April Catch-All

[leatherdaddy]

who: Gladio and a lot of scrawny dudes YOU
what: Two missions, and a whole lot of bad decisions social interactions
when: April catch-all means... all of April!
where: Various
warnings: Warnings will be in subject lines!




Mission: Brownout (closed to Reaper, Sans, McCree, Gladio)

Mission: How to Train Your... (closed to Gladio, Sans, Gooeygetsu, Eichi, Sasuke, McCree)

I Never (closed to mission-goers; tag in with your I, Never and threadjack away!)
 
Training Sessions (OTA who wants to play out survival, weapons training, etc)

Comments

[hellshot]

He isn't a stranger to mission prompts, to gearing up before setting out--and the dreaded night-before parties that most goddamn military units are so fond of having a day before an important mission. He understood them--don't get him wrong. A lot of men enjoyed partying before setting out on what could be their last night to be alive, but in his opinion, heavy drinking before going out on a dangerous trip just solidified a man's likelihood of dying on the battlefield.

And yet, here he is, a dead man who was made to join in on the drinking anyway. Getting ready alongside the skeleton that he swore slept more than a cat, a too-big kingsguard, and what was effectively his estranged son.

He's doing his damndest to ignore McCree and his sour looks (Gladio neglected to tell the guy he'd be going on mission with the Cowboy), and he walks behind the odd pair as Sans is carried along like part of their supplies.

He's already sour, so noone would be surprised when he speaks up about this.

"...You're going to have a damn fine time dealing with shit if we get attacked with that hanging off your back." His tone is low; irritated. They've already ran across a few small troubles, nothing of too much consequences.

"And I'm not fond of carrying deadweight."

[leatherdaddy]

"Aaah? Why are you complaining? You're not even carrying him."

Gladio's boots are heavy with every step, but not from being overburdened. On the contrary, the bag of bones snoozing away on his back is about as light as you'd expect. The terrain itself is hard and footing uneven, and Gladio's long since given up stepping lightly. A little adventure to get his blood pumping and chase away the lingering after effects of last night's 'revelries' (more like 'rivalries', amirite) would be a totally welcome change of pace.

Despite everything, though, Gladio is not in a foul mood. In fact, he seems to have more of a spring in his step the further from civilization they get. This is a man who loves the great outdoors. He looks behind him and jabs a thumb in San's direction.

"...'Sides, do you know how to repair these fences? Our sleepy skeletal buddy here is our ticket to completing the mission."

Speaking of, have a back of the hand against the side of your face -- skull, whatever -- Sans, he's not going to let you keep snoozing because Reaper has a point. "Hey, wake up. Free ride's over."

[bone_idle]

Revealing that he's at least awake enough, Sans cracks open an eye socket around when Gladio's thumb jabs back towards him, only to close again as he seems content enough to keep dozing. Except he doesn't get that option, as the tattooed Shield starts tapping at his cheekbone with the back of one hand.

This results in some audible grumbling. Reaper, look what you've done, now you're both ganging up on this bag of bones and his beauty rest. (Just kidding, only stick that ever hit Sans was the ugly one.)

"'kay--" he rumbles, "Ok, I'm up." A heavy sigh, and the skeleton slides right off Gladio's back, stumbling backwards a step or two before lurching forward into a slouch.

"And I resent that, I'm more of a living weight."

The next few moments are spent going through the motions of 'stretching', even... uh, even though a skeleton doesn't have muscles. Don't ask how that works, while he just shuffles along in their wake. Even some yawning sounds, too, despite the fact that he doesn't actually open his jaw, or anything.

"So, we," Another yawn, "We there yet..?"

[peacekeeps]

To his credit, Jesse doesn't spend the entire time glaring at Reaper. He got most of it out of his system last night: once he'd smoked that night's cigar to stubs he didn't waste any time resting easy, one eye cracked open and lingering on the silhouette that lay only bare yards away, the alcohol sitting in his stomach stoking the ornery feeling in his gut until it burned itself out, quick and pointless as a campfire kept on too long.

"We got a minute," Jesse says. "And by a minute, I mean an hour and change." There's a minute, spurs clinking in the reeds and stones, and then—he turns his head. Big cheesy grin, fresh cigar hanging between his teeth. "And that ain't countin' unforeseen delays."

The lilt in his voice at delays is self-explanatory in its amusement. Part of him is way too curious about the beasts in this end of the frontier, and if he's insistent on treating the dour presence at the tail end of the party with some kind of neutrality, it's a damn easy day for adventuring.