Post by Logan Blackwood on Dec 8, 2013 11:34:37 GMT -5
1812 Hours
Blackwood Residence
Rural Point of Rocks, MD
Logan Blackwood pushed open the back door of his house, up in the secluded bit of woods just to the north of Point of Rocks, Maryland. Simply being on the property gave Logan a massive swelling of pride - owning a home was something he had wanted to do for a long time. In the Air Force, he never had time to really care for a place of his own. On-base housing and dormitories had been more than enough. A lot of the other guys would lease places, or rent apartments. Logan had rented in the past, but only more recently, when he was working with G4S - and needed to be close to work, constantly. The high sticker price on renting a decently accommodating flat had been horrible, though. After running the numbers, even dumping what seemed like a lot of money on this property and home had represented a stronger investment than perpetual rentals.
Many people outside of 'the industry' would think Logan being irresponsible with his earnings. Those people would be fools. Sure - Logan liked to splurge on occasion, Taking Azalea out to a nice dinner, or have a good bottle of wine with a meal, a nice bottle of scotch. He'd spent his life living as a poster-boy as the spartan symbol of austerity. When he worked for AFSOC, he rarely had time to himself on the ground. When he transferred to Cheyenne Mountain, the complex became his home. Now, he had some measure of free time, and the ability to make use of it. By most standards, he still lived an austere, minimalist life. His house was rustic, but simple in appearance. Farrah had scoffed at it's size, but it was comparable to his age and station. The decor was fashionable, but clean. He didn't have gaudy tidbits sitting around to be viewed - his home was functional, definitely not the micro-museum that some people presented.
Logan made his way across the smooth wooden deck that made up the floor of his patio. Above, along the ceiling, a pair of ceiling fans lazily swept air along - keeping it fresh, if not a little warm still, on the otherwise hot evening. The sun was still up, but beginning it's descent into the horizon. He reached his destination, an arrangement of an outdoor sofa, with an overstuffed all-weather padding, a chair, of much the same pedigree, and a small coffee table - more accurately a pair of old wooden wire spools, sat together.
In his hand, he had a small glass - filled with ice cubes and an amber liquid. Glenfiddich scotch, perhaps Logan's favorite drink for relaxation. He sat the glass down on the table, perspiration already running down the smooth glass. He collapsed onto the sofa, propping himself up against the arm - making sure that he was within arms reach of his drink. He removed a folded magazine from the crook of his arm, and smoothed it out, a copy of the latest Guns&Ammo. With a sigh, he opened the front cover, scanning idly over the sections and articles. He should have been working on his dissertation, but saner minds prevailed - it could come later, now - the only thing on his mind was unwinding. His most recent mission was over, and he had spent a good deal of time with Azalea in Arlington. Now - it was time for himself. He loved spending time with her, he loved his work, but some things required solitude. This was one of them. He could assign his entire attention to something as simple, and earnest, as learning about the newest gas system for the M4 platform.
Logan reached over to his glass, bringing it close, and taking a sip of the smooth whiskey. The cool temperature clashed with the bite of the alcohol. He sat it down, as he thumbed to the section he wanted to read. Logan adhered to the few boyish stereotypes. He liked his cars, he liked his guns. It was a small thing, but in his down time, he enjoyed tinkering with them, and practicing with them. He personally owned an ACR and M4 Carbine, and constantly sought to improve the weapons. It was a trivial thing, as he never shot them in the field - the government took great offense to only a couple things - taking pictures of B-2 Cockpits, and firing government ammo through personal weapons. It seemed silly to him, as they were more than willing to requisition him a Walther PPQ as his sidearm. It wasn't standard issue, and it was expensive. It was identical to the 9mm handgun he kept here, why should they care if he elected to save them money by shooting his own weapon. In his mind, it would be saving them almost 700 bucks. The military was odd about weapons though. You couldn't use your own weapon, but you could buy fancy optics, or parts for a gun, and they wouldn't object. He shook it off - deciding it futile to attempt and understand the United States Government. The people who tried to do that usually ended up insane, and branded as politicians.
Logan thumbed the page, aiming to continue reading the article, when he heard the sound of a vehicle coming down his lane. His face contorted, confusion showing on his brow. He wasn't expecting anyone. He thought it possible that Azalea would swing by, but figured she would call first - she had never been out to his house before. He stood, setting his magazine down on the sofa, as he picked up his glass and took another sip of whiskey. Curiosity got the better of him, so he walked in from outside - greeted by the chill of the air conditioner. It felt refreshing, but he liked being outside. He made his way to the front door, as he heard the sound of a door being closed outside.
Tag: Lincoln "Thor" Parrish
Blackwood Residence
Rural Point of Rocks, MD
Logan Blackwood pushed open the back door of his house, up in the secluded bit of woods just to the north of Point of Rocks, Maryland. Simply being on the property gave Logan a massive swelling of pride - owning a home was something he had wanted to do for a long time. In the Air Force, he never had time to really care for a place of his own. On-base housing and dormitories had been more than enough. A lot of the other guys would lease places, or rent apartments. Logan had rented in the past, but only more recently, when he was working with G4S - and needed to be close to work, constantly. The high sticker price on renting a decently accommodating flat had been horrible, though. After running the numbers, even dumping what seemed like a lot of money on this property and home had represented a stronger investment than perpetual rentals.
Many people outside of 'the industry' would think Logan being irresponsible with his earnings. Those people would be fools. Sure - Logan liked to splurge on occasion, Taking Azalea out to a nice dinner, or have a good bottle of wine with a meal, a nice bottle of scotch. He'd spent his life living as a poster-boy as the spartan symbol of austerity. When he worked for AFSOC, he rarely had time to himself on the ground. When he transferred to Cheyenne Mountain, the complex became his home. Now, he had some measure of free time, and the ability to make use of it. By most standards, he still lived an austere, minimalist life. His house was rustic, but simple in appearance. Farrah had scoffed at it's size, but it was comparable to his age and station. The decor was fashionable, but clean. He didn't have gaudy tidbits sitting around to be viewed - his home was functional, definitely not the micro-museum that some people presented.
Logan made his way across the smooth wooden deck that made up the floor of his patio. Above, along the ceiling, a pair of ceiling fans lazily swept air along - keeping it fresh, if not a little warm still, on the otherwise hot evening. The sun was still up, but beginning it's descent into the horizon. He reached his destination, an arrangement of an outdoor sofa, with an overstuffed all-weather padding, a chair, of much the same pedigree, and a small coffee table - more accurately a pair of old wooden wire spools, sat together.
In his hand, he had a small glass - filled with ice cubes and an amber liquid. Glenfiddich scotch, perhaps Logan's favorite drink for relaxation. He sat the glass down on the table, perspiration already running down the smooth glass. He collapsed onto the sofa, propping himself up against the arm - making sure that he was within arms reach of his drink. He removed a folded magazine from the crook of his arm, and smoothed it out, a copy of the latest Guns&Ammo. With a sigh, he opened the front cover, scanning idly over the sections and articles. He should have been working on his dissertation, but saner minds prevailed - it could come later, now - the only thing on his mind was unwinding. His most recent mission was over, and he had spent a good deal of time with Azalea in Arlington. Now - it was time for himself. He loved spending time with her, he loved his work, but some things required solitude. This was one of them. He could assign his entire attention to something as simple, and earnest, as learning about the newest gas system for the M4 platform.
Logan reached over to his glass, bringing it close, and taking a sip of the smooth whiskey. The cool temperature clashed with the bite of the alcohol. He sat it down, as he thumbed to the section he wanted to read. Logan adhered to the few boyish stereotypes. He liked his cars, he liked his guns. It was a small thing, but in his down time, he enjoyed tinkering with them, and practicing with them. He personally owned an ACR and M4 Carbine, and constantly sought to improve the weapons. It was a trivial thing, as he never shot them in the field - the government took great offense to only a couple things - taking pictures of B-2 Cockpits, and firing government ammo through personal weapons. It seemed silly to him, as they were more than willing to requisition him a Walther PPQ as his sidearm. It wasn't standard issue, and it was expensive. It was identical to the 9mm handgun he kept here, why should they care if he elected to save them money by shooting his own weapon. In his mind, it would be saving them almost 700 bucks. The military was odd about weapons though. You couldn't use your own weapon, but you could buy fancy optics, or parts for a gun, and they wouldn't object. He shook it off - deciding it futile to attempt and understand the United States Government. The people who tried to do that usually ended up insane, and branded as politicians.
Logan thumbed the page, aiming to continue reading the article, when he heard the sound of a vehicle coming down his lane. His face contorted, confusion showing on his brow. He wasn't expecting anyone. He thought it possible that Azalea would swing by, but figured she would call first - she had never been out to his house before. He stood, setting his magazine down on the sofa, as he picked up his glass and took another sip of whiskey. Curiosity got the better of him, so he walked in from outside - greeted by the chill of the air conditioner. It felt refreshing, but he liked being outside. He made his way to the front door, as he heard the sound of a door being closed outside.
Tag: Lincoln "Thor" Parrish
Hi all