| Trick Shots |
| Summary: | Marines play a little shooting game in the range. |
| Date: | 20 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Shooting Range - Deck 12 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| This nearly soundproof room has ten shooting booths in a straight line that face the target field. The ranges move out to thirty yards, each booth using its own track to take targets out to the desired distance vial a simple dial at the booth. Behind the firing line is a long bench that runs the width of the room where crewmembers can load magazines and compare targets. At one end is a huge stack of paper targets that has either Cylons or a few different types of human targets on them. A large sign hangs from the ceiling that details out the rules such as wearing eye and ear protection and watching where weapons are pointed at all times. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #206 |
It's the shooting range and one of the booths is currently occupied by a solitary man, off-duty and looking to spend his time with a new past-time: destroying false Cylons, given the lack of any true ones standing around, with extreme prejudice. The man is Sergeant Garret Lysander and he stands with a trained expertise as shots are snapped off down range. The recoil of the Five-Seven is familiar and so is the resounding clap dulled by ear and eye protection. With his gaze focused forward and intent on shooting with sharp precision this early evening, he doesn't bother playing his attention elsewhere; at least not yet.
Lunair wanders in, likely to check in on things as she is wont to do. She hums softly, greeting the RangeMaster. Though, there's a pause as she notices the fellow in the booth. That- doesn't seem like a familiar face. her eyebrows lift. For now, she lets him shoot in peace, though she is curious. A new recruit here or there is likely barked at but she herself presents an odd figure, quiet and well mannered. "Huh."
Events on board in the last 24 hours have left Madilyn troubled, to say the least. Normally stoic enough to swallow her emotions - hello there, Mr. Tumor! - the evening finds her seeking a more visceral form of expression. While it would feel better to use live rounds, that's not encouraged on the inside of a tin can such as this. Barring that, the next best thing is to at least use her own service pistol - a constant companion now for months following the 'mutiny.' A clip of the fake range rounds is requested, along with eye and ear protection - Safety First! - and she slides silently into her lane. Live clip out, fake clip in, and she prepares to engage in the most cathartic activity she can stomach at the moment.
The Sergeant doesn't readily notice anyone entering the range in-between shots but he drains down the finite magazine until the chamber rings empty and he's left with simply reloading. That leads to him glancing over once to his right as his offhand drops down to catch the released clip and set it aside. The next moment has him glancing over again, because he's noting others lingering about, and the man angles an eyebrow questioningly before lifting his chin in order to catch a better look. A muffled, "Sir," is given since he'd rather be respectful than, well, chastised or some such. The sidearm is placed down before him and he takes a half-step back while reaching forward to deftly recall his current paper-victim.
Lunair is distant, if anything. However she feels about it, she's buried beneath good manners. She smiles a little, seeing Madilyn. She tilts her head, "Hello there." She greets Lysander softly, heading to perhaps check out some gear of her own and join the two. Might as well practice right? Shooting beats being shot by a long shot. Though there's a sort of sadness and worry beneath it all. She adjusts the ear protection and even puts on eye protection. Strange color doesn't stop random things. Right? Right. There's a curious glance to her CO, but for now she doesn't push the point. Not really much of a place to gab too much. "Hmm." She occupies a booth, and makes sure her weapon is loaded with the dummy bullets. Righto.
Any greeting that one or both of them might have for her is lost in the gunfire. The first clip is drained in rapid, but controlled fashion. Madilyn's preferred method of firing replicates that found on the rifles: two quick pops of the gun, reset, two more quick pops. While she focuses on the target down range - clustering the shots as best she can in the upper chest/center of mass and the head - the others in the range just fade away. They could be calling her any variety of names, and not only would she not hear them, but she wouldn't really care.
Mister Lysander tips his chin respectfully towards Lunair and then offers her an appreciative smile; nothing more, nothing less, but he's trying to be friendly and less of the proverbial lone wolf right about now. He reaches up with his right hand while turning his eyes to the nearing target. That's a lot of kill-shots. While the others do their thing he leans back in his booth to watch them, first towards Lunair and then holding his gaze aloft in Madilyn's direction. With a bit of tongue-in-cheek, he looks down range. Soon enough he's folding his arms while waiting for the shooting to cease just so he can speak up.
Lunair smiles back. She doesn't seem too lone wolf, just quietly distant and perhaps understanding of where she is. "Allo sir," She greets Madi softly between shots, though noticing Lysander's pause, her own stop. "Hm?" A peer over. The unfamiliar Sergeant makes her furrow her eyebrows. "Have we met?"
Ten two-round pops is all Madilyn gets, before she safeties the gun, sets it down, and pulls the empty clip free. Leaving the ear covers in place, she hits the button to recall the paper target, and takes a step out of the booth while waiting for it to slide down the track and be replaced. This time, at least, she regards the other marines with a nod, stil having yet to say a word to either of them.
"Not that I know," because the last thing that Garret would want to do is lie to a fellow marine and even worse when they are of higher rank and officers. He huffs out a quiet breath before nodding his head in the direction of the range. The man takes a lingering moment to gauge the atmosphere before speaking up any further. While he talks, he's pulling down his safety glasses and lowering the ear protection further than just behind his ears and lodged amongst his dark hair. It rests around his neck. "Sergeant Garret Lysander," he's one of the ones from Sagittaron-turned-Hades. His steadied gaze flickers patiently from Lunair and to Madilyn and he respectfully smiles. "I was going to suggest a wager of some sort," a beat passes, "To liven things up a bit."
While he was answering, Lunair has - a sleeve full of postits. Whoa. "Oh good, I didn't see your name," She smiles over. She looks to him and carefully mirrors his action, peering with purple eyes at the fellow. She can hear him a bit now. "I see. I'm Lieutenant Junior Grade Raine Lunair, pleased to meet you Sergeant." She accepts that. She tilts her head. "Oh? What did you want to wager on?" An eyebrow lifts.
"Most number of shots in a particular target location, likely," Madilyn finally speaks up. If they don't know her by now, well…maybe she's not doing her job real well. Though…is that a good idea? The target paper that has traveled up the lane for Madilyn appears to have 20 neat bullet holes, most of the double impacts moving upward slightly. No more than six shots appear to have gone awry, meaning, not in the tight cluster, but still somewhere in the desired target. Too much time and not enough real combat.
"I'll be taking that as a compliment - ah - sir," Lysander responds to Lunair in turn upon introductions, with regards to his name or lack thereof. The good and eased, half-smile of his returns and then gives a lift of a brow in looking away from the lieutenant and then the range. "The goal of the bet is easy enough to figure out," the half-smile lightens into a grin for a moment but that expressiveness fades some while he replies further to his new CO: "Used to come up with a lot of different things back on Sag', patrol shifting, crackpot recipes, cigs, but I can't say I've been on a ship before. So, I've no idea what makes a good deal around here."
Blink. She looks confused. Lunair just smiles politely back. "Oh?" She tilts her head. She rubs the back of her head. "Hm. Well, it wouldn't be fair to wager anything like a drink, I've got a wedding coming up and my guests would not be pleased if the bar were already pillaged." She winks. "Um." She doesn't really go patrolling now that they have restocked their NCOs. "Well. There's lots of things. Cigarettes are still good. I don't smoke, but there's access to cigars." Shrug. Lunair is looking thoughtful, hmm. "Pretty much the same things. I suppose if you win, you could pick your shift. though there's one more bet," A peer to Madi.
"I don't smoke…much. I hear they cause cancer," Madilyn says with a little smirk, a quick little exhale of breath, and the nod of her haad the comes with with the sharp little exhale. What she means by that is anyone's guess - nobody should know that off the top of their head except the docs. And Rose. And Coll, rest her soul. "Though that hasn't stopped me from pulling part of my ration now and again. They're always good as unofficial tender and compensation on Cerberus, so the rumors go."
Weddings are brought up, and so he asks in turn, "Oh?" Garret should probably try his hand at bringing that up later when they aren't toting guns or anything. But he does grin. There's that at least. "Well, I don't much either," smoke, that is, and he leans back in order to check out Madilyn and her verdict on things. "I'll just be following the officers' lead here, let my gun do the talking."
"Yes," Lunair smiles faintly. "We're trying to arrange decent refreshments. Bubbles also insists I wear a dress, not so much dress blues." A shrug. "I didn't want to scare off the guests personally." A slight wink. She leeps a smile. "But again, they are good currency. I am afraid my sweets are my own," No way Lun's giving up her snacks. Nuh uh. 'And that's fair enough then. How many rounds do we stop at then?"
"Best of five, I'd say. Tighest cluster in the called locale. That's how I learned to play this game." That's been years ago at this point. Many many years ago, in fact. But don't ask her age, because that would be bad.
Clearly, Garret didn't know about fancy shindigs and it shows on his waning expression. He blinks some and casts his gaze downwards with a slow nod of his head. His right hand comes up to comb through his hair. "Wedding, heh," and then he's being drawn back to reality and the man is looking up and over. "Should I mention now that I had top marks in these sorts of things?" He opens his mouth to speak up further and then merely smiles while stepping up to his booth. The glasses come up. He looks over to Lunair and then Madilyn with a suggestive lift of his brows before turning to the sidearm before him.
Aw. Lunair looks sympathetic. "Well, the Marines are certainly welcome." She's not too snooty at least? Though, one can't really help their background. She lifts her eyebrows. "Fair enough. 5 shots," She wrinkles her nose. Her safety gear is put back into its proper place. She quirks a brow then nods. Righto. She turns to the target, checking her sidearm once more and hefting it towards the target.
Madilyn steps back into her booth as well, sliding a new clip into her gun and putting the safety gear back on. "Each person calls a particualr shot, and of course, the tightest, most accurate grouping wins." For her part, Madilyn uses that rank to set the first challenge. Since they're all the rage about here, she calmly identifies the first target as, "The neck. Right side as you look at the target; the target's left side. Tightest group to grazing the artery wins."
"Five shots for a shift and cigarettes," and for once it feels good to be a non-com, so Lysander reaches forward for his sidearm and reloads it, cycling through standard safety practices before looking over to the ladies of the range. "Aye, aye, sir," is confidently, vaguely sarcastically too, commented upon in return before he angles his focus forwards and to his new target. He tilts his head to the side briefly and then adjusts his grip and straightens out. If it's of any consolation, he doesn't mention he's been sharpshooting for years amongst the marines. He simply takes the shot.
"Aye aye," Lunair grunts softly. She smiles a little, and nods. She looks amused at the vague sarcasm. Fortunately, Lunair is a fairly gentle, loose hand until pushed (Though, doesn't it make seeing what happens when she IS pushed all the more worrisome?). She squints at the target in turn. Do those oddly colored eyes give her strange powers?
Like the others, Madilyn sidles up to the rail there in the range. This isn't timed (though, one could certainly impose a limit in calling the shot should they want), which makes it easier to line up a shot and pull the trigger. Since this is her personal sidearm, she's quite familiar with the tendencies of the weapon. Patiently, she pulls the trigger to dump the five shots.
<FS3> Lunair rolls Firearms-20: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Lysander rolls Firearms-20: Success.
<FS3> Madilyn rolls Firearms-20: Success.
Sergeant Lysander clears his throat upon a pair of double tapped shots and a single round scored through the neck of the target. He won't know for certain if he has done well enough to openly brag, as that swagger of his is wont to do, but he does relinquish himself once again of his sidearm after going through the quite familiar safety measures. He's swift and efficient about it, and he's looking over towards his new commanding officers with a wry half-smile as his target approaches. He holds it up with his right upon stepping back from his booth and with it lifted next to him places forefinger and middle of his free left hand through the called shots: success. With a somewhat innocent smile, he asks, "How did I do?"
Ack, poor Lunair. She's the borderline competent officer resigned to a nice Planetside post where she can't hurt anyone right? For all the growing up she's done over the months, the poor Canceron blueblood noble could use soem … practice. Her target is apparently given a handy vasectomy (Or the paper equivalent of), loses a kidney, an eye and - those might have been chest shots. On the next lane over. Whoops. She looks pained and embarrassed. "Ah… Maybe I need more practice." Definitely bottom of this round.
Madilyn does the same as Lysander, but this time takes five individual, patient shots. Safety measures come in after that, but Madilyn does the old clip exchange, the round ammunition for the clip of live rounds that was in the gun to begin with. Safetied, the weapon is placed back into her hip holster. Target still hanging on the track, she briefly compares to Lysander's before a very faint smile pulls on her lips. "We'll call it a push. But I'll call a half pack of smokes a welcome back to actual service. Check your mail or your bunk, they'll be in one of those places." Quickly as she came to empty a clip into a target just for some therapy, Madilyn is retreating to deal with actual work. One can't go off-grid for too long around here.
Lysander smirks more readily. He could almost swear that Madilyn was impressed, but he's not going to push his newness or anything too much and he'll take his welcomes. "I do like the sound of that, sir - thank you, sir." He stiffly nods and for a moment looks as if to fully salute but it doesn't happen from the disillusioned bloke and he exhales slowly with a glance to his target. Turning to Lunair's, he questioningly narrows his gaze. "Might not have gotten the neck, but frak, you made his life worse than a lifetime in Hades, and… well, I can always help, right?"
Poor disillusioned bloke. Lunair looks over to his target. Now she looks a little sheepish. "ooh… Wow." Eh heh. Embarassing. "Sure. This is why I tend to leave field decisions to NCOs," A faint flustered look. At least he lucked out in that Lunair tends not to countermand often. "But - you won fair and square, so - cigarettes or choosing one shift, up to you," A little shrug. SHe's impressed at least. Though, admittedly she's a hair younger than the CO CO. Or Madi. Whichever. A soft laugh at his assessment. "I think so," especially that groin shot. Yeow.
Lysander shifts his weight a bit and then turns, so he can set the target down and free his hands for a bit. Lysander dusts the aforementioned limbs off before moving to further secure his sidearm. "I think I'll go with the shift… Yeah, me trying to avoid patrol for as long as possible," because he's never been on a ship this size before, "And I don't smoke often myself." He wrinkles the bridge of his nose in brief and idle distaste before looking back over towards Lunair. The confident smile returns. "A couple of field decisions, one shift choice, and I'll make sure your called shots strike home - anything else, sir?"
Lunair laughs softly again at that. "No worries, just let me know," A handwave. Her eyebrows lift at the field comment. "I go with whatever is best, often if an NCO has had more experience than myself in thhe field and I don't see anything glaringly wrong with a plan…" Well, she'll roll with it. An amused look stays on her face. "That sounds fair enough. I find cigarettes best traded off myself." She nods. "Be well then, alright? I've got new Marines to sort paperwork for. I suppose I do do something resembling work." A wry remark that. She's not above jabs at herself. "When I'm not getting shot in the face at any rate." She moves to turn her gear in and meander along. "Nothing else for now. Be safe and come by sometime. If you're not an MP, you're one of my Platoon."