The armband directed me to someone that was already getting assistance. An obese cape in armor, getting CPR from a man with a princess-bride style mask over the upper half of his head, a goatee, a chainmail lined mantle and a shotgun three times the normal size.
I can’t imagine that this latter cape wouldn’t look at least a little bit silly, at least outside deadly circumstances like these.
He didn’t know what he was doing – the fat man’s chin was almost touching his collarbone.
Ah, yeah, rookie mistake. It’s an opportunity for Taylor to help out, at least.
When I moved to take over, Shotgun Westley left without a word, wiping his mouth and unslinging his gun as he ran back to the fray. I was irritated.
Least he could do is hear if Taylor needed help.
Also, I’m liking Taylor’s nicknaming so far. 😛
Hew down, CD-5.
“Hew down, CD-5.”
“Who?”
“Yes, CD-5.”
“Yes down?”
“Hew down, CD-5.”
“Yes.”
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