<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/DpUgBIO.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Dawn Farron<br/><strong>Location:</strong>XCOM Barrack main hall (After several minor detours)<br/><strong>Action:</strong>Sharpening<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Everyone in the main hall, nobody in particular however<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The room seemed to be roughly a 50/50 between the pre-military personnel and non-military personnel, which meant she was expecting hate from about 50 percent of the room for being a terrible team player, most likely more. It wasn't that she was unable to work as a part of a team, she just didn't like it. After having worked for the last four years as a lone wolf, she felt even a bit uncomfortable being around so many people and knowing she would be around them for an extended period of time.<br/><br/>Even if the<em>dictator</em>was done barely a few minutes after she had arrived, she had paid close to zero attention at all. She only listened for a bit when she, the dictator, said that they would have to use their own equipment. She had problems holding back a laugh, someone had obviously asked about it since it was brought up. Really, she had been using the same rifle for the last nine years, and it had been used by different people for over 50 years before she had put her hands on it. And yet, only she alone had easily racked up a three-digit body count, probably closer to four-digit at this point. In the end, even if she didn't end up laughing, she still looked like she was about to fall over laughing like a maniac.<br/><br/>However, with the announcer/dictator out of the room, she quickly got off the chair and picked up her things, walked casually over to the closest empty bunk, and threw the bag in, putting the rifle behind it afterwards, before bending forward, opening the bag. She pulled out the long machete she used as her knife, an 18 inch blade of treated steel, a bit more old fashioned than the carbon blades that the more recent weapons seemed to be using. She pulled out a knife-sharpener as well, before putting them both down on the bed. For anyone looking, they would easily notice the large quantity of military dog-tags hanging from both the hilt of the machete, and from various parts of the bag. While it was hard to pick up every single one due to weather conditions, and because she didn't always bother, they weren't even a close representation of the times she had pulled the trigger or had cut through someone with the uneven blade the machete now had. The blade had simply not survived the rough treatment that it had received, even if she cared for it well.<br/><br/>She casually started sharpening the blade, sitting on the bed while waiting for something to happen. She had put her jacket on the bed so she was left in the skimpy shorts, a pair of casual red shoes, and the skimpy bikini top she had underneath the jacket. She didn't study the others too much, words could only tell so much about a person after all. If anything, she was waiting for their first mission to see who mattered and who didn't. Survival of the fittest after all.