Man, he had never really seen the water like this.

Tyson was wading through the marshes with his fishing trainer, an old man who went by The Old Fisher, having been there so long he got the first nicknames before they had to get creative. Today was fishing practice in order to prepare for the part. It was actually Tyson’s idea, the director agreeing to it after Tyson brought it up in a production meeting.

The warm damp breeze swept across the water’s surface, comfortable air brushing Tyson. The still water stared back at him, providing no stimuli beyond the placid teal expanse filling his vision. He breathed in slowly, exhaling slower as he let his mind ease itself. He had never understood just how fast his mind would work sometimes, keeping him constantly focused on tasks at hand with no time to really think. As he looked upon the water, though, the introspection he had no time for spilled over him, sinking into his mind and plumbing new depths.

“Hey, don’t eat the catch!”

Tyson snapped back, stopping his chewing quickly. He nervously smiled at his trainer; constant eating had given him a bad habit of mindless snacking, and the nearby fish he had caught provided ample food for his growling stomach.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad!” He said, playing it off to defuse the situation.

“Look, I’m not having you get salmonella, Tyson!”

“Can’t I get a shot for that?”

“...That’s tetanus, nitwit!”