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It had been a hard week, overall.

RED had come out victorious in their matches, but it wasn’t without an extraneous amount of work. Even with her efforts, some of her teammates didn’t leave her medical ward for hours as she tended to the wounds that hadn’t properly mended through Respawn. With so many operations, and the lengthy amount of time dedicated to them, it was impressive in its own right that she still managed to stay on her feet on the field.

Tomorrow would likely be no different - she knew BLU could almost smell the fatigue, and be more than happy to put RED through their rounds. Subconsciously, Eliza rolled a shoulder and winced at the effort. It seemed that BLU had another Sniper shipped in, though whether or not he was permanent remained to be seen, and he’d done well to make sure she didn’t get far. Each of her teammates that she’d tried to keep latched onto, he’d gotten a bullet through their head. Even managed to get her a few times in the process.

It was unpleasant, but she supposed it was inevitable. It was with that thought that Eliza strolled the platforms around Nucleus, in an effort to clear her head and get some fresh air.

- [swiss-sniper]


Amsel wasn’t a social butterfly, and having been approached—by a soldier with a cooking vessel planted on his noggin, no less—wasn’t putting him in an exactly.. pleasant mood. But he kept as pleasant as he possibly could. 

Until, of course, the comment concerning his stature was brought up.   Ha. Like the spindly sniper hadn’t heard that—or one of the many variations of—a thousand times before. Why, yes! He was a stick-bug! Or was he more like a tooth-pick? A bean-pole?

Oh, how droll. A mild flare of a sneer caused a twitch at his cheek and the corner of his eye. He wasn’t sensitive about it by any means, it was just a simple—well, great—annoyance to have it pointed out on a near daily basis. Bitter sarcasm it was, then.

“Likely. I don’t make it a point to idly chatter vis anyvone on base,” The sniper returned, with slight hostility, the glance over he’d received, “Especially not vis zhose who are so loose in zhe head to don a pot as a hat. Vhat? Haff you taken so many blows to zhe head your brain is nozhink short of soup?”

Murdoc crossed his arms whilst peering down at the Sniper, the cast shadow from his pot doing well to shield his eyes. He could feel the bitter mood in the other’s words, but he did always did and ignored it. “Well, that ain’t no way t'be…” The Soldier frowned. “Ain’t a bad thing t'talk ever once in a while, aye?” He was never one for conflict. He found it a weary and tiring thing to hassle with, and replying or responding in a hostile way, he found, made way for more problems. He tried his best to be a cheerful spirit, seeing how the industries always had a way of bringing around hard characters. Having his own share of bitter moments, he wanted no association or dealings of that sort. 

However, comments on his pot were always touchy for him… …

“Aye, buddy, that ain’t nice - insultin’ my pot like that.” Murdoc grunted. “What if I have taken too many blows t'my head? S'not gonna change the fact that I’ve got a pot on my head, so how ‘bout we leave it at that, aye?" 

”'nough 'bout my pot… How say we start over, aye?“ From under the lid of said pot, he raised a brow in hopes that the man’s mood would lighten. "The name’s Murdoc,” he said, extending a hand.