the town 'sheriff', so to speak. Really, it was just the mayor, but he wore a big hat for the occasional correctional undertakings. A look into the register made him widen his eyes however. "Oh." he muttered. It must've been a while since he'd had a customer pay him with any coins; all the register contained were three 1kr coins and approximately five 200kr bills. He nervously glanced back up at his client, head slightly tucked between his shoulders. "You would not happen to have... smaller money?... Or I can give you extra fish that is worth the three hundred kroner- uh, crowns. Maybe you people can freeze it, keep it fresh for longer, if you cannot eat it all tonight." he suggested, under the assumption Trapper was shopping for the entire team.
Report him? Now, why would he do that? The fisherman sold his favorite type of food, probably the only vendor of seafood for miles. If this guy got in trouble… where would he go get seafood? It would be stupid to report him. Though, the mention of extra fish made him nod. Trapper wasn’t one to say no to more food.
“More fish is good.” He stated, placing the money on the counter and stuffing his wallet back into one of his pockets. The Trapper stared at all the fish he had already bought. Hm, that was going to be a little difficult to carry. “Do you have a… a bag? For the fish.”
A bag would be good. He didn’t feel like looking like an idiot trying to haul 300 Kroners worth of seafood back to base in just his hands and pockets. Plus if he dropped one, Trapper was pretty sure it’d take him a few minutes to be able to pick it up. And he didn’t feel like having to do that.
The register's bell chimed weakly when he placed the money into the drawer and shut it. "Right away, sir." the customer service demon within Ned replied in the usual flat voice. He'd learned quickly not to give the vendee power over the joy in his voice; if it was neither cheerful nor annoyed from the very beginning, they couldn't accuse him of being rude, nor find some sick satisfaction in hearing his glee dwindle. Under his breath, he grumbled "Do not get used to this language." as he reached under the counter and blindly retrieved a little paper bag. Held up to eye level, his eyes switched from the paper packed fish, to the bag, to the packets and to the bag again. With another trained movement he pulled another- no, two other bags out – just for good measure –, retaining a more than healthy amount of eye contact with his customer and started carefully placing the packets into them. With the amount of time it took him, the silence had gotten so heavy, his mouth decided to fill it without much of his control. "So. How are you going to prepare it? What culinary delicacies will RED Team have this fine evening?"
He couldn’t understand whatever was mumbled, but didn’t really want to know either. He just wanted to get back to base and eat- or maybe he could eat on the walk back. What an idea! It wasn’t like there was anyone to scold him on enjoying a delicious whole fish. Unfortunately, Trapper was snapped out of his thoughts as he was spoken to again.
Prepare? Well… he could technically cook them. He wasn’t a very good cook though, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn the fish… “I am not sharing, and I do not know what you mean by… prepare.” What a stupid thing to do. Trapper could just eat them how they came! There wasn’t anything wrong with it.
“The fish taste fine how they are.” The man nodded, approving of his own words. Sure, many years ago he had gotten a little sick from doing such a thing, but he had learned to savor and enjoy the taste of raw fish over the years. It was good. He liked the lingering taste of he sea. Food was food.
Ned's facial expression returned, more violently than he'd anticipated. A look of sheer terror. He halted every movement, as if he was being observed by a prey animal. And in a sense, he'd be right. "What... do you mean? You are not REALLY eating it RAW, right? You could get really, DEATHLY ill." And after a shocked pause, another realization hit him like a tidal wave, increasing the worry in his face and the volume of his voice. "What do you MEAN you are not sharing???? You are joking with me, right? You are not HONESTLY eating around thirty kilograms of fish...on your OWN? RAW? ...ON YOUR OWN?" he inquired, way louder than planned, while nervous hands continued packing the bags as quickly as possible. When the last packet disappeared inside the last brown paper bag a couple seconds later, Ned laid both hands over them, sort of protectively. He squinted at the customer, whose well-being he felt was in his hands now, as if he was selling heroin instead of herring to the man. "Promise to freeze it throughly-, uh, thoroughly before prep-... eating? If its core is frozen, its parasites will die... Salting it works too, kind of, if you really will not cook it."
The Trapper furrowed his eyebrows sternly, lips twitching into a frown. He was being serious, why was he being questioned? "Yes, I am eating it... raw. I will not get sick." He grumbled back, not enjoying being practically scolded and lectured on how to eat a type of animal he had eaten so many times before. He wasn't a kid. He knew what he was doing.
Shifting on his feet, he ignored the creak of worn metal, only beginning to scowl a little deeper. "No, I do not share my food. I bought it, and only I will eat it. It is not that much, do not be dramatic." The man snipped back, eyeing how the fisherman seemed to guard the bags of seafood he had already paid for.
He didn't appreciate his food being kept from him. Uncrossing his arms, Trapper set his hands on the counter, finally looking up at the other's eyes with his own dark ones. "I will eat it how I like. Can you give me the bags now?" He tapped on the desk, tilting his head slightly and fighting the urge to simply grab the bags and take them himself.
Ned’s own brows furrowed in response, apprehensive but more bothered by the man’s stubbornness. The brown pupils meeting his own only made him persist in the intense staring, though internally he noted that the Trapper, too, was one of the few people on either team that didn’t have those eerily steel blue eyes the rest of them had. He took his hands off the goods and raised them in a way that conveyed meaning no harm, and after a small scoff replied “Fine. Yes. Take them. It will only advantage me if you cannot fight because you are bound to the bed with a horrible fever.” With the terribly brave act of asserting a nonchalance he really didn't possess, his pounding pulse urged him to leave the situation as quickly as possible and he scanned his shop briefly. After the short pause, he silently made his way to the door that leads to his private corners, and when the door was ajar, he announced “Now, if you will excuse me. I have approximately thirty pounds of fish to catch. Have a splendid day, sir.”, with a feeling in the pits of his stomach that told him he'd be a recurring, well paying customer.
With calloused hands, he dragged the bags towards himself, picking out a random packaged fish to unwrap. He held back the urge to roll his eyes, only grumbling to himself under his breath in a language he was sure the fisherman wouldn’t understand.
“I will not get sick.” Trapper snarled out, stuffing the bags in one arm and pushing the head of the now unwrapped fish into his mouth, almost as if to prove his point. With a solid crunch, he finally stepped away from the counter, making his way to the door.
Chewing, and satisfied with the taste of the fish, he finally left the shop, with plans to return very soon to spend another ungodly amount of money on seafood he would eat in the span of a day or two.
@meet-the-cyborg 🪤
“Hey, I like your piercings, man!”
// @elliotbizarre
Without smiling, the Trapper nodded and reached a hand up to touch at the piercing under one of his eyes. “Eh… Thank you.” He hesitantly spoke, eyeing the Cyborg up and down. And he thought his missing leg was a lot of metal… But, he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t want to offend a man he could only assume probably could overpower him.
“Name’s, uh…” he momentarily debates between which name to introduce himself as, “…Cyborg. But you can call me Cy. Always good to meet a fellow Red, y’know?”
Noticing Trapper’s eyes on him, he placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head slightly. He seemed to be trying to show off all his metal rather than hide it.
"Cybo... Cyborg." Trapper repeated back, struggling with the last two letters pronunciation. Usually he wouldn't stick to nicknames, but he didn't feel like struggling with a name over and over again. Trying to be polite, he extended a hand, taking his gaze to the floor.
"I am Trapper. Nice to meet you." He mumbled, not as show off-y about his appearance as this half man-half robot person was. Unfortunately, he did have to at least attempt to be polite to his fellow teammates. It didn't go very well when Trapper was rude to them before.
🪤
@meet-the-net :-)
// @meet-the-net
Reading the directions he was given by Miss Pauling, he hesitantly stepped over enemy lines. It was a ceasefire day after all, he would be fine… he hoped. Trapper head been told there was a store around here that sold fish and other seafood items, and boy did he love seafood. Barely even reading the sign on the store when he spotted it, he opened the door and walked in, tense but very hungry as he eyed the food.
“You are… the fish guy, yes? Do you have sales?”
Ned looked up from his newspaper – an old issue, re- and re-reread to death – not really expecting any customers at all since the beginning of the war. It'd been three weeks since the hail of bullets and rumbling of explosions started piercing his almost every day life. The near constant loop of dying mortifyingly painful deaths and somehow reawakening inside that room unscathed had become nearly routine, and though the death was a philosophically challenging concept to swallow, the hardest part might remain the feeling of his bones shattering and his lungs pooling with blood. He squinted at the figure, a familiar looking man. Whenever he'd encountered him on the field, he'd been a real menace. Not quick, but a stalking heap of immense force that'd overwhelmed or captured him in one of his razor sharp bear traps more than once. Though this time around, in the designated time for the teams' truce, the stranger looked less intimidating. More curious, a bit like someone who'd gotten lost. His instinct to serve his customer kicks in, though only half way, wary enough of the situation. Ned lowered and folded his newspaper in his lap, and with a skeptical expression responds "Yes. I sure am the 'fish guy'." He made air quotes, then gestured to the fish display cases – very little seafood scattered across the ice, Ned hadn't had the time nor motivation to fish much as of late, for arguably good reason – and continues "All you see is all I have. Eight kroner per kilogram. No sales. Though I will accept the haggling, if it is reasonable."
Trapper listened as he walked around, arms tense and by his side. He didn’t have his usual tranq dart belt on at least, or any sorts of weapons on him. Though, it was debatable if his own leg was qualified as a weapon, seeing how he used it in desperate times on the field.
“Eight kroner…” He repeated back, mimicking the pronunciation of the words. With a firm nod, Trapper looked around at the fish. It wasn’t really him deciding what looked good, more him deciding how much he could haul back to his base without getting complaints on the smell.
Though, promptly deciding he didn’t care about complaints, he simply decided on which display case he could almost empty out. “Two of each fish in this- this case.” Trapper stated plainly, settling on an emptier display case with a good variety of fish laying in it. It wasn’t like TFI didn’t pay him enough to buy out the whole store if he felt like it.
Newspaper rolled up in his fist, he stood up to understand which case he was talking about and with a nod uttered the usual "Right away." before he frowned at his automatism, briefly befuddled on how deeply rooted it was. He stepped towards the case, always keeping an eye on the slightly shorter stranger, never really turning to face away. And keeping his narrowed gaze fixed on him – now a mere meter apart at best – his practiced hands did the work for him; he ripped the newspaper in half along its fold, separated the sheets from each other until he held one in one palm and the rest in the other. For the next step he had to tear his eyes from the man, so begrudgingly, he let his eyes flick between the wares and his enemy customer as quickly as he managed without dizzying himself. From this close he almost looked... hinged. Saner than he'd witnessed out there. As he began retrieving the seafood with the single sheet and wrapping it on the paper pile in his palm, he let his mind overtake function of his mouth as he asked "Do I not know you from somewhere? Practically- no... *Particularly* from out *there*? You are the man with that trap, are you not? Or... traps, rather."
Trapper eyed the man as he stood and packed up his order, his eyes more focused on practiced hands than the face of his supposed enemy. He had to make sure there were no quick reaches for weapons after all. Though, he nodded at the question, quite casually at that. “Yes, I work for the RED team. You have prob… probably died to me.”
It was… almost too casual, how he stated it. But, the Trapper didn’t seem like a man who really cared about what his words sounded like to others. “It is more than one trap, yes. It is nice to know they do the job.” Crossing his arms, he let his eyes finally look up at the BLU team member, furrowing his brows in concentration.
Hm. He couldn’t quite recognize that face. The Trapper never could remember much from battles, but the smell of seafood and those brown eyes did seem just a little familiar. Just a little. But, he looked away soon enough, instead patting his pockets for his wallet. “How much is the total? For the fish.”
Ned squinted even harder at the comment, but decided to let go of the expression through a sigh. Not only because he was his customer for the time being, instead of a threat, but because he was usually such an unstoppable, instantly punishing threat, that angering him off the battlefield was too high a risk. He could feel it in his hands first, the slight tremor of nervousness as his mind painted all the possibilities of being ripped apart by him right then and there. Then in his legs as he made his way back to the counter to ungracefully deposit the small newspaper wrapped packets of seafood on the surface. From below the counter he retrieved a small scale that he laid them onto, one by one. He looked up, nose scrunched and brows furrowed in thought. Not even years of running a store would train him in mathematics, difficulty increased tenfold without his trusty notepad that laid cozily on his nightstand. His intimidated silence was only broken by the sound of tapping the total into a rusty, sea-salt-sticky cash register. A small copper flag shot up inside the glass corpus above the buttons, the number '240' painted onto it. With a ding, the cash drawer flew open, hungry for that sweet sweet currency. As was protocol, as it was ingrained within Ned, his flat voice announced "240 korner please, sir." followed by a small sigh, a bit disgusted at his serviceability. Just to pick up the shattered pieces of his self worth – and foolishly assuming that everyone sent all their earnings to their family, or even had a family to send it to – he added with a bit of a sly grin "It is okay if you are not willing or able to afford it. You may return at the beginning of next month, when we get our pay. I might even have more wares for you to browse then."
With a blank stare at the register, awaiting the numbers, he held a worn black leather wallet in his hands. The small ding made him jump slightly, a barely noticeable flinch that he turned into the motion of opening up his wallet. Though, the Trapper paused at being told it was fine if he couldn’t afford it. He knew what he was getting into, and they were paid much more than a measly 240 Kroners.
Slightly annoyed by the slight smugness he could almost feel in the words, he flipped through dull colorful bills and handed over three individual hundreds, with many more to spare. “Do you have change?” The man mused back, his face held stern although quietly hoping to see that slight grin disappear. The Trapper never did like when people tried to mock him.
Unable to hold his tongue, one that usually said very little words, he snipped back. “Or do you need it?” It was a little mean, and he knew he had been once raised to not say such words. But frankly, he was working as a mercenary now, talking with a man he had killed countless times on the field. A few stern words wouldn’t hurt the fisherman as bad as steel teeth.
A realization hit him (or was it a delusion?) that this might be the same type of friendly mockery his teammates liked engaging in, especially at his expense – how silly of them. The small smirk dropped, as did his eyebrows, into an exaggerated frown before he rolled his eyes and scoffed. "And give you the power to report me to the authorities for stealing your money? Pah! Nice try, trap guy." he half joked, half recalled multiple instances where exactly that situation had taken place, an agonizingly long process between customer and the town 'sheriff', so to speak. Really, it was just the mayor, but he wore a big hat for the occasional correctional undertakings. A look into the register made him widen his eyes however. "Oh." he muttered. It must've been a while since he'd had a customer pay him with any coins; all the register contained were three 1kr coins and approximately five 200kr bills. He nervously glanced back up at his client, head slightly tucked between his shoulders. "You would not happen to have... smaller money?... Or I can give you extra fish that is worth the three hundred kroner- uh, crowns. Maybe you people can freeze it, keep it fresh for longer, if you cannot eat it all tonight." he suggested, under the assumption Trapper was shopping for the entire team.
Report him? Now, why would he do that? The fisherman sold his favorite type of food, probably the only vendor of seafood for miles. If this guy got in trouble… where would he go get seafood? It would be stupid to report him. Though, the mention of extra fish made him nod. Trapper wasn’t one to say no to more food.
“More fish is good.” He stated, placing the money on the counter and stuffing his wallet back into one of his pockets. The Trapper stared at all the fish he had already bought. Hm, that was going to be a little difficult to carry. “Do you have a… a bag? For the fish.”
A bag would be good. He didn’t feel like looking like an idiot trying to haul 300 Kroners worth of seafood back to base in just his hands and pockets. Plus if he dropped one, Trapper was pretty sure it’d take him a few minutes to be able to pick it up. And he didn’t feel like having to do that.
The register's bell chimed weakly when he placed the money into the drawer and shut it. "Right away, sir." the customer service demon within Ned replied in the usual flat voice. He'd learned quickly not to give the vendee power over the joy in his voice; if it was neither cheerful nor annoyed from the very beginning, they couldn't accuse him of being rude, nor find some sick satisfaction in hearing his glee dwindle. Under his breath, he grumbled "Do not get used to this language." as he reached under the counter and blindly retrieved a little paper bag. Held up to eye level, his eyes switched from the paper packed fish, to the bag, to the packets and to the bag again. With another trained movement he pulled another- no, two other bags out – just for good measure –, retaining a more than healthy amount of eye contact with his customer and started carefully placing the packets into them. With the amount of time it took him, the silence had gotten so heavy, his mouth decided to fill it without much of his control. "So. How are you going to prepare it? What culinary delicacies will RED Team have this fine evening?"
He couldn’t understand whatever was mumbled, but didn’t really want to know either. He just wanted to get back to base and eat- or maybe he could eat on the walk back. What an idea! It wasn’t like there was anyone to scold him on enjoying a delicious whole fish. Unfortunately, Trapper was snapped out of his thoughts as he was spoken to again.
Prepare? Well… he could technically cook them. He wasn’t a very good cook though, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn the fish… “I am not sharing, and I do not know what you mean by… prepare.” What a stupid thing to do. Trapper could just eat them how they came! There wasn’t anything wrong with it.
“The fish taste fine how they are.” The man nodded, approving of his own words. Sure, many years ago he had gotten a little sick from doing such a thing, but he had learned to savor and enjoy the taste of raw fish over the years. It was good. He liked the lingering taste of he sea. Food was food.
Ned's facial expression returned, more violently than he'd anticipated. A look of sheer terror. He halted every movement, as if he was being observed by a prey animal. And in a sense, he'd be right. "What... do you mean? You are not REALLY eating it RAW, right? You could get really, DEATHLY ill." And after a shocked pause, another realization hit him like a tidal wave, increasing the worry in his face and the volume of his voice. "What do you MEAN you are not sharing???? You are joking with me, right? You are not HONESTLY eating around thirty kilograms of fish...on your OWN? RAW? ...ON YOUR OWN?" he inquired, way louder than planned, while nervous hands continued packing the bags as quickly as possible. When the last packet disappeared inside the last brown paper bag a couple seconds later, Ned laid both hands over them, sort of protectively. He squinted at the customer, whose well-being he felt was in his hands now, as if he was selling heroin instead of herring to the man. "Promise to freeze it throughly-, uh, thoroughly before prep-... eating? If its core is frozen, its parasites will die... Salting it works too, kind of, if you really will not cook it."
The Trapper furrowed his eyebrows sternly, lips twitching into a frown. He was being serious, why was he being questioned? "Yes, I am eating it... raw. I will not get sick." He grumbled back, not enjoying being practically scolded and lectured on how to eat a type of animal he had eaten so many times before. He wasn't a kid. He knew what he was doing.
Shifting on his feet, he ignored the creak of worn metal, only beginning to scowl a little deeper. "No, I do not share my food. I bought it, and only I will eat it. It is not that much, do not be dramatic." The man snipped back, eyeing how the fisherman seemed to guard the bags of seafood he had already paid for.
He didn't appreciate his food being kept from him. Uncrossing his arms, Trapper set his hands on the counter, finally looking up at the other's eyes with his own dark ones. "I will eat it how I like. Can you give me the bags now?" He tapped on the desk, tilting his head slightly and fighting the urge to simply grab the bags and take them himself.
🪤
— @wastelandtherapist
// @wastelandtherapist
“…Hello, who are you?”
The Trapper speaks hesitantly, staring at this woman. Had he met her before? She looked a little familiar… but he couldn’t remember. All he could do was stare quietly, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned to a small frown. But, he doesn’t attack. Not yet at least.
“Oh, hello!”
Helena smiles
“Trapper, right? I’m Helena, the one from the party”
She explains, noticing some confusion on his face
At the mention of the party, Trapper seems to relax just a bit. He nods, now being able to remember more. “Yes, from the party.” He could recall the memory now of the nice woman. It was a brief, but nice memory. “I remem… remember you now. You are the woman who had very good cooking, yes?” He questioned, giving Helena a brief look over.
It was rare he met someone who was kind to him from the start. Trapper would have to make sure he could remember this lady a little better now. He could be mean, but he was taught to be kind to woman. Plus, he had been shown nothing but respect by Helena, so he had no reason to be mean.
She nods
“I’m glad you found my food tasty, yes it was me”
Helena seems to light up at the kind words of Trapper
“How have you been? Doing anything fun?”
She asks kindly, showing real interest on what he has been up to since last time they talked
Trapper listens along, crossing his arms comfortably. “Just working. I am okay.” He replies blandly, though tilting his head curiously at Helena. “And you? How have you been? Doing anything fun?” He mimicked the words back, doing his best to pronounce them how Helena had. Though, his accent still shines through. He hoped he was being nice enough.
“Well, a little tired I must admit”
She chuckles
“The paperwork feels endless sometimes, but it’s alright, was able to enjoy the fireworks on the New Year’s Eve, right now I’m trying to clean my office to start the new year on a good pace”
She explains, trying to not speak super fast even if she was quite agitated from moving around furniture and deep cleaning her office
Tired. He could relate to that, in whatever way the woman had meant. Trapper supposed he was also quite tired. But, he stays quiet, just listening. The mention of fireworks makes him frown and shake his head. He remembered staying in his room trying to muffle the loud bangs and booms from outside. A quiet New Years celebration would’ve been better.
But, Trapper perks up a little at the mention of Helena cleaning her office. The woman had allowed him to eat some of her cooking before… and he was hired to do work. “Do you need help?” He offered, trying his best to be nice. The best he could do was offer some help.
