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He sat on the shore of the lake, tucked away from view of any would-be enemy patrols, silently watching the improvised wine cork bobber sway gently on the waves. The young Inheritor wasn't sure this was going to work, but he was getting sick and tired of eating the same bugs-and-frogs stew everyday, and he was... pretty sure that if the infected dogs and Not-Deer were edible then the mudfish would probably be as well. Or so he hoped.
Not that it mattered too much unless his luck improved soon, he hadn't had a single bite yet and it felt like he's been there for hours. He looked at his wristwatch to check if that were true and groaned, not even an hour passed since he came here. Were the mudfish really such picky eaters as to reject his fat crickets? They sure as hell weren't this fussy when he'd accidentally fall in the water himself, was Inheritor ass that much better than the bugs he himself would eat for dinner every night?
At least he had a lot of time to think about how he ended up here. It's funny is it not? He came here to gather funds to pay off the debt he owed to the mob, and all he did was get himself in more shit so far. He pissed off both the NFTA and the Insurrectionists, accidentally joined the Revolutionary Army and if that wasn't enough, the world might end for the second time in thirty-or-so years. How fun! And he was caught in the middle of it all.
The Inheritor's thoughts were snapped back to reality by the sound of the tin-can bite indicator rattling, the bobber getting tugged under the surface of the water with what seemed like a lot of force. He scrambled to his feet and yanked the DIY fishing rod backwards to hook his bounty and began reeling it back. It must have been HUGE! It was fighting like hell and taking a lot of line, but he wasn't gonna be bested by some stupid fish. Minutes ticked by as they fought, but little by little the fish was getting closer and closer to the shore. He could see it breaching the surface! The Inheritor was giddy with excitement, it was so big, tonight's dinner near guaranteed at this point, he just needed to reel a little more, pull a little harder and-
As soon as he started reeling faster, the fish renewed it's desperate fight for survival as well and the pressure became too much. The fishing rod snapped. He lost his balance, stumbled a little, and let go of the handle in shock, and watched in disbelief as both the broken piece-of-shit rod and the bastard fish disappeared back into the lake. After a long moment of silence he groaned, his tail whipping in frustration. At least he still had some crickets and frogs left in his pack, so he wouldn't need to go to bed with an empty stomach.
What a pointless endeavor.