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Crosshair always has a spare no matter how dire the situation just might be.
Those wooden made slim sticks appearing almost out of thin air like some magic trick the Sniper is able to pull out. And just like that, he is juggling one between his fingers before skilfully placing it between his teeth, to play the pick with his tongue.
It’s true! That’s what happens!
Then, Crosshair will chew chew chew on the pick like it is some kind of hardcore candy or, well… guess I better not go there, not in this fic anyway!
The man looking all mischievous while standing there, with his arms crossed and the one true catwalk stance in effect. His pelvis pushed forward and the permascowl plastered onto his face.
Needless to say there are always those asking the one annoying question: Where the hell did Crosshair get his toothpick from this time around?
Didn’t the whole squad just roll in some dense mud and lose part of their gear just for the sake of saving their lives during a mission gone rather badly awry? But there Crosshair stands, the Sniper of the squad with his toothpick poking out, looking all cool and calm without a bother in the whole wide galaxy!
How the hell did he manage to pull it off?
Uncanny huh?
Well, Crosshair truly is a deviant clone. A marksman of the highest calibre without a doubt.
Which has absolutely nothing to do with anything!
So, where are those karking ever present toothpicks housed in, as clearly not on the belt in a pouch? Cause that one was a lost cause, now somewhere inside the mud!
Guess, that will remain for Crosshair to know and for the rest of us to simply continue to imagine about and maybe, even figure out?
As Crosshair ain’t telling!