[Waking up in the middle of nowhere with no clue how he got there isn't a completely foreign experience to Tommy. It's either the result of the best night out, or the worst night out. The stinging pain and the mouthful of seawater he hacks out of his lungs gives him probable cause to suspect the latter. He cracks his eyes open, and his shades are missing. Shit. He rolls onto his stomach and groans out his frustration with his head in his hands, loud and clear. Someone must've tried to cash in on the price on his head and tried to drown him, but wasn't too successful at it considering he was still alive. Must've gotten free from the weights somehow.]
[He lazily pumps his fist in the air, and flops back onto the sand.]
Heh. Good job, ya hack hitman. [He crows to his absent attacker, somewhat tiredly.] Serves you right for not being thorough.
[He allows himself this moment of victory before he drags his hand over his face, collecting himself.]
Alright, Tommy. [He mutters to himself as he pats himself down. He staggers to his feet, and puts his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun, squinting.] Back to business. Who's the guy who tried to off you, and how soon can I get back at 'im?
[A pause.]
And where th' hell are my shades?
4
[Alright, so maybe the wings weren't too bad. He had to get his coat fixed and it hurt like a bitch, but they made him look like a badass, and flying was amazing. The feathers were annoying, but not too inconvenient. But this? This is definitely the last straw.]
[Tommy is sitting at a bar, morose. If anyone gives him the slightest of attention, he'll thrust out his hands in their general direction, showing off his brand new, gnarled talons.]
How th' hell am I supposed to shoot a gun like this? My livelyhood's at stake here!
Tommy Monaghan | Hitman
[Waking up in the middle of nowhere with no clue how he got there isn't a completely foreign experience to Tommy. It's either the result of the best night out, or the worst night out. The stinging pain and the mouthful of seawater he hacks out of his lungs gives him probable cause to suspect the latter. He cracks his eyes open, and his shades are missing. Shit. He rolls onto his stomach and groans out his frustration with his head in his hands, loud and clear. Someone must've tried to cash in on the price on his head and tried to drown him, but wasn't too successful at it considering he was still alive. Must've gotten free from the weights somehow.]
[He lazily pumps his fist in the air, and flops back onto the sand.]
Heh. Good job, ya hack hitman. [He crows to his absent attacker, somewhat tiredly.] Serves you right for not being thorough.
[He allows himself this moment of victory before he drags his hand over his face, collecting himself.]
Alright, Tommy. [He mutters to himself as he pats himself down. He staggers to his feet, and puts his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun, squinting.] Back to business. Who's the guy who tried to off you, and how soon can I get back at 'im?
[A pause.]
And where th' hell are my shades?
4
[Alright, so maybe the wings weren't too bad. He had to get his coat fixed and it hurt like a bitch, but they made him look like a badass, and flying was amazing. The feathers were annoying, but not too inconvenient. But this? This is definitely the last straw.]
[Tommy is sitting at a bar, morose. If anyone gives him the slightest of attention, he'll thrust out his hands in their general direction, showing off his brand new, gnarled talons.]
How th' hell am I supposed to shoot a gun like this? My livelyhood's at stake here!