#cod rp

(Dagger is an injured avian freshly escaping his old team)

Why do you look like my Captain?

@bone-lickers-son

Rye wasn't much of a drinker. She enjoyed a few glasses now and then but the last thing she needed was to add drinking to her list of bad habits. Hell, she was trying to slow down her smoking now that she had something worth living for. Her pa would be proud if he knew.

But she couldn't deny the enjoyable feeling the golden-hued liquid gave her. Making her cracked aching bones feel lighter, less heavy, and burdened with injuries.

This wasn’t the normal dive bar either, it seemed there was mix of specialist, companies, people. The hum of laughter and glasses clinking. It was nice. A good change from the normal slum of days. A new chance to meet people.

Shout, laughter, whispers bubbled around her. Some woman, likely past her limit, singing some Disney Song.

“It’s a mad house in here…”

But a small smile was on her lips.

No TWs ↓

donnae pretend ye dinnae ken who i am.

Sure, the General had made risky calls before, they all had if they thought it was plausible. But, after his return, he'd been a lot more careless with his calls. It all seemed incredibly rash, and without any discernible reason why, she was worried for him. She was itching to contact him. To talk to him. To make sure he was okay. She did make an effort, if anyone say, they couldn't say she didn't. But, when she was stood right in front of his office, she couldn't bring herself to head in. But then she felt lump in her throat, and the moisture pooling in her eyes. All of a sudden, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't do it. She knew she couldn't. So she sped off. She snuck off, cigarettes in pocket, gun at her side, and lighter held tight in her fist. She thankfully cooled down a little as she reached the clearing, settling down on a stump. It's pleasantly warm for Russia, cooling down as the sun slowly sets. She lights a cigarette, leg bouncing. Then, she sits there casually, as if waiting for someone to appear from the shadows.

@general-shepherd-fucker

These battles were never going to end, or at least that was how it felt to Avora. Her father was either picking a battle or starting one at the drop of a hat, like it was just another ordinary Tuesday. It wasn't—not that she really had any idea what normalcy looked like. Her sense of that had long since been skewed beyond repair. The biggest thorn in his side right now was General Herschel Shepherd—the annoying bag of wrinkles that led the American army into war...

Or in this case, the Shadow Company. Each time, they lost. Their asses handed to them on a silver plate, which was far too reckless for a man of Shepherd's caliber. It left Makarov confused, but he wasn't going to complain when he was winning nearly every single time. Always one step ahead.

Though, there were plenty of losses, yet no time to actually grieve or process any of them. One of Avora's friends died on the field that day, however, she didn't shed a single tear. Not because she didn't want to, but because emotions were a weakness and showing them was worse. A death sentence for someone that was supposed to maintain her composure.

She needed a break. Some time to process what'd happened without being yelled at or confronted, so she left the base on foot. She walked for several miles, until she stumbled upon the rendezvous point where an old friend of hers was supposed to be.

The sunlight scorched the earth, causing Avora to sweat profusely, even though she dressed appropriately for the weather. A short sleeve shirt, shorts and combat boots, but it did little to actually keep her cool. She leaned against the tree, clinging to the shade, until she heard footsteps approaching. In a single fluid motion, she unsheathed her combat knife and rounded the tree quietly, light on her feet. It wasn't until she saw Cheryl that she lowered her guard and sheathed the blade.