Deadeye

[rygdea]

WHO: Fynn Izunia, Hitori Togusa, James "Bucky" Barnes & Whomever [Open]
WHERE: Deadeye Shooting Range, Tisse
WHEN: Afternoon
WHAT: Two caffeine loving cops & some punk kid take out all of their aggression on inanimate targets at the shooting range.
WARNINGS: PG-13, Fynn is his own warning, so is Barnes, mild swearing, mentions of firearms



[How does one cope with life here in Recollé? By shooting things. At least in Fynn's regards, that's how he's been coping with his life as of late.

The officer is eerily quiet as he nails bullseye after bullseye on the moving targets without so much as a flinch. Usually he's all mouth and unnecessary sarcasm but not today. He made good on his promise to take out his prized military rifle out from the station's armory, a beast of a rifle manufactured in some fictional city he can barely remember. It's definitely a "gift" from the "Retrogoons" judging from its futuristic flair. Some parts of this rifle actually glow within the dim light.

This rifle handles nothing like Togusa's Mateba and is a bit harder to control but Fynn seems comfortable enough with it. A little too comfortable. How is that damn rifle considered legal in this city?

That's a damn good question to ask him.]

---
(ooc: action & prose welcomed!)

Comments

[standalonehuman]

They needed this. Fynn likely more than Togusa, but he won't admit how much he needed this, too. He can be angry around Fynn. He doesn't have to be the guy holding it all together, and he can honestly speak to how out of control everything is.

Togusa is just as silent at first when he starts to set up in the next lane over, lays the Mateba on the table to get it ready. But he has never seen that gun that Fynn is toting, so he pauses before beginning, himself. He patiently waits for Fynn to finish his magazine, signal that he's done, before he peels off his ear protection and speaks up.

"I don't think I've ever seen something like that before."

[megatechbody]

[Mariko lurks - has been lurking - trying to wrap her brain around the shot she took. Even now, thinking of the memory is exhausting and it has nothing to do with the cold-hearted Other she's dealing with.

There were skyscrapers everywhere, she was decently sure she'd been chasing him over a rooftop when he leapt ...he jumped so far it looked like flight. The distance had to have been a four lane street, easily. Her Other tracked him like it was nothing and fired. She lead a shot from a height advantage across what was likely half a city block and with no sight, watched the ankle of the perp she was chasing shatter.

She'd been haunting the range as much as she could, practicing with her Berretta more than she'd had in months.

The sight wasn't right. This wasn't the gun.

How?]

[frostythehitman]

[ James doesn't dare bring his gun here. Not when he's still a minor. Not when there's plenty here at the range that either of the adults can check out for him to use.

So once he's got a Ruger P97 and some ammo, he takes up his own lane, starts getting everything ready, and just as he's about to start shooting...he realizes this isn't going to work. His trigger finger was always on his left hand, and now...well, he tries out a few different grip patterns on the hand to see if he can simulate the movement properly.

Almost, but not quite. The joints don't move quite right for shooting--more for picking up keys and utensils. He can still visualize the movement perfectly, and when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still move it properly, but when he looks again he's brought back to reality: that even though his brain is wired to shoot, his hand is like a foreign agent that was never meant for this. ]

God dammit!

[ Screw all this thinking. He goes one-handed with the pistol, then--swaps over to his right hand, readjusts his grip, and begins shooting, lips pursed together. Imagines that he's aiming at Jim and his stupid mailbox. If he can't take out his frustrations at Retrospec anywhere else, it might as well be here on a paper target. By the time the magazine runs out, the target has a neat hole in the dead center of it. It's satisfying to see something so explosive result in something so small and neat. ]

Serves you right, asshole.