Heavy

The tension from battle has died down, a chilly wind running across the landscape. Heavy, unbothered by the cold, polishes his guns outside the resupply room shutter shortly after the recent match loss. He seems to be frustrated with his performance, recalling moments where he could have acted differently to turn the tide of the fight, or avoided certain hazards.
Hm. Enemy fought well. That match had a lot of potential... but the performance was not best. He neatly folds his vest into his own square compartment pigeon hole in the dresser, and stretches like a bear come out of hibernation. Ah, well. Is no use crying about the outcome now. Heavy is going to go back to quarters.