/ sorry this is bad, it's nearly 1am
i promise my posts'll be less all over the place soon
His fucking gun had jammed.
It was one of at least five. It shouldn’t’ve bothered him the way it did, hot and messy and burning under his skin, an irritation he couldn’t quite shake, loud and bright and nervous. His fucking gun had jammed. Of all the guns in his arsenal to jam, and for all the times for any of his guns to jam— it had to be this one, and it had to be now. His hands tremble with it, rage flaring like fireworks, and he tightens his grip on the weapon, eyes darkening until they were nothing but black. "Shit. Of-fucking-course." Were it any other gun, throwing it out would’ve been easy — but it wasn’t just a gun, and this was far from easy. Frustration, a white-hot lance, slipped between his ribs, and he turned the firearm over and over in his hands, thumb sliding across the barrel. "Fuck."
From his shoulder, Micah’s paw shot out and batted the gun, sharp little claws making a mess of whatever they touched. "You aren’t helping, babygirl," he told her, and she mewled pointedly, nose in the air, the yes I am clear in her haughty hold. It was enough to draw his mind from the tumultuous pit it had tossed itself into, and he pushed his fingers under her chin, rubbing until she leaned against him with a thrumming purr. "Yeah, I know. ‘S just me being stupid, right?" Like always. If he could find a place to stay a while, some spot where he could bunk down and focus, he could probably fix this within a minute. Military training stuck hard, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been taught how to deal with a jammed gun. Hell, he’d known that since he was seven and his daddy’d showed him the basics. Vexation made him way too thoughtless.
With a mrrow and a too-luxurious stretch, Micah leapt, suddenly and without care for her perch, from his shoulders, landing on the ground with a soft thump. "Where you goin’, doll?" he asked, eyes wandering suspiciously, but she neglected to deign him with so much as a glance, giving him little choice but to follow her, hand settling on a second gun. "C’mon, you know this ain’t how we do things. What did you smell?" At that, she looked back at him, tail waving, but her hesitation lasted only a second before she was trotting off again, halting in front of— "Shit." He whistled, folding his arms over his chest. "Boathouse. Clever girl."
Alright then. Guess they were taking an aquatic detour. "You think they've still got boats? You feelin' a canoe? I'm feelin' a canoe." Before either of them could get any further, however, noise drew his attention; Micah arched her back, ears back and eyes wide, and that aforementioned second gun was in his hands before he had time to really think about the likelihood of the source of that sound being a threat. It didn't matter. Threat or no, he wasn't taking any chances. That sort of shit led to a premature death, he'd learned.
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